The boys brought fist to chest in mock salute and sheathed their swords. Shields still on their arms, they backed away from the straw men, drew their pilums from the slings across their shoulders, and stood, each hefting in his hand the pilum shaft – the deadly javelin whose iron head went halfway down its length. The pilum tip was tempered but the mid-length of iron head was not, so that it bent as it pierced its target – whether the target was the solid bulk of flesh or an enemy shield – and could not easily be withdrawn. Thrown, it could pierce a man at ninety feet.
“At the ready!” Sabinus shouted. The pilums drew back. “Throw!” The pilums sang forward, with a deadly whistle, and Flavius’s pierced the straw man and shrilled out beyond it to skid into the dirt. Correus’s hit square, driving into the support post and buckling at the center.
“Good lad!” Sabinus shouted as Correus went up to wrestle the pilum point out of the post. “Flavius, aim for the post, not only the chest – it will hone your aim.” He took up another pilum from a stack at his feet and tossed it broadside to Correus as Correus pitched the bent one aside, to be straightened later by the smith. “Again, please. Mark your target.”
Watching, the two old soldiers stood straight-backed against the fence – the habit of lounging had been beaten out of them in their own youth, forty years down the road. “Hafed is bringing a man today I may buy,” Appius said, nodding to another shield and sword propped against the fence post. “I want you to work with him, Sabinus, and give me your opinion.”
“Hafed!” Sabinus snorted. “That swindling devil worshipper!”
“I am not sure exactly what Arabs worship,” Appius said, “but I’m fairly certain it isn’t a devil. In Hafed’s case, I think it’s the genie of greed.”
“He’ll sell you some broken-down wreck that he’s spruced for the occasion, or a troublemaker you won’t be able to trust with a blade in his hand. I expect you want him for a weapons trainer?”
“Mmm. This one’s a German. The gods know how Hafed got his hands on him—”
“Hit him over the head with a brick in some alley, most likely,” Sabinus said.
“At any rate, there’s trouble brewing on the Rhenus frontier, and that makes this man useful. The soldier who has already fought an enemy has the advantage. I want my sons to know how to meet the unexpected. This German can show them how his kind fight.”
“A most farseeing plan, noble one,” a fruity voice behind them said, and Hafed swam forward bundled in voluminous robes of dubious cleanliness; he was followed by two of his men with a third between them. “And knowing as I do Your Honor’s most worthy ideas on the training of the young, see: I have brought you the best warrior ever to wreak havoc in the Barbarian North.”
“If he’s all that good, Hafed, how’d he get himself captured?” Flavius called out. He and Correus had seized the slave merchant’s arrival as a good excuse to stop throwing pilums at the straw men.
Hafed beamed genially but ignored the comment, turning his attention back to Appius. “See, noble lord, how strong he is, and young. Please, inspect him if you wish. Hafed sells no substandard merchandise.” He clasped his hands placidly across his ample stomach, but the eyes beneath the flowing head covering were bright and beady.
Appius approached the German and nodded at Hafed’s men to stand back. The German stood a good head taller than Appius, his long pale hair pulled back and tied in a knot at the side of his head. He wore a pair of breeches, much tattered, but nothing else save a heavy iron collar locked about his throat. He returned Appius’s stare with an expression that might have been carved from granite. “Do you speak Latin?” Appius asked him gently.
Hafed answered, “Alas, Your Honor, I fear he has no tongue but the barbarian speech of his birth, but I am certain that he will learn, if he knows what is good for him.” He glared at the German and his expression read plainly: “Botch this sale, and you will be sorry to be still in my hands.”
“No matter,” Appius said. “As you say, he can learn. And he can teach my sons his own tongue, which may prove useful.”
Correus pricked up his ears at this – he had a liking for languages and the prospect of a new one intrigued him – while his brother groaned: “Merciful Athena, I have enough trouble learning Greek from a tutor. Now my father wants me to learn German from a barbarian.”
