by M. K. Hume
The boy didn’t enjoy his morning hours spent training with Targo. After being given a short, wooden sword and a wicker shield, Artorex was forced to learn the fighting positions practised by the old legions.
In spite of his ageing body and a limited reach, Targo managed to beat Artorex black and blue with the flat of his sword every day until, out of sheer desperation, Artorex began to take his training seriously and to learn the rudiments of thrust, parry and guard.
At first, these simple exercises in the farmyard were a source of loud amusement for the servants from the Villa Poppinidii. As they wandered out to the fields, or brought the cows to the barn for milking, the farm workers were entertained by the sight of young Artorex, awkward and frustrated, swatting at empty air with his wooden sword, while Targo danced negligently away. Even Caius dallied on his way to the stables to watch the red-faced and sweating boy as he tried to dodge Targo’s flashing weapon. But the predictability of the entertainment soon palled, so teacher and student were left to practise the manipulation of blade, spear, shield and dagger in relative peace.
Gradually, albeit painfully, Artorex realized that the exercises were similar in nature to a village dance and, soon, he found himself captured by the grace of weapons drill. Then, just as his superior reach began to give him a little confidence, Targo changed the rules and, once again, the boy found himself pinned to the ground or stripped of his weapon, with Targo’s sword held firmly against his throat.
‘Remember, boy, any fool can pick up a sword and learn the motions. He’ll live just as long as it takes for him to meet an enemy who thinks faster than he does.’
‘Is that how you were cut across the nose?’ Artorex panted as Targo attacked from a new, and totally unexpected, direction.
‘Of course, boy. You either learn or you’re dead.’
‘Then I had better start to learn.’ Artorex stifled a cry as Targo used the flat of his sword across the back of his right knee.
‘You are now crippled for life. What are you going to do to live?’ Targo asked, and swept the boy’s feet from under him.
Artorex hit the ground with the base of his spine and even old Targo had the sensitivity to wince.
‘You’re cheating,’ Artorex complained as he drove his wicker shield towards Targo’s nose, a move that would have smashed that scarred feature if the blow had ever landed.
Targo merely took one step backward.
‘That’s better. Remember, cheating is just good common sense.
Only a short-lived idiot pretends to bring honour on to the battlefield.’
Targo set Artorex strengthening exercises with small ingots of lead to force muscle on to his growing frame. The weights were tied to his wrists so that collecting eggs or picking the last of the apples became a painful chore.
Nor was Artorex permitted to fight only right-handed, for Targo would switch sword hands regularly and, on occasion, would instruct his pupil to wield his sword with both hands.
Artorex soon learned the deadly disadvantage of fighting a left-handed enemy.
‘If one arm is wounded, you must make do with the other. Now raise your sword.’
Artorex underwent many further weeks of bruising until he learned to fight with his left hand. To build up its strength, Targo tied his right arm to his side. Artorex suffered innumerable cuts and bruises as he endeavoured to separate the whey from the cheese during threshing and as he struggled to keep his balance while feeding jostling pigs. He learned how to use the distribution of his weight to his advantage, just as Targo had planned.
Artorex’s days were now measured by the severity of his cuts and bruises, his weary muscles and the field work that Targo invented to strengthen his spine. Reaping was a particular Targo favourite and, in the afternoons, Artorex used his razor-sharp hook until his back was one long scream of pain. For the whole of autumn, all household tasks were done at a run and, although Artorex dreamed constantly of grinding Targo into splinters of bone and flesh, he was aware that muscles that had once been whipcord thin were now beginning to harden and thicken into ropes.
Meanwhile, his thirteenth birthday passed unnoticed.
‘Will I ever be strong enough to be an able opponent for you, Targo?’
‘Aye! Else we’re wasting our time. But are you fast enough, boy?’
‘Oh, shite!’ Artorex swore, as Targo disarmed him once again.
Then, just as he was becoming comfortable with sword and shield, Targo changed the rules once again.
‘A good fighter hacks away with either hand, judging his enemy accurately, and predicting his next move.’
Artorex nodded, as Targo grinned evilly, exposing long, brown canines.
‘But a great fighter is agile, fast and unpredictable. He chooses the ground on which he might die, and he turns the worst footholds into an advantage.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Artorex replied, trying to interpret Targo’s words and discover what this lesson had to do with a farm boy on the outskirts of a city.
‘Do you want to be a great fighter, Artorex? Or simply good?’ Targo asked, without his usual sardonic grin.
The boy realized his tutor was in deadly earnest.
‘I . . . er . . . great . . . I suppose. I cannot see the point of all this effort otherwise. I . . . er . . . I sort of promised . . .’
How could Artorex explain to Targo how the three travellers had questioned him, their responses and the odd look of measurement in their eyes?
Targo had to look up into Artorex’s odd grey eyes, for the boy already stood several inches taller than his tutor.
‘As you age, you’ll become a big man, taller than most warriors who go to battle. And you’ll be strong - and you’re faster than most. Mithras gave you the bone and the reflexes for brute force. But those skills are as nothing.’
‘So why have I sweated to learn them?’ the boy asked plaintively and received a cuff across his ear from Targo’s calloused hand.
