by James Mace
“You are all worthless and weak!” Heracles screamed at the Gauls. “Do you faggots not know what a phalanx is?” It had been an exhausting and exasperating ordeal for the Spartan. He knew he was delusional if he thought for a second that the rabble before him could ever come close to replicating a Spartan battle formation. But then, all he needed them to do was learn the rudimentary skills that would allow them to at least attack as one cohesive unit. How many fell when the time came for battle mattered not to him. He thought by this time they would at least be able to form a phalanx with their shields locked together, spears protruding forward. Instead, they milled about, often crashing into each other, which, in turn, would lead to brawling amongst themselves. Heracles knew these troops would be most critical for overwhelming the Roman lines. He took a deep breath.
“If you expect to have a chance at surviving against the Romans, you will learn what it means to fight as one! The phalanx is useful not only for sweeping the legionary ranks, but it is also crucial for repelling cavalry,” he instructed.
“The Romans have no bloody cavalry in this region!” a voice spoke up.
“True,” Heracles conceded, “but that does not mean they cannot bring cavalry to bear upon us. Remember, the Rhine Legions are but a couple weeks march from here. Hence, it is crucial we prepare for whatever they may throw against us. Now let us try this again.”
In the front rank of the makeshift phalanx, Ellard wiped his forearm across his sweat-covered brow.
“How long does that jackal intend to make us play Spartan?” he complained under his breath.
“Until you stupid shits get it right!” Torin retorted from behind him.
Ellard snorted. He was disgusted Torin was actually taking their training seriously.
It was as if he actually believed in what they were doing.
Radek seemed to already have a grasp of fighting. In his years of thievery, he inevitably got caught and had to fight his way out. Ellard hoped when the time came they would not be placed out front.
A week later Artorius and Magnus stood outside the arena once more. this time competing for the same prize. Magnus easily won his second elimination match and, therefore, earned a spot in the main tournament. They stood gazing at the gigantic parchment on which the tournament bracket was laid out. With sixty-four men competing, that meant having to win six times in a row in order to become the next Legion Champion. Artorius looked at where he and Magnus fell out in the bracket. He saw they would not be able to meet in the finals, like they had hoped. They would get as far as the semi-finals before having to face each other. Without a word being said, they entered the arena with the rest of the combatants.
The arena was packed with soldiers, as well as citizens from the city and surrounding areas. The sixty-four combatants stood in the center of the arena facing a raised platform where Silius stood. With him were newly-promoted Master Centurion Calvinus and Centurion Vitruvius.
Silius raised his hands, silencing the crowd.
“The greatest honor that can be bestowed upon a soldier for his skill in close-combat is the title of Legion Champion,” he stated to the crowd. He looked directly at the men in front of him who would compete for this honor. “You men have been selected to represent your individual centuries and cohorts in this competition. You are the best of the best in this legion. Whoever amongst you walks away victorious will be presented with this.” He signaled to Vitruvius, who produced a silver gladius with an engraving on its blade.
“Centurion Vitruvius has held the title of Legion Champion longer than any other,” Silius continued. “Therefore, he has been given the honor of presenting this ceremonial gladius to the man who proves himself worthy of being his successor to this auspicious title. Let the tournament commence!”
The roar from the crowd and combatants was deafening.
Artorius left the arena and walked over to a nearby tree, where he laid down. His was the fourteenth match, so he had a bit of time to rest. Magnus, who was fighting even later, joined his friend.
“Not going to watch the early matches?” he asked.
Artorius shook his head, eyes closed.
“No. If I watch, I’ll get all sorts of worked up, when what I need right now is to relax. I have to keep telling myself not to take any of these men lightly, with one mistake it could all be over. I hope you also do well, old friend.”
Magnus snorted. “I hope I don’t embarrass myself and get eliminated in the first round!”
Decimus was a fan of combat sports, and he was anxious for the competition to begin. He watched as two legionaries entered the arena, their friends shouting encouragement and colorful insults to the opposition.