“I want you to learn anything important that comes your way,” Appius said over his shoulder. “The man who is educated has the advantage of the man who is not. As you will see.” He turned back to the German and spoke to him carefully in the harsh, guttural speech of the North.
“What is your name, man?”
“Forst, lord.”
“Forst. I have heard that an oath means much among your people. Is this true?”
“An oath is that-which-cannot-be-broken, lord.”
“Indeed. Then Forst, if I should buy you from that fat thief yonder, would you give me your oath that you would bide by the rules of my household and render loyal service?”
“Do I have a choice, lord?” The German’s voice was bitter.
“Certainly. A forced oath cannot bind a man. I won’t buy you without your free oath. Refuse and I will tell Hafed I find you unsuitable.”
The German cast a hunted glance at Hafed. “In that case, lord, I will give you my word… freely. I do not know how you may be as master, but I do know that one. I am thinking you could not be much worse.”
“A dubious distinction,” Appius murmured, “but honest enough. Very well, Forst, you will show your skill at arms with my weapons master, and then I will decide.” He nodded at Sabinus, who picked up a long sword and an oval shield capped with a bronze ornament at the center. He handed them to the German, who raised his eyebrows faintly in surprise.
“I fought a campaign or two along the Rhenus in my own day,” Appius said in German, and noted that Forst had begun to eye him with a certain grudging respect.
“Come along, then,” Sabinus said, jerking his head toward the practice ground by way of translation. He picked up his own shield and sword.
The German stood bemused, hefting the heavy oval shield and the long blade. It had not occurred to him that he would ever again carry the weapons he had been born to, the war gear of his homeland.
“Get a move on!”
Sabinus’s voice pulled him back from whatever north-country trail his mind wandered on, and he moved out cautiously to meet him. Sabinus carried a rectangular legionary shield and a short sword, and had many years of service with the Eagles to lend him good sense; he also wore a much-battered centurion’s helmet and breastplate.
They circled each other warily. Neither intended to kill the other, of course, although accidents were not unknown on a training ground. But for Forst, much rode on this sparring, and Sabinus had instructions to push the German as hard as he could. Appius wanted no weak fighters to breed bad habits in his sons.
The German pushed forward suddenly and struck, a high blow swinging down toward the neck, and Sabinus caught it on his shield and dropped back a pace, maneuvering to get in under the guard. He thrust his own sword up and in toward the rib cage, and the German caught it with his shield edge. They circled once more, then clashed in a flurry of blows that left Sabinus with a scrape down his thigh where the German’s sword had come in low and stopped only a split second too late as Sabinus twisted away.
“Did I not tell you, lord, that this one is a warrior without match?” Hafed said. “The finest fighter of his tribe, and they are a people of the sword.” He embroidered at will on his charge’s pedigree. In truth, although he saw no reason to mention it, he had bought the German cheaply enough from another slave merchant who had branded him an incorrigible with no discernible skills and a taste for picking fights with any of the other slaves who came his way. Hafed had thought of Appius immediately, deciding that no man who wasn’t any good at it would pick fights so freely. If Appius didn’t buy him, the German was of no use to anyone except an overseer in
the mines, and Hafed had managed to make that plain to him even without benefit of an interpreter.
The German swung his sword again, and Sabinus jumped into the blow, catching it on his shield, and continued forward, pushing hard against Forst’s shield. The German steadied himself and took another step back just in time to block the thrust of Sabinus’s sword. He knew well enough the danger of letting a man with a short sword too close – as the short sword came within range, it also came in under the effective range of the slashing longer blade, and frequently up under its enemy’s shield as well. Indeed, a man with a dagger could kill a man with a long sword if he could once dodge past its shining deadly arc and in too close for the long blade to have effect.
