In the Shadow of the Wall

by Gordon Anthony

  Brude was horrified, for none of the losers seemed to be receiving mercy. Perhaps it was the sight of so many men fighting at once but whatever it was, it did not bode well. He saw the novice go down at last, blood pouring from several cuts but the lad had done well and his opponent was scarcely in better shape. The crowd signalled and called for him to live so the emperor granted him his life. Brude was relieved. It meant there was at least some hope for the losers.

  Slaves rushed in to clear away the fallen, dragging them to the death door, tossing them down the dark tunnel after a man dressed as Charon, god of the underworld, ritually struck each one on the temple to ensure they were dead.

  The remaining men were paired off, although two of the victors from the first round were too badly hurt to continue so there were only fourteen men left, fighting in seven pairs.

  Curtius skilfully managed to keep his men from fighting each other, somehow managing to match them against men from other schools. This time, Brude was up against another Samnite, a man wearing the same armour and with the same weapons as himself. There was no advantage to either man here; whoever was faster or stronger would survive.

  This opponent was experienced and he was strong. They sparred for a few moments, testing each other, trying to gauge each other’s strength and speed. Brude heard people in t yelling for them to get on with it. He ignored them as he ignored the gasps and cheers as other fighters entertained the crowd when they came to blows. In this heat he knew he could not afford for the fight to take too long; the physical effort of maintaining concentration, as well as holding the heavy shield and wearing the helmet, would soon wear him down.

  He made a half-hearted attack, backing off when the other man blocked and thrust back. Then Brude used a trick Josephus had once used on him in training and which had caught him out badly. He moved his right foot as if he had slipped, and he crouched, letting his shield and sword fall slightly. His opponent moved as quick as lightning, shield held forwards to batter Brude to the ground. The crowd gasped as they saw Brude stumble.

  His left foot, though, was firmly planted and he jumped forwards, moving slightly to his right. The two shields crashed together with a force that jarred both men’s shoulders but Brude was in the air, both feet off the ground and swinging his gladius in a wide arc as he jumped past his opponent. It was a move no Samnite would normally ever try, a move more suited to a Thracian who had less weight to carry, but Brude put everything into the leap and the swing. The tip of his blade, usually used for short thrusts, slashed across the back of his opponent’s left shoulder, drawing a gush of red blood. The man moved to avoid the pain but, because it was on his left, he moved to his right. It was a fatal mistake for his back was to Brude and it would take him time to turn. Too much time. Landing lightly, Brude did not hesitate. He powered forwards, ducking low as he blocked the wide reverse swing of the man’s sword with his shield then jabbing upwards with his own sword, feeling it bite into the man’s side. He stabbed, twisted the blade and pulled it out, then battered the man with his shield. He went down, collapsing face-down on the sand.

  The crowd had recognised Brude despite his face being masked by the helmet, perhaps because they had seen him fight before and recognised him or perhaps because some of them heard Curtius yelling at him. They chanted his name, clapping him loudly. “Brutus! Brutus!” He was breathing heavily now and he glanced at the imperial box, seeing the signal to finish his fallen opponent. He dutifully slammed his sword into the back of his fallen opponent’s neck, although he was fairly sure the man was dead already.

  Curtius came up to him. “Are you all right?”

  “So far. Who else is left?”

  Curtius looked heartbroken. “Josephus is through but he took a nick. He was paired against a Retiarius.” Brude looked for the little Jew and saw him binding a piece of cloth around his thigh. It did not look too bad but in a battle like this even a fractional slowing could be bad. “You’re the only two left from our school now. Atticus will live, thank the gods.” Atticus, a Murmillo, was one of the more experienced men. He would have put up a good show, Brude knew.