“Think this will be better than that disastrous spectacle we had to witness in Rome?” Decimus asked his friends who were sitting next to him.
“Anything has got to be better than those sorry gladiators,” Gavius replied. “Not one of those guys knew how to fight!”
Valens laughed. “I think it would be more fun to watch our boys fight with metal weapons!”
They watched as the two legionaries faced each other and commenced fighting. One of the greatest challenges for Roman soldiers was when they had to face other Roman soldiers. Each used the same fighting style with identical weapons. It boiled down to individual ability, rather than style or weaponry giving a man the advantage. The two combatants rammed their shields together, looking for openings. One took a blow to the wrist, causing him to drop his gladius. His opponent was quick to exploit this, driving into his disabled foe and catching him with a blow beneath the ribs. A whistle blew, ending the match. Friends of the victorious soldier cheered wildly, while he tore off his helmet and ran into his ecstatic companions.
“Not bad,” Carbo observed. “Can’t wait to see how Artorius and Magnus do.” He would not have long to wait.
The first round of the tournament started at sunrise. By the time Artorius entered for his first match, the sun was casting its glow over the eastern edge of the arena. He limbered up his shoulders, arms, and legs as he waited for the signal. He entered the arena to the cheering from the Second Century. He couldn’t help grinning at the smattering of boos and profanity from what he assumed were the friends of his opponent.
He took a deep breath and mentally drowned out all distractions. His adversary was a rather slender legionary who looked to be a good sixty to seventy pounds lighter than Artorius. He knew better than to discount the man. Everyone fighting in this tournament was a professional soldier, and he had to treat them as such. On the whistle, they started moving towards each other. Artorius deliberately stalked his opponent, constantly driving forward. His opponent allowed their shields to collide, but then stumbled, realizing his error. Artorius knew the man would not dare allow himself to get into a test of strength against him, so he waited, stalking forward. Finally, the legionary made a move, trying to rush past Artorius’ right. The young decanus spun hard, swinging his shield for all he was worth. It just managed to impact the legionary on the shoulder, but it was enough. The man stumbled forward, catching a gladius thrust to the stomach before he could right himself. He fell to the ground, the wind knocked from him, as a loud shout erupted from the men of the Second Century and, indeed, most of the Third Cohort. Artorius removed his helmet and raised his gladius in salute. He then walked over and extended his hand to his fallen opponent.
“You really are the best there is,” the legionary said graciously as Artorius helped him to his feet. “I hope you win it all, sir.”
“I am going to try,” Artorius replied. He left the arena and walked down to his favorite spot by the river. He knew it would be a while before the rest of the matches were completed, and then a mandatory rest period of one hour was taken in between rounds. He had some time to relax. He was still within earshot of the cornicens’ horns that would sound the end of the round and the start of the next.
The larger part of the day was a blur to Artorius. As each round of the tournament co
mmenced, he found his and Magnus’ names on the bracket. Magnus was advancing well, and Artorius was pleased when he saw both of them had made it to the quarter-finals. If they both won again, they would have to face each other in the next round. Artorius stepped into the arena, focused and oblivious to the shouts and frenzied activity that was taking place in the stands. The city’s populace was completely taken with the tournament, and all had their favorites amongst the legionaries.
Artorius settled into his fighting stance once more. He assumed that as the tournament progressed, his bouts would get progressively harder, but such was not the case. He had literally mauled his first three opponents, and this next one would prove no different. This time he took a chance and bull-rushed the man. He expected his adversary to step aside, but instead he stood his ground and absorbed most of the impact of Artorius’ charge. It proved to be his folly as the sheer ferocity of the sergeant’s attack winded him. Artorius swung his shield in a back-handed arc that knocked his opponent to the ground and simply placed the point of his gladius at the man’s heart. The legionary grimaced and nodded his submission.
A little over an hour later, Artorius returned for the semi-finals. He was surprised to see Magnus waiting for him at the entrance to the arena, devoid of weapons and helmet.