‘To begin, boy, to begin.’
Artorex fell naturally into the familiar pose of a servant who was being chided, and stared at his dusty feet. He received a cuff across his other ear for his meekness.
‘The greatest fighter I ever knew was a Scythian woman who was no taller than my shoulder.’
Against his better judgement, Artorex smiled momentarily - and found his ear really throbbing from a particularly vicious blow.
‘You might laugh, but she nearly cut my throat.’ Targo pointed at a long scar that began at the side of his throat and trailed down into his rough tunic. ‘If she hadn’t slipped in a puddle of my blood, I’d have been worm food before I was twenty. I was very good, you see, and I underestimated her agility. It was many months before my wounds had healed.’
‘So what happened to the Scythian woman?’ the boy asked warily. He was making a vain attempt to imagine a female with warrior skills superior to those of Targo.
‘I slit her belly open as she was falling down. Damn, but she was one fine woman,’ Targo reminisced.
Artorex saw the old man smile fondly for just the briefest of moments.
‘What was her edge?’ Artorex asked.
‘A good question, boy.’
‘Ow!’ Artorex yelped, as Targo cuffed him once again. ‘What was that for?’
‘A little pain now might make you think of my mistake at some future time when you believe you have an enemy at your mercy. I underestimated her. You mightn’t get the second chance that I received.’ As he spoke, Targo scanned the farmyard until his eyes stopped at a rough fence, some five feet high, around the field where the horses exercised.
‘A test for you. Your life depends on it! I want you over that fence, as fast as you can. Now!’
The boy saw the fence was just a little too high for him to leap, and climbing was certain to make him look foolish.
‘It’s too late! You’re dead! The enemy has taken you!’
Targo tripped the boy neatly and Artorex felt his bones rattle as
he hit the packed sod.
‘But to climb that fence I’d have to use my sword hand. I’d be dead anyway!’
‘Your prime task is to get over the fence in one piece.’ Targo whistled between the gaps in his old teeth as he walked away. ‘And don’t you ever drop your sword again. If you do, I’ll give you three lashes.’
‘Oh, shite!’ the boy swore under his breath.
Of a sudden, a simple post and rail fence seemed more impregnable than the walls of the villa.
Artorex thought feverishly.
He approached the fence from several angles and noticed that the rails were sturdy enough as a barrier for horses but could easily collapse under the weight of his growing body. The horses saw the fence as a solid structure, so the rails were allowed to weather and split.
‘Hurry up, boy. The sun is moving - and I’m tired. I don’t want to find new shade.’ Targo was sprawled comfortably under the cool cover of a young alder tree.
The posts are the key, Artorex though desperately. But how do I use them?
The answer came to him suddenly, so he decided to charge at the fence post before he lost his nerve.
Artorex’s left hand hit the top of the post with a satisfying thud, and he was thrust upwards. Unfortunately, his feet did not rise quite as high as he imagined, and he clipped the rail with his foot, causing him to tumble in a wild cartwheel to the other side of the fence. He landed squarely on his backside with enough force to jar the teeth in his head.
His developing instincts ensured that he kept his sword firmly gripped in his right hand.
Targo laughed and leapt to his feet with far more speed than his youthful pupil was displaying.
‘Boy, once again you’re dead, but you now have an idea that you can work on. I want you to practise its execution until you perfect it. Forget haymaking for this afternoon - and get this task right. Consider today a holiday.’
Artorex grew to loathe that fence before the evening meal. He realized that, unless he could raise his whole body parallel to the rail, he would continue to land on his backside or, as the day continued, on any other part of his body that he treasured.
Targo wandered off in an unusually good humour, leaving him to charge at the fence until his left arm felt as if it would never bend again.
Darkness had almost fallen when Artorex finally arrived at the solution.
He realized that he would have to change sword hands to successfully complete the jump. If he moved the sword to his left hand during his run, he could use his stronger right arm in the leap, then lift his legs high, land cleanly and change sword hands once again during the descent.
Eventually, Artorex managed to elevate his weary body over the obstinate fence in three successive attempts.
‘Excellent work, lad! Well, perhaps we should say passable.’ Targo laughed from the lengthening shadows. ‘Tomorrow, you will work on your technique and you’ll learn to use both hands.’
Over the long months of his training, Artorex discovered the true, manly pleasures of the Roman bath. The mineral waters eased the constant ache of bruises and the odd broken toe or finger, while the oils released the tightly bunched muscles of shoulder, thigh and calf. Even the steam emanating from the calidarium unknotted the abused nerves and tendons that stretched less willingly as his body grew. Where once cleanliness was cursory, it soon became a compulsory element in his daily routine.
Master and servants noticed the changes in the routine of the young man, and they delighted at his discomfort on those many occasions when they gently teased him.
‘If the boy holds out,’ Ector joked, as Artorex limped over to fill his master’s proffered wine cup, ‘Targo will have managed to wash him clean.’
Artorex’s hands were trembling with weariness and he barely managed to hold the wine jug steady. Ector took the heavy vessel from the boy’s unresisting fingers and replaced it with a pottery bowl of rabbit, root vegetables and barley stew. Artorex smiled briefly with gratitude and served the plain, workday food to the mistress of the house.
‘If the Lump lives so long,’ Caius said quite clearly to no one in particular from his seat alongside his father.
Both Ector and Livinia turned their eyes reproachfully towards their son.
‘I swore an oath that the name you have just used would not be spoken in this house, young man,’ Ector hissed. ‘You will respect my wishes!’
‘I agree with your father,’ Livinia chided Caius. ‘You will not be uncouth, my son, for Artorex has earned a measure of respect for the hard work he does. I might add that he doesn’t complain or whine, but attempts to conduct himself like a true Roman warrior.’ She tapped Artorex’s hand gently with her index finger as he served her a small ladle of the stew. Her touch was respectful and affectionate, and Artorex felt his eyes fill with gratitude.
‘Eat, Artorex. This good, plain food will bring the colour back to your face,’ Livinia ordered kindly as she spooned out a bowl of stew with her own hands.
In truth, Caius was more embarrassed by his mother’s reprimand than by any debt he felt he owed to his father’s oath. He scowled and would have protested, but Livinia fixed him with her wide, dark stare and he lapsed into sullen silence.
Ector’s attention returned to Artorex.
‘I swear you grow longer in the leg than a barbarian,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll be an asset to me, boy, if you hold to your training. Yes, a considerable asset.’
Artorex blushed hotly. He was unused to words of praise from his foster-family.
And so the boy learned.
As fast as he defeated one obstacle, Targo invented another to tease his strengthening mind. He was set tumbling exercises from which he must rise in attack mode, using whatever hand or weapon that Targo dictated on that day. On another morning, Artorex was left standing on his hands for an hour, a dagger clenched between his teeth, for no reason that the boy could fathom.
Later still, Targo told him to ford a deceptively shallow stream that flowed through the western fields. Artorex almost drowned in a deep hole before Targo relented and taught the boy the rudiments of swimming. Then he must learn to swim one-handed, with his blade held high above the water. And, in his spare time, Artorex was taught how to care for his weapons, to oil them against rust and to sharpen the old, pitted blades with a whetstone.
Artorex almost wished he had been left with his original wooden sword.
At midday on the day after Artorex had reached his fourteenth birthday, two of the travellers returned to Villa Poppinidii. Shortly after their arrival, Artorex was summoned to the practise field.
Luka was speaking casually to Targo, who was uncharacteristically humble around the younger man. Artorex saw the gruff old warrior bow his head as he listened with deep respect.
Both men turned to examine Artorex as he approached.
Luka was forced to raise his eyes slightly to meet the gaze of the sheepish Artorex while his inscrutable, flat stare calculated every change that had occurred in the young man’s body.
‘He’s grown since last I saw him.’
‘Like a weed,’ Targo agreed.
‘Are you stronger now, boy?’ Luka asked.
‘I’m strong enough, master,’ Artorex replied in the same fashion as on that strange night when his fortunes had changed.
‘And are you faster now, boy?’
‘I’m fast enough, master.’
‘Then let’s see, shall we?’ Luka stripped off his tunic and stood barechested in his leather riding trousers and soft boots. He drew his short sword from its scabbard with a little menacing hiss, exactly like the warning from a marsh snake.
Artorex had brought his weapon, but neither combatant had a shield.
He must be very confident, the boy thought to himself as he concentrated on maintaining eye contact with the stranger. But I dare not cut him - even though he can’t imagine that I could do such a thing to him.
Luka fell into the fighting crouch.
Without any furt
her thought, Artorex moved warily sideways, circling until the waning sun would strike Luka’s eyes, and not his.
‘That’s very good,’ Luka muttered reflectively, and immediately resumed the attack. The boy realized that this opponent was in deadly earnest. One slip, and he could easily be filleted like a fish.
The boy parried and moved as he searched for a weakness in Luka’s fighting skill. Targo had instilled in him the truth that every warrior had a flaw and that, once found, that weakness could give his opponent an edge.
Artorex changed hands and reversed direction, thrusting carefully as he moved into a different attack mode.
‘Very good.’ Luka also changed hands.
This is unfair, Artorex thought to himself. He’s older than me - and he’s stronger. And he knows I cannot fight back.
Then Targo’s steady voice echoed in the boy’s mind: ‘Fair doesn’t enter into the battlefield! Life is unfair! Find an edge or you’re dead!’
His mind suddenly clarified, and the consequences of failure outpaced all the jumbled images that were scrambling for prominence in his brain.
This field of combat is all there is. This man and his weapon are all there is. He’s my enemy and he must be defeated - by any means!
So easily comes the end to childhood.
Even as this coldness overpowered all other thought, Artorex continued to move, his feet falling naturally into the patterns dictated by the shape of the field. One particularly wicked slash from Luka could have removed his arm if he hadn’t evaded the blade by throwing himself into a tumbling arc and rising to his feet almost at Luka’s back.
Almost - but not quite.
Luka’s torso glistened with a light sheen of sweat, and Artorex knew his skin must also be slick and wet.