  Then he saw that there were only six men left standing. Curtius quickly pointed them out. “There’s a Murmillo, two Thracians and a Retiarius. One of the Thracians is good and so’s the Retiarius. They’re both from Propertius’ school. I’ll try to get you paired with the smaller Thracian. I think Josephus can take the Samnite.” He stalked off, making his way across the sand to check on Josephus, while Brude tried to recover his strength. He looked into the crowd to see whether he could make out Lentulus and Trimalchio but the amphitheatre was a sea of faces and he gave up. He wondered whether Trimalchio thought he was getting a good return on his investment.

  The arena was cleared, the men paired off and Brude found himself up against the Retiarius, the one opponent he had not wanted. Curtius gave him a look of resignation as if to say he had tried.

  “Fight!” shouted the lanistas.

  The Retiarius was good. Brude knew instantly that he had a fight on his hands. In his favour, the man had obviously had a hard fight before and he was breathing heavily. Brude did the same, making sure the man could hear the great gasps of air he was taking in and could see his chest heaving. He made his movements look sluggish, hoping the Retiarius would think he was more tired than he was.

  It did not work.

  The net came looping for him and he dodged, then had to block a thrust of the trident with his shield and immediately dodge again as the net came lashing low for his legs. He jumped and it missed but the Retiarius danced away from his attempt to close the gap between them.

  Again the net came for him, its lead weights rattling off his shield. He thrust, trying to hit the man’s arm but the Retiarius was too quick and the chance was gone. They circled each other. Brude had to stifle a momentary panic as he tried to figure out how to beat this man. Everyone had a weakness, a part of their technique that was less good than their favoured moves, but he could not spot this man’s weakness at all.

  More circling, more thrusts, feints and dodges. The Retiarius danced around, moving swiftly with fluid grace, jabbing his trident to wear Brude down, probing and waiting for Brude to tire first.

  There was a roar from the crowd and Brude knew that one of the other gladiators had scored a good hit, which meant that one of the other fights was probably over. Whoever had won that would have time to rest. Brude’s momentary distraction nearly killed him and he only just avoided the next thrust of the trident. He began to grow anxious because realisation was dawning that this man was better than him. Just as Curtius and Kallikrates had said would happen one day, he had met his match. He decided that he would have to try something desperate, something the man would not expect. Victory or death, he told himself.

  Curtius was behind him, shouting encouragement, telling him to get in close but Brude knew that his opponent was too good to allow that to happen. He crouched, saw the flick of the left wrist and saw the net looping to settle over his head. He moved forwards, suddenly thrusting his sword high in the air, pointing skywards. The net caught it as it began to fall. In the space of a heartbeat, it would have fallen over his crested helmet and he would be doomed but, as soon as the sword struck the net, he jerked it with all his might. At the same time, he threw his shield arm forwards, ducking as low as he could. It was an awkward, muscle-popping, spine-wrenching move but it was totally unexpected. The net draped itself across his shoulders, catching on his helmet but he had used his sword, already tangled in the net, to pull the Retiarius so hard that they were now close together. The man had no room to move his long trident because Brude was inside its reach. He used his shield to block the pronged weapon as he smashed his head forwards, hitting the Retiarius full in the face with the iron visor of his helmet, shattering the man’s nose. The Retiarius staggered back, pulling Brude with him. Entangled in the net, Brude let go of his sword, pushed hard and fell on top of his opponent, fighting viciously to make sure that
he stayed on top. They hit the sand hard, the air driven from the Retiarius’ lungs with the force of his landing. Brude smashed his helmet onto the man’s face again. Awkward with the shield twisting his left arm, Brude pushed down hard, battered the man’s face again, then used his right arm, still caught in the net, to raise himself slightly. He slipped his left arm free of the huge shield, punched the Retiarius across the jaw then grabbed the trident which was lying limply in the man’s hand. Brude knelt up, reversed the trident in his left hand and plunged it down into the man’s chest, driving it home as hard as he could.

  Curtius ran to him, grabbed the Retiarius’ knife and began to cut away the net. “Stay on your knees,” he hissed. “Take your time to get up. By Jove, you’re a mad one. What made you try that stupid move?”

  “Couldn’t think of anything else,” Brude gasped.

  Curtius sawed at the net, slowly releasing Brude from its clutches. “Well it’s got the crowd on your side. They loved it. As well as that Thracian leap you did earlier.”

  Brude’s head was spinning from the force of the blows he had inflicted on the dead man. “Who’s left?” His eyes were blurred, bright lights flashing across his vision.

  “Josephus. The other pair are still fighting but I think Propertius’ Thracian will get through. You and Josephus should work together, take him out and then one of you had better make a convincing job of going down badly wounded. I guess they’ll let the loser live.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No,” us admitted, “I don’t.”

  “Josephus won’t go down.”

  “Then you’d better do it. Let him nick you. Lots of blood, no real damage. I’ll tell him.”

  “No! I need to win this.” Brude was more determined than ever. With thirty-two men in the arena, his chance had seemed slim, but soon there would be only three of them left and he would have as good a chance as any. Freedom for the winner.

  Curtius rested a hand on his shoulder. “No friends in the arena, eh?” he said sadly. “Good luck to you. You’ll need it.”

  Brude hauled himself to his feet. He gathered up his shield and sword, taking his time and making sure he was ready before striding towards the other end of the arena where Propertius’ Thracian was just despatching his opponent. Now there were only three men left.

  Brude saw Josephus give him a broad grin and a wave of his sica as if inviting him to take on the Thracian first. Brude gestured with his own sword, returning the invitation. Josephus laughed and made for the Thracian, a dark-haired man with deep blue eyes. Brude made for him as well, circling to the man’s left while Josephus went to his right.

  The Thracian backed away slowly, trying to get his back to the perimeter wall so that he could see both opponents but Brude moved quickly to block that. Josephus yelled a strange war cry and leaped at the Thracian. Arms flashed, swords and shields clashed then the two men were past each other and circling again. Brude feinted an attack, saw the Thracian skip easily away and circled right, trying to keep the man between him and Josephus.

  A sound made him move, spinning quickly to his left, instinctively blocking with his shield. Josephus’ curved blade rang on its iron rim as he tried to deliver a killing blow. Brude thrust with his own sword, reactions working in spite of his shock at Josephus’ attempt to kill him. No friends in the arena, Curtius had said and Brude had forgotten it so quickly. Josephus jumped back to avoid Brude’s thrust and he was now between Brude and the Thracian who saw his chance. He swung his curved blade in a blindingly fast backhanded arc to strike Josephus in the neck. The little Jew’s eyes opened wide and blood sprayed from the awful wound as he toppled.

  Brude had one chance, a chance Josephus had given him and he was already moving, almost before the Thracian’s blade had stuck the little man. The Thracian had swung quickly, putting everything into the blow to make sure it struck home. Brude was past his friend and on the man before he could recover his balance. A sweep of Brude’s shield knocked the Thracian’s own small shield aside, then a back-handed shove to block the sica and a powerful thrust of his swor took the man in the belly.

  Brude stood alone as the two fighters hit the ground almost at the same time. He dropped his shield and sword, turning to kneel beside Josephus whose life was ebbing away as the blood pumped from the artery in his neck. “You got him?” Josephus asked.

  “Yes.”

  Josephus smiled. “Good plan, eh?”

  Then he lay still.

  Curtius pulled Brude to his feet and unstrapped his helmet while the crowd roared his name wildly. Numb, Brude gulped in the air when the helmet came off. At Curtius’ prompting, he looked up to see the bearded face of the emperor smiling down at him. One of his freedmen passed him something which he tossed down to Brude, who was too tired to catch it. He bent to pick it up from the blood-soaked sand. It was a wooden training sword, a rudis. The symbol that said he need never fight again. The symbol of his freedom.

  A.D. 209

  Brude’s first year back in Broch Tava was a hard one in many ways. Fothair, though, recovered well from his injuries and was up and around in a few weeks. “Thank you for what you did for me,” he said to Brude as he stamped his leg, testing for a reaction from his wound. “I’m as good as new.”

