The Horse Changer (28 page)

Antony was enjoying himself that winter. He really had no reason to be on the lookout for talented officers. After Philippi, he expected the next year to be relatively quiet. So Horace’s relentless promotion of Quintus Dellius no doubt left him irritated. Nor could Antony imagine that Horace knew enough about war to recommend someone. So at first he ignored Horace; then he said he would have a look at the boy, meaning me.

He was insincere in this; he only wanted Horace to shut up. When Horace pressed again, Antony decided to teach the poet a lesson about real fighting men. If Quintus Dellius was so remarkable would Horace be willing to place a wager on him in a fair fight – one-on-one?

Horace said he would wager a fortune on Quintus Dellius, if he only had one. Antony arranged for loans to be extended to him; then he set the entire amount before Horace. Would he really wager it all? Against any fellow Antony might choose? Horace answered him that he would do it gladly, so long as Mark Antony himself was not the opponent.

I knew nothing of these matters; I simply spent my days running, riding, and fighting. Once or twice I noticed a stranger watching us train at the arena, but I thought nothing of it. As for Antony himself he never trained with us, nor did he bother visiting our armoury. I only saw him when he mounted a litter or walked in the streets surrounded by his clients and flanked by his Guard, of which I occupied the outer perimeter.

One morning, however, Antony arrived at the armoury with his entourage, including freedmen, secretaries, legates, old friends, and a few of the Athenian nobility. Horace was in this crowd too, though it was a while before I noticed him. Our training centurion spoke briefly with Antony’s freedman then called us from the sand. He arranged a duel between two of the better tribunes and after these two he arranged another. The men used heavy wicker training shields and wooden practice swords. Like the shield, the training gladius is quite a bit heavier than a real sword. After these two duels the centurion called the two winners back to fight me.

I picked up my wicker shield, placed one training sword in my belt and took another in hand. The arena was covered in hard-packed sand and ringed about with heavy marble markers. The space was sufficient for as many as a dozen fights at once. Horace shouted heartily at my appearance, standing and clapping his hands. He was the only one in Antony’s entourage who appeared to support my cause.

I slammed into one of my opponents, careful to slide away from the second man as he charged at me for any easy hit. When the second fighter had gone a step too far, I bounced away from the first opponent with a hard push. I wasted no time in play but with a sweeping motion of my shield knocked the shield of the second man away from his body and reached over for a thrust into his head. The blow was hard enough for the call of a kill but not quite enough to put him down with an injury.

Our centurion judged it a mortal wound, and the young man so struck retired from the fight, even as I turned against his partner. This one came charging at me in the hope of catching me while I still attended to the other man. I gave ground because he had the momentum, and for a moment we made a decent fight of it for Antony’s sake. Still, I did not care to play the incompetent and at first opportunity struck my opponent’s ribs with a gentle thrust.

‘Well done, Dellius!’ Antony called. ‘Are you up for another?’

‘I’m ready for as many as you care to watch, Imperator.’

Antony whispered something to one of his attendants, who turned and left the training area. All waited curiously until he returned in the company of a veritable giant. The fellow was a blond-haired Celt, who, I later learned, came from lands to the north of the Black Sea. In his mid-thirties, he was a head taller than I and perhaps half-again as heavy. He wore the skullcap of a freedman, and I guessed him to be a retired gladiator.

‘Let’s make it interesting for you, Dellius,’ Antony said. ‘Beat this man in combat, and I will give you five thousand denarii.’ The prize on offer was equal to a first centurion’s annual salary, a very enticing sum to someone who had recently been stripped of all he owned. But of course the amount of the prize intimidated me nearly as much as the giant himself. I could not imagine Antony expected to pay out a sum of that magnitude. For such a grand offer he had certainly acquired a champion. Still, I could not help but think what the money could buy.

We were each given a legionary’s pilum and military-grade shields. The pilum, with a thin, barbed point, is a mortally dangerous weapon. Its more practical purpose, however, is to pierce and then hang upon an opponent’s shield, thereby ruining its efficacy. Of course it is always possible to keep fighting with a spear dangling from one’s shield, but the pilum is heavy by design and makes any movement with a shield awkward. The main fight would be with practice swords. These were decidedly non-mortal weapons. As per my custom, I carried a second gladius in my belt. My opponent could see no advantage in a second sword and refused the offer.

The legionary’s shield is considerably lighter than the wicker shields used for practice; it is also a weapon in its own right, having the potential to cut a man if the edge comes into play. I appreciated the relative lightness of the shield; I had been carrying weighted wicker shields for a few weeks, but I did not care to fight with real weapons against a giant. I frankly expected to be beaten and really only wanted to come away with my skin intact.

We began at opposite ends of the arena and ran towards one another on the training centurion’s signal. We both heaved our spears at about the same moment. By a deft turning of his shield the Celt caused the pilum I threw to slide away and scoot across the sand to the far reaches of the arena; his spear however pierced my shield. We kept racing forward, each of us drawing his sword. The collision jolted me as if I had run into a galloping horse. I stayed on my feet but reeled away, scrambling for balance.

I had hoped the collision would clear my shield, but the pilum remained dangling from it. The tip was now hopelessly bent, something more like a fishhook than the barbed point of a spear. Having no time to pry it free, I tossed the shield to the side of the arena and pulled my second training sword. I am quite sure the Celt had several reports on my fighting skills and may even have watched me without my noticing, for he stayed close but would not charge me.

