Calgaich the Swordsman (38 page)

“Stand still, barbarian!” Rodan snapped.

“Come closer, Roman!”

They circled slowly. The sweat dripped from their faces.

Calgaich began to beat on the edge of his shield with the flat of his sword. He moved in closer, ever closer.

Rodan moved back. He leaped sideways and flung out the net toward Calgaich’s face to confuse him and then released it. He crouched low and drove in hard with both hands on the shaft of his trident.

Calgaich thrust out his shield to catch the net. He swept the shield to one side, carrying the loose net with it. One downward sweep of his sword struck the trident between two of the prongs just as Rodan raised it. They stood there poised like statues as the sword and trident rose higher and higher above their heads. They stood face to face, straining against each other. Calgaich raised a knee up into Rodan's crotch. The netter gasped and crouched forward. Calgaich threw him to one side. Rodan then turned away from Calgaich, leaving his back unprotected. Calgaich planted one foot on the trident and the other on the net.

Rodan staggered toward the edge of the combat area. A whip cracked just over his head. He turned to look at Calgaich. There was an agonized look on his face.

The arena was very quiet.

Rodan straightened up. His eyes held those of Calgaich. Death in the arena was always formalized. There could be no fuss to disgust the audience.

Calgaich stepped back and rested the tip of his sword on the sand. Rodan moved forward cautiously, then stopped a few feet short of his weapons. Calgaich carelessly turned his back on the netter.

“You damned fool barbarian!” Lutorius roared. “You had him. He was cold meat! He’ll never give you such a chance!”

Calgaich turned. Once again Rodan was armed and moving in for the kill. He felt no gratitude toward Calgaich. The barbarian had made him look bad, almost as though it were beneath his dignity to kill him.

“Don't do that again, barbarian,” Quintus Gaius warned.

Rodan had death in his eyes. His burning anger was his undoing. He flung out the net too fast, following it with a driving thrust of the trident. Calgaich swung his sword. The keen edge slashