by R. W. Peake
“Kill that fucking soldier boy,” Prixus snarled to the remaining man, who had dodged my first thrust.
My left hand felt like I had thrust it into flames, and it was wet and sticky, but I could not think about that. None of us could see very well, just the dull glint of our blades, and I only sensed Prixus coming across the room, hearing the rasp from his scabbard as he drew his sword. His weapon made a whistling sound as he gave a downward stroke. More by reflex than by sight, I threw my sword up, meeting his blade with mine, jarring my arm up to the shoulder. There was a good deal of strength behind the blow, but my more immediate problem was the other gladiator, who took the opportunity to make a thrust of his own. Because of the darkness, or so I suppose, he aimed poorly, the blade striking me at an angle. Nevertheless, it did puncture the chain mail, the blade sliding along the left side of my ribcage, cutting deeply into my flesh. I heard someone hiss in pain and I suppose it was me, but I could not pay attention to that. Balling up my left fist, I punched out at the gladiator and it was more luck than anything that I managed to strike the man square on the point of his chin, or at least that is how it felt. He flew backwards, but my attention was on Prixus now, who was preparing for another attack.
“Come on, soldier boy, let’s see if you’re as good as everyone says. Come to Prixus, and I’ll gut you like a fish.”
I could just make out the point of his sword, weaving back and forth and for the first time I felt a sense of unease. I was fighting his kind of fight, and I was outnumbered; it occurred to me that I might have finally let my pride get me into a spot from which I could not extricate. In those moments, no longer than a few heartbeats, all that had happened to bring me to this point flashed through my mind. If Miriam had not died, I would undoubtedly not have pursued vengeance against Prixus. Somehow I convinced myself that if Miriam had lived, I would not have even had my dispute with Prixus. Like a flood bursting forth, I felt the anger surge through me. It was the same anger I first felt all those years before on that hilltop in Hispania and I welcomed it now like an old friend, a friend that I needed desperately. Suddenly, I did not care about anything other than killing Prixus, or anyone else who stood before me when it came down to it. Completely ignoring the other man, who had just regained his feet, I threw myself at Prixus, knocking his blade aside with my own as I did so. He had clearly not been expecting this, letting out a surprised gasp when I smashed into his body, my left hand grabbing for his throat while I used the pommel of my sword to bash him in the face. My left hand was too slippery with blood to get a good hold on his throat, and he had instantly tucked his chin down so it would not have mattered anyway. In turn, he tried to bring his sword up, but feeling the movement, I reached out, this time making sure to grab his wrist. Again, the pain in my hand was excruciating, yet it had to be overcome and ignored, or I would die here in this dirty back room. My closing with Prixus had one benefit; the other gladiator could not use his sword on me, because Prixus and I were moving violently about and in the dark, he would be as likely to stab Prixus as he would me. That did not stop him from joining the fray however, and he threw himself in our general direction, swinging a fist that either by luck or design hit me where his blade had landed moments before. Lights exploded in my head, but we were too close for me to bring my blade up, besides which Prixus had gripped my wrist with his left hand, locking us together. It felt like the bones would be crushed and ground into dust by Prixus’ hand, both of us exerting every bit of strength into maintaining our hold on the other. Our faces were inches from each other and as we gasped for air, I could smell the wine and garum on his breath. Most importantly, I could smell the fear, rank and running deep in the gladiator. Shifting my weight onto my right leg, I lashed out with my left foot, catching the other gladiator on the kneecap, who gave a yelp before hopping back out of range. It was not a debilitating blow; I just hoped it would be enough to keep him from hitting me again for a moment. Prixus, sensing my momentary vulnerability, suddenly gave a violent heave, twisting and pulling me more to my right, leaving my left leg dangling in the air. I could feel myself starting to fall as Prixus suddenly released his grip on my right arm, which I flailed about, trying to maintain my balance. The only thing keeping me upright was my own hold on Prixus’ sword arm, and now that Prixus had a hand free, he used his ham-sized fist to beat on my left hand. When that did not work, I watched in horror, unable to stop him as he bent down, sinking his teeth into my wrist. The roar of pain that came from my lungs deafened even me as I released my grip on his arm, falling to the floor. The natural reflex when falling to one side or the other is to use that hand to break the fall, which Prixus undoubtedly was counting on, since that would be my sword hand. Somehow, I do not know how, I ignored that natural reaction, twisting my body instead to land on my back and while doing so I lashed out wildly with my sword, swinging it in a wide arc at about ankle level. My reward was the feeling of contact with the tip of my sword, followed by a bellowed curse and Prixus falling to the floor himself.
The impact with the floor had knocked the breath from my lungs, but I thought I had a moment to gather myself since Prixus was down as well. However, I had completely forgotten the other man for a moment. Stars exploded in my head when he landed on top of me, his hands grabbing for my throat, clamping on my windpipe with a grip only slightly weaker than that of Prixus. There is nothing more panic-inducing than the feeling of suffocating and I bucked my body with all my strength, trying to throw him, but he was much too experienced for that, wrapping his legs behind mine for leverage. In a reflex action, I reached up with my left hand, trying to claw for his eyes. Instead, as usually happens, my hand landed in the vicinity of his mouth. For the second time I felt a pair of jaws clamping down, this time on my little finger, somehow in the exact same spot where I had been cut moments earlier. I suppose that made it easier for him to take one convulsive bite, completely severing the finger, the combination of the pain and the sound of the bone being bitten through causing my stomach to lurch. I felt the hot bile rising in my throat, except that it was unable to get out because of the hands clamped around my neck. Almost out of my mind with pain, I moved my right hand between our bodies, then after a moment of fumbling, grabbed hold of the gladiator’s testicles. Wasting no time, I began squeezing with every bit of my strength, gratified to hear his shrieks of pain added to mine. The room was beginning to dim and I could feel my strength draining with every passing heartbeat, but still I continued to squeeze. Finally, I felt his grip loosen, allowing me to suck air in through my bruised throat, though it was not much. This gave me a bit more strength and with the last bit, I clenched my fist, feeling his balls rupture in my hand. The shriek that emanated from him as he completely released my throat, falling off me, hands clutching his groin, would have done a Gorgon proud. Gasping for every bit of air I could get, I lay panting for breath while holding my ruined hand up and away from me. In the shadows, a darker shape suddenly came into my field of vision, causing me to make a reflexive roll to the side, just as Prixus’ sword came whistling down to bury itself in the dirt floor where my head had been. Somehow, I rolled to my feet before he could make another lunge, except I had left my sword on the floor, dropped when I had grabbed the other gladiator’s balls. Too dark to see where it lay, I circled away from Prixus, who made another thrust, which I managed to dodge, just barely. He was limping from where I had nicked him with my sword, yet was clearly mobile enough.
“I'm going to enjoy this,” Prixus said, the tip of his sword waving back and forth while he shuffled closer to me.
Instantly, I recognized that he was cutting me off, slowly but surely backing me into a spot where I would have no room to maneuver. Also knowing that he would not allow himself to be surprised by trying to close with him a second time, my mind raced desperately for a way to beat the man. One thing in my favor was that the rest of his men were out of action, with two dead and one wishing that he was, but without a weapon, I stood little chance against Prixus. Th
e gladiator, beaded sweat on his shaved head picking up the stray beams of light, seemed content to take his time and I saw his remaining teeth gleaming dully in the light as he gave me a grin that held nothing good.
“You think you're so much better than me and my men,” Prixus sneered. “But you’re just like us. You’re low-born scum, just like us. Just because you sucked Caesar’s cock and killed a few Gauls and other barbarians that don’t know which end of the sword to hold, you suddenly think you’re one of them, some high-born cunnus whose cac doesn’t stink.”
Despite the darkness, I could see that he was truly angry. It was then I realized that this ran much deeper than my humiliation of him, giving me an idea.
“You’re right,” I said suddenly, seeing him frown in confusion. “I am low-born, but at least my mother wasn’t a whore, and I knew who my father was. And the men I killed in Gaul were warriors, not some scared convict pissing himself.”
“I am Prixus,” he suddenly roared. “And I've had 72 bouts in the arena, and I won my freedom! The man hasn’t been born who can defeat me.”
“Yes he has,” I said calmly, knowing that my lack of temper would just fuel his own rage. “I put you on your ass in the mud like a child. In fact, I’ve met children who were harder to beat than you were. I beat you once, and I'm about to beat you again. Except this time, I'm going to kill you.”
“You lie! The only way you knocked me off my horse was by sneaking up on me. And you paid for it, didn’t you?”
“You were facing me on that horse, weren’t you? And who came after me like a fucking woman, with help in the bargain? In the dark, from behind. You’re a gutless coward.”
Letting out a roar of rage, Prixus leapt forward, making a hard thrust in the same movement and I dived to the side, for the second time violating the first rule of never leaving your feet. This time, however, I was doing so for a purpose, my hand sweeping along the floor, fumbling for my sword. Prixus pivoted about, aiming a kick at my head that missed his intended target, but struck me hard on the shoulder, knocking my arm in such a direction that my hand closed directly on the hilt of my sword. Wasting no time, I gave an upward swing, meeting Prixus’ blade on its downward stroke, jarring my arm even more. I was now on one knee, but Prixus was not about to let me regain my feet and he pressed close, raining blows down on me that I sensed more than saw, somehow managing to parry all of them. Inevitably, he paused to take a breath, while I pushed to my feet and in one motion began my own attack, starting with a low, hard thrust, which he managed to knock to the side. Withdrawing quickly, I tried a combination move, both of which he parried. Neither of us was speaking now, both panting for breath, the air seeming especially close in the dank, dark room. There was a smell of blood, thick and coppery, along with the stench of death and cac, after one or both dead men’s bowels released.
Prixus made another lunge, following it up with a sweeping backhand that whistled past my face, missing by less than the width of a hand. The darkness made it hard to judge distances and when I countered Prixus’ attack, I aimed for a point farther back than I normally would have. I was rewarded with the feeling of the point of my sword striking something solid, followed immediately by a gasp of pain from Prixus, who recoiled backward from the blow. It was not mortal or even that damaging a blow, yet it was enough to shake Prixus’ confidence, his posture suddenly changing to that of a man on the defensive. My left arm from the elbow down was virtually useless, the pain extremely distracting, but now I had given Prixus something to think about as well, and we continued circling each other in the small space between the walls and the bodies. I was vaguely aware that the woman had pulled herself to a sitting position and seemed to be watching Prixus and me, while the lone surviving gladiator was against the far wall, rolling about and moaning while he held his testicles.
“I’m going to feed you your balls, Prixus,” I goaded the gladiator. “By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be begging me to kill you. You gladiators wouldn’t last a day in the Legions, and the worst man I ever commanded would chew you up and spit you out. But you know that, don’t you? You know that you’re a worthless piece of cac, that your mother was a brass obol whore, and your father was a poxed slave.”
With another roar of rage, Prixus came at me, his blade slashing through the air as he tried to slice me into pieces. Shuffling backwards, I either parried or dodged his blows, letting him expend his energy while I waited for another opening. By this point, I had taken in enough of Prixus’ style to have an idea of what to expect in his attack. He favored a higher thrust, along with a wider slash, which undoubtedly played well for the crowds at the arena. However, in a small, dark room, against a man like me, it left him vulnerable, provided I was fast enough. I could also feel his strength fading, except I did not know whether it was from fatigue, or the wound I had inflicted earlier. My own energy was wavering as well, yet I understood that it would be the case that the man who walked out of this building was the one who somehow managed to summon his last reserves of strength at the right time. Prixus paused to take a breath, but I knew that he was expecting me to attack and he still had the strength to fend my attacks off, so I waited. This clearly puzzled him, though after a moment, he resumed his attack. This time, I saw that his waning strength had not been a figment of my imagination, it being significantly easier to parry his blows, each coming slower than before. He was gasping for breath now; while I was breathing hard, I had been able to conserve more energy simply by being on the defensive. Judging that this was the time, I launched my own attack and in a moment Prixus’ face was a picture of desperation as I continually assailed him with a variety of thrusts and slashes. He was extremely skilled, but I had gained the advantage, which I had no intention of relinquishing now. We moved together, and I pressed against him so that now it was Prixus who was in danger of being cut off. Sensing this, he made a sudden move to try to gain some room. If he had not already been wounded, or was not as tired, in all probability it would have worked, but the combination of fatigue and darkness meant that his feet crossed over themselves so that he went down in a heap, falling backward away from me. Leaping across the space, I thrust down at his body, which he just managed to parry, lying on his back with his sword held above him. Lashing out with a foot, he caught me on the shin, but it was a glancing blow without much power behind it. With his other foot, he tried to scrabble backward, still holding his sword up and across his body. Suddenly shifting my aim, instead of trying to stab down into his body I flicked the blade in a slashing move downward, the edge striking the bone of his forearm, cutting through one bone and breaking the second, partially severing his hand. Prixus let out a scream of agony, dropping the sword, blood spraying out of a severed artery, his arm flopping grotesquely to the side in a direction that it was not meant to go. He clutched his ruined arm with his good hand, his torso and face covered with blood that shone in the dim light, looking black to my eyes. Even in the gloom, his panic and fear were clear to see while I stood there, my sword dripping, savoring the moment, and for that instant, the pain in my hand and side was nonexistent. I said nothing, vaguely realizing that I was weaving on my feet, but I put it down to the inevitable letdown that comes after a fight.
“Well?” Prixus’ voice was hoarse with pain, and the defeat easily heard. “What are you waiting for? Go ahead and finish me, you bastard.”
“You really don’t think it's going to be that easy, do you?” I asked Prixus, and at the moment, I meant to do truly horrible and painful things to the man, but when I took a step toward him, my knee almost buckled. It was then I realized that I needed to finish this quickly or I would pass out myself. “I know you don’t think so, Prixus, but this is the luckiest day of your life,” I said, then thrust down hard with my Gallic sword, plunging the blade deeply into Prixus’ chest.
He stiffened, arching his back and letting out a horrific groan, his heels kicking the dirt floor when I twisted the blade to pull it free. He gave a last rattling g
urgle before his animus fled his body, leaving me standing, trembling from head to toe.