  “Are you going to run now?” Brude asked him with a smile.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what you are planning to do.”

  They were standing outside Seoras’ home, enjoying the summer breeze from the sea. Brude pointed eastwards along the foot of the hill. “I thought I’d build a house over there,” he said.

  div height="0">

  “You’re not going to live here?” Fothair was surprised.

  “With my mother watching my every move? No. I had years of people watching me and I’d prefer some space for myself.”

  “And what then?”

  Brude shrugged. “I’m not sure. I have some knowledge of healing. I might do that. Travel around the local villages, that sort of thing.”

  “Your magic herbs won’t last forever,” Fothair pointed out.

  “I can always get more from the Romans. They have infirmaries at every fort on the Wall.”

  “That’s a long way.”

  “There are always merchants who will get things, if you pay them enough. Maybe that’s what I’ll do as well. Travel around, do some trading.”

  Fothair nodded. “It doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  “I don’t want exciting,” Brude told him. He sensed the tall man was working up to asking a question. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m a slave,” Fothair said amiably. “Does it matter what I want?”

  “Well I can’t free you. Colm would not stand for that, but as long as you act as if you’re a slave, I don’t really mind what you do. I could do with some help building a house, but I thought you were going to run.”

  “I might.” He thought for a moment then said, “If I stay, would you teach me how to fight?”

  Brude saw from his face that Fothair was serious. “It takes a long time and I told you I’ve had enough of fighting.” He idly picked up a small pebble and threw it, striking the trunk of a tree some twenty paces away.

  Fothair said, “Not bad.” He bent to pick up a pebble, threw and missed by a wide margin. “But if you do decide to travel you’ll need someone to watch your back. What use would I be if I didn’t know how to fight? Someone might attack you while you were sleeping.”

  Brude laughed. “You could just wake me up and let me do the fighting,” he said.

  “Maybe I’ll just run away after all,” Fothair muttered, although his tone suggested he was not really serious.

  “All right,” Brude conceded. “If you help me build my house, that will build your strength and I’ll show you how to improve your speed. That’s the first part of the training and it takes a long time. As for fighting, let’s see how you get on with the first bit.”

&nb
sp; Fothair grinned hugely. “When do we start?”

  “Right now. Can you catch a fly?”

  “What?”

  Brude held up a hand for silence. It was early summer and the air was full of insects. He did not have long to wait before a fly came close. His hand flashed out and he clenched a fist. Holding it in front of Fothair’s face he slowly opened his hand to set the fly free. “Like that,” he said. “You have to catch it, not kill it.”

  Fothair was dumbfounded. “How did you learn to do that?”

  “Lots of practice,” Brude told him. “You should start now. You can do it while you’re walking up to the broch. Go and speak to the smith, Caroc, and ask him what he wants for four axes, two for felling trees and two smaller ones for the trimming.”

  “Coin or kind?” Fothair asked.

  “Either.”

  “Anything else while I’m up there?”

  “Maybe, but climbing the hill a few times will help build the strength in your legs. Run, don’t walk.”

  “You’ve got a mean streak, do you know that?” Fothair smiled happily.

  “I learned from the best,” Brude replied. “And you’re supposed to call me Master.”

  “Am I?” Still grinning, Fothair set off up the hill towards the broch. “You might have to keep reminding me about tht,” he called back over his shoulder. Laughing, Brude watched him go. He saw the tall man fling his hand out a few times as he went, vainly trying to catch a passing insect.

  They got their axes in exchange for some silver coins Brude had safely tucked away in a money belt. Then they set about planning the house. Brude had been toying with the notion of making a Roman style house but he had no idea how to make bricks or tiles and he knew nobody in the village would have the skills either, so he decided on a traditional roundhouse. In any event, he wanted to fit in, not to stand out as someone different.