When I came at him with a wild swatting of both swords against his shield, he stood his ground in a defensive posture. Had he not set himself in this manner, I meant to parry his first thrust and then go under his shield with a blow to the back of his leg. When he refused to do anything more than fend off my assault, I settled with beating his shield with my weapons, three strokes with each sword, then backing away. I retreated to my right, away from his sword hand.

He scooted towards me as I charged again, left foot forward, right bracing. He still held his gladius close to his hip, covered by his shield. I cracked his shield in the same rhythm as before, but on my last stroke, with my right hand, I reached around it as I fell away. Had he been pushing into an attack, as men will do when an opponent is about to back away, I hoped to catch flesh; instead, he swatted my gladius away with his shield.

I advanced again with the same dance, repeated the same series of hard blows and then retreated as before; but this time I did not reach in. I only feinted it. His shield swept before me as before. Reversing course, I stepped in suddenly, swatting his gladius aside. I lunged forward with a killing thrust, but the giant leapt nimbly away before I could touch him.

So long as his right leg was planted, the Celt’s reach was insufficient for a killing stroke. The moment he stepped forward with his right leg it would be to strike at me, whether low or high I could only guess. A man may try to disguise his intentions but the feet will expose him every time. That is the trick I had learned from Scaeva. Moreover, with two swords in play I did not need to brace and lunge. I might strike with either foot forward, whenever the opportunity presented itself. The Celt, on the other hand, must step forward with his right leg when he attacked. So he came shuffling forward, feet braced to receive an attack, always waiting for his chance in the same posture.

Neither of us was willing to give the other an opportunity to retrieve the loose spear at the end of the arena, so we stayed within a few steps of one another, turning in a wide circle. I used my gladii in brief, furious attacks, striking at various angles, searching for a chance to slip one of the blades past, then backing away a few steps. I would take a moment to watch him then charge in a second time. On the second retreat I always went a few steps farther back. This forced him to follow me, lest I get away from him and run for the pilum at the end of the arena. But that was all I could do. I could not tempt him to lunge at me with his sword.

So I danced, harassing him, backing off, coming in a second time. The rhythm never changed. Finally, as I returned for a second assault, I saw his right foot move forward. I sprang away suddenly, swinging my gladius at full extension. This time I struck his bare arm. I fended off his attack by retreating and circling, then looked toward the training centurion for a call. A cut must be deep enough to stop a real fight; tapping the flesh is not sufficient. The centurion shook his head. At least he had seen the blow. It was a fair call, I will give him that, but for five thousand denarii I could have hoped for a more generous one. I circled back in the direction of my spear and the Celt moved to intercept. I attacked again, tempting him with my sudden assault. He feinted a lunge, and I fell away as before, reaching behind his shield as I did. He was waiting for me this time and swung his shield at my hand. This left a deep groove in my sword and might well have ruined my hand had we been only slightly closer.

I changed nothing in my step, though I slowed the tempo, as if tiring of the game. He let me repeat my dance a few times then, suddenly, as I came at him, I saw his right foot leave the sand. I went down, rolling under his shield and snapped my gladius across the back of his sandal at the Achilles tendon. I rolled away and then jumped up, my arms extended overhead. This was always judged a maiming stroke, which is the same as a kill. With a sharpened blade my opponent would have gone to the sand with his tendon cut.

I looked at the training centurion and saw him raise his hand calling it a victory. No matter. The Celt, in his fury, charged me. The match was over, or at least it ought to have been. Of course I had no interest in getting battered by a shield and a wooden sword. I took a defensive posture, giving ground as he pushed his shield at me like a battering ram. I stepped aside but did not bother with another stroke across his arm. The training centurion was in the arena now, still signalling a victory, but Antony called from the benches: ‘They fight until one of them asks to stop.’

I saw the Celt breathing hard, and I knew his best days on the sand were behind him. Too many drinking bouts, too many long mornings in bed with adoring fans. I stepped into range again, confident now I could wear him down. He rushed at me again. If a wound counted nothing, he meant to use his size against me. He swung his shield at me as I backed away and very nearly cut me. Then he gave a savage lunge of his gladius that was all fury and no art. I parried it and reached around his shield with my right hand, driving the dulled point of my sword into his jaw with all the force I could muster. It was a solid hit and ought to have taken him down, but it seemed to have no effect, except to enrage him. Again he came at me artlessly, this time trying to club me with his gladius. As I retreated from his mad charge, he turned back suddenly, moving to the side of the arena where my ruined shield and the bent pilum lay. He dropped his sword, stepped on the shield, and pried the pilum free with a ripping screech of wood and steel. The tip may have been curled, but it was steel against two sticks.

I moved back and to my left, always left now. This forced the Celt to keep turning the spear out from his body if he wanted to keep aiming it at me. He could throw it, but that only gave me the weapon if he did not take me down with it. Better simply to keep it in hand and force me to keep backing and spinning away. I swung my swords at the point of his pilum but that was only to frustrate him; it gave me no advantage. Nor could I move in close. So I circled him, swatting at his weapon. There was no way under him, no way through. Always to my left, always forcing him to turn. I was breathing hard now. After another of his lunges I backed away several steps and stopped as if desperate to catch my breath. Thinking I was too beat to resist him, the Celt charged me.