The German pulled back and raised his shield, his long sword well out. Thus, he could keep Sabinus at bay indefinitely. It was when he drew back to strike that his defenses were in danger. The German feinted a blow at his opponent’s leg and then brought his blade in high, catching Sabinus’s shield at the same time with the edge of his own and jerking it out and down. There was a clang as Forst’s blade struck the side of the trainer’s helmet, but Sabinus had caught the feint in time and the blow was glancing. They pulled back from each other again, breathing heavily now, sweat running down their faces. The German brushed his forearm briefly across his brow, shield well up and one eye on his opponent. Correus thought grimly that that was another good reason for keeping your head under a helmet – the padded lining kept you from being blinded by your own sweat. But the German armies were metal-poor. Most fighters did not even own a sword, but fought only with the long spear. If this warrior had been trained to the sword, he was undoubtedly of some rank or wealth in his tribe, as Hafed had claimed. But Sabinus was an old soldier and he knew a trick or two, and one of them was fighting long swords.
He began to push Forst hard, keeping the barbarian’s shield up and his sword busy, while his own blade probed relentlessly, seeking the split-second opening that would let the vicious, short-stabbing blade slip through. And then with a final push and a quick little quarter-turn that made the German swing around with his eyes to the sun, he found it. As the short sword slipped in under Forst’s guard there was an explosion of sound as the German brought his own shield hard into the Roman’s, knocking him backward with the sheer strength of one arm. Sabinus’s blade slipped up across the German’s chest, opening a quarter-inch gash from abdomen to armpit as Sabinus reeled back, one foot sliding from under him with the force of Forst’s shield blow. Sabinus stumbled back three steps before he could right himself, while the German stood panting, blood streaming from the gash in his chest.
“Enough!” Appius shouted.
Sabinus raised his sword and dropped it again as Appius came forward. “That oily thief is right,” the old soldier told Appius, panting. “That one can fight.”
Appius nodded. “Ask my lady to have one of her women see to him.” His eye fell on the heavy iron band around the slave’s neck. “And get the key to that thing from Hafed. No slave of mine wears a dog’s collar. Tell the steward to send him to me tonight after dinner. And get that scrape on your leg seen to as well,” he added.
“It’s little enough,” Sabinus said. “Time for that when I’ve put the lads through their paces.”
“See to your leg, man. I’m not yet so old I can’t play at wooden swords with my own sons,” Appius informed him, “and you don’t need an infection in that leg at your age.” His voice softened. “I’ve a decision to make, old friend, and this seems as good a way as any to come by it.”
* * *
They were backlit shadows in the gold of the late-afternoon sun, each with a wooden sparring sword in his hand, weighted and balanced to respond like the steel it mimicked. The ridges of their helmets shone with a parade-armor glow in the dimming light. Behind them on the gentle curve of a hill sat the house of their birth, its windowless walls blind under the red tiles of the roof, all life turned inward to the courtyards and gardens enclosed within. A ring of fir trees encircled the walls and swept in stately march down the long drive that opened out onto the road to Rome. At the base of the hill stood whitewashed horse barns near hay fields and the brood mares’ pastures, filled now with this spring’s foals careening in the sunlight like a flight of birds. A gaggle of white geese emerged honking from under the frisking hooves and retreated in indignation to forage for weeds among the new green growth of the fields. A fine retirement, Appius thought. A good enough way for a man used to the long march to spend his aging years. A retirement… and an inheritance. His eyes went back to the silhouetted figures of his sons, almost indistinguishable in this light – a likeness to tear the heart. Appius raised his sword and nodded at them. You could tell a lot about a man when you had fought him. That was another maxim of Appius’s.
Flavius came forward, sword and shield at the ready, and as they made a half-turn so that the sun would shine in neither man’s eyes, Appius saw that the boy had bitten down hard on his lower lip and there were taut, strained lines about his mouth.
Father and son came together with a clatter of wooden sword on shield, each seeking the advantage, eyes watchful. A wooden sword was the greatest teacher of all. It hurt like Hades on bare skin and could make your head ring, even under a helmet. And with a wooden sword you fought in earnest, seeking a killing blow. Practice with live steel defeated its own purpose. Appius did not want his sons learning to pull their blows, as steel required, slackening up on their force at the last moment. It was a habit too hard to unlearn, and one that could cost a life. There was no conditioned reflex to slow the arm of the man who had trained with wood.
Nor was there any such reflex in Appius, who could count almost forty years with the Eagles – forty years of fighting in deadly earnest. He feinted low, at the leg, and as Flavius dropped his shield, Appius brought the sword up high and down across the collarbone in a blow that would have severed it. Flavius gritted his teeth in pain, and Appius said to him, behind his shield, “Watch my eyes. And watch my feet. An enemy who swings a sword and doesn’t follow by adjusting his feet has no such blow in mind.”
Flavius lunged forward and stabbed with his sword, and Appius caught it on the face of his shield. “And never stick your sword point-first into another man’s shield,” he added. “You may not get it out again.”
“I assure you, sir, it was not intentional,” Flavius said between his teeth. He caught his father’s next blow on his shield and flung up his sword blade to block the next thrust.
“Good!” Appius said.
Flavius smiled grimly. He hated this – dear gods, how he hated it! – sparring with his father, never quite measuring up to the old man, while Correus leaned on his shield and watched them. It would be something, perhaps, to be the son of a slave, to have no standard to meet – again he gritted his teeth and blocked a short, stabbing stroke from his father’s sword. A slave never had to worry that he might not measure up.
“Enough!” Appius said suddenly, watching Flavius’s face across his shield rim. “Go and get cleaned up for dinner. I’ll send Correus to you when I’m through with him.”
Flavius opened his mouth and then closed it again. He touched his fist to his breast in salute and turned and stalked up the hill to the faceless house, while Appius watched him go, his face unreadable. He saw that Correus was also watching Flavius. “All right, you young layabout, you’ve had enough of a rest.”
Correus lifted his sword and saluted smartly. “Yes, sir!” Appius saw the flicker of a grin under the shadow of his helmet and grinned back. He couldn’t help it.
Correus came forward warily, but his eyes were bright and the light breeze had caught a strand of brown hair and ruffled it under his helmet rim. He had the look of someone about to enjoy himself immensely, the coiled-steel exuberance of the born fighter. Appius knew that look. It had looked back at him from a mirror often enough. “A little more humility would be in order,” he called across the field as Correus walked toward him.
> “I’m sure you’ll beat it into me soon enough, sir!” Correus called back, and they both laughed. It seemed to Flavius, halfway up the hill to the house, that there was a mocking note to the laughter that pursued him, long after the sound had faded in the wind.
Correus came at Appius hard, tucked tight in behind his shield, sword held close and tipped slightly upward for the stab from below which was the deadliest of all. As they closed, Appius stabbed first, and Correus’s shield slid out with smooth practice, enough to turn the blow, no more. The youth’s sword flashed out under Appius’s guard, and the older man blocked with the same swift economy of movement. They struck and blocked, feinted and dodged, and Appius felt the swift exhilaration that came with meeting skill that matched his own. Appius seldom allowed himself to fight with his second son. He took too much pleasure in it, and he knew that such pleasure could cloud his judgment as a father; and it might be dangerously apparent to anyone who watched.
Ten minutes later they broke apart, panting, hot, sweaty, and entirely pleased with themselves. Each had yet to make the slightest dent in the other’s defenses. It was like fighting a mirror, the more so as Correus was left-handed. When this had first become apparent as a toddler, the women of the house had tried to force it out of him, considering left-handedness unlucky, a sign that the gods had some peculiar malice in mind. Appius had come home on leave to find the boy screaming in frustration, his left arm bound firmly to his side. He had put his foot down; it was the first time he had taken much notice of the child, but the boy’s furious determination had made an impression on him. And as it had occurred to him that he had never yet seen a right-handed soldier who had once been left-handed show any natural balance at all, he had shaken the women’s protests into the wind. Correus, allowed to go his own unorthodox way, had proved his father right; trained all his life by righthanded swordsmen, he was used to fighting a mirror image, while his opponents generally were not. It gave him the advantage, and he had learned to make the most of it.
The Centurions Page 2