“Magnus, what in Hades are you doing here?” he asked, perplexed.
Magnus could only lower and shake his head.
“I lost, Artorius,” he said sheepishly.
“What do you mean you lost?” Artorius said, disappointment evident in his voice. “We were supposed to fight each other in this round!”
“I know,” Magnus replied morosely. “All I could think was one more match and I get to face Artorius to see who the better of us is. I lost my focus. I got careless. I tried to end the match early, and I stumbled.”
Artorius grabbed his friend by the shoulder.
“That is why I left the arena after each match,” Artorius said, “so that I wouldn’t lose focus. Not once did I even think about our pending match before this round. That is the only thing that separates us, Magnus. You have more real talent than anyone I know. None of the other alternate fighters even got past the first round, but you did. You have won three fights today against this legion’s best. You have nothing to be ashamed of, old friend. I hope you learned to not let your mind wander from the task at hand.” He clapped Magnus on the shoulder.
“Do me a favor and thrash that bastard,” he replied. “Unsporting son of a jackal spat on me after the match. He said, ‘your boy Artorius is next.’ ”
Artorius laughed. “Well, we are each entitled to our own opinions about people. All the same, I shall give him a good thrashing.” As he stepped into the arena once more, he took a series of deep breaths, clearing his mind. He would not allow himself to think about this being the man who had defeated his best friend. It was just another opponent, one who would fall like the rest. And fall he did.
Artorius stalked the man, same as before. His adversary tried to thwart his advance, but Artorius was able to deflect every one of his strikes. Finally, he managed to catch the man on the foot with the bottom of his shield. The legionary yelped and tried to hobble back. Artorius crouched low and blasted into the man like a battering ram. He then fell upon his stricken foe and with the flat of his gladius gave him a hard rap across the genitals.
“That was for Magnus,” he whispered into the man’s ear. He then exited the arena as quickly as he had entered.
Ellard found Torin leaning over the rampart of the wall that surrounded the compound. As he walked up the steps to replace him on guard duty, he tried to speculate just how old Torin was. The life of a labor slave could be severe and cause one to age well beyond their years. Torin’s head was shorn, with a scruffy face and neck. He was of average build, his muscles taught and wiry. The man had done some serious work in his time. Torin looked down at Ellard as he climbed the steps before continuing his gaze into the distance. The sun shone through the distant hills with a light breeze blowing over the rampart.
“I’ve come to relieve you,” Ellard stated.
Torin grabbed his spear and shield, and started down the steps without a word.
“You believe that Greek and his rhetoric, don’t you?” Ellard asked.
Torin stopped and turned to faced Ellard. “That Greek is the one hope we have of survival,” he said levelly. “While the rest of you grab ass and fight with each other, I try and learn how it is I might actually live to enjoy freedom.”
Ellard raised his hands in resignation. “Hey I meant no offense, friend. We are here with a common purpose, are we not?”
“No, we are not,” Torin retorted. “You come for plunder; you care nothing for Gaul and whether or not it remains enslaved.”
“And you do?” There was no doubt of the sneer in his voice. “When a man lives only for his own survival, it is impractical to care about the affairs of an empire. I care not for Sacrovir or the Romans. Sacrovir has offered me money, whereas the Romans offer only slavery and death.”
“I was not always a slave,” Torin said softly. “I once had a family and a life worth living.”
“What happened?”
“They were taken from me.” There was deep sadness in Torin’s face. “Land that I farmed was taken by a Roman overseer. Suddenly, I had to pay tribute on land that belonged to my house for three generations! When I refused to pay, I was accosted by Roman troops, beaten, and taken away in chains. I never heard what happened to my wife and children, though I can only assume they shared a similar fate. When I refused to work for my new masters they did this to me.” He removed his tunic and revealed a back covered in scars. “They threatened to have me crucified when the master decided he had better plans for me. I ended up in that stinking cage with you and Radek.” Before Ellard could question him some more, Torin turned and walked briskly down the steps. He bumped into Radek, who was coming up to join his friend; for he had, indeed, started to form a type of bond with his fellow runaway.
“What’s with him?” he asked as he set his weapons against the rampart.
Ellard let out a slight chuckle. “Seems our friend has a noble reason for fighting the Romans.” “Well, let him,” Radek snorted. “I just wish we would get on with it; though from what I hear Sacrovir has what he thinks is a cunning plan to deal with the Rhine Legions.” Ellard was taken aback by this last statement.
“Why should he wish to engage the Rhine Legions? There are but a few cohorts in the region as it is. Why should he wish to bring more Roman forces against us?”
“Well, I can’t be certain, but I think he wants to make as loud a statement as he can possibly make,” Radek answered. “In order to do that, he needs to lure at least some of the legionary forces on the Rhine into battle. Smashing a few cohorts will not send a strong enough message to the Emperor.”
Ellard let out a loud sigh. “At least, in the meantime, we get fed and have a few coins in our pockets,” he observed. “I would just as soon get this fiasco over with. I would just as soon piss on that pompous Greek than have to endure anymore of his drills or talk of Sparta. Sparta fell long ago to Macedonia, who in turn fell to Rome. That man just needs to let it go already. If he’s looking to revive Sparta, he’s come to a strange place.”
It was late afternoon, almost evening. While a thief and a former slave in Sacrovir’s army went about guarding their little rampart, the final match of the Twentieth Legion’s Tournament was set to take place. The amphitheater was packed beyond capacity. It seemed as if the entire city had come out for the final match. Artorius noticed that Camillus had brought the century’s signum, which he planted in front of their section. Artorius took a deep breath and eyed his opponent. This man had also made his way through five battles, though Artorius had no idea as to how hard he had had to fight. He did not recognize the man, though he looked to be a bit older and was probably from the First Cohort.
The whistle blew and they advanced. Artorius noticed his adve
rsary was circling, but not backing up. He was not in the least intimidated. Artorius hit him with one of his bull-rushes, yet the legionary stood his ground and pushed back. The man knew how Artorius fought, and he sought to best him at his own game. Artorius knew he had to change tactics. He immediately increased his rate of attack, trying to work his way quickly around both sides of the legionary’s shield. In his fury, he caught a blow to the wrist, which caused him to drop his shield. He then flashed back to a similar match against Vitruvius. As his adversary rushed at him, Artorius grabbed his shield with both hands and rolled over backwards, throwing the legionary over the top of him and onto his back. Artorius quickly regained his feet and lunged at the man, his gladius aimed at his heart. The man was knocked almost senseless, having been thrown almost directly onto his head. In an instant, the match was over, and the crowd went into a hysterical frenzy of cheering.
Artorius removed his helmet as members of the Second Century swarmed around him. He extended his hand and helped his fallen foe to his feet. When the man removed his helmet, Artorius recognized him to be Centurion Draco of the First Cohort.
“Well fought, son,” Draco said, shaking his hand vigorously.
“And to you, sir,” Artorius replied. He was hoisted onto the shoulders of some of the legionaries and carried over to the reviewing stand, where stood Silius, Calvinus, and Vitruvius.
Silius raised his hands, silencing the crowd. “Sergeant Artorius,” he spoke, “you have proven yourself to be not only the most skilled close-combat fighter in this legion, but of the entire Rhine Army! You have, indeed, earned the honor of being named Valeria’s Legion Champion!” He then took the ceremonial silver gladius that Vitruvius handed him and presented it to Artorius.
As he turned and faced the crowds of people who witnessed his triumph, he at last allowed his emotions to break free. He raised the sword high and roared a triumphal battle cry that shook the arena. It was echoed by the men of the Second Century, as well as everyone in the amphitheater. He then let out another howl of victory and held both fists in the air. He lowered his hands and closed his eyes, savoring his hard-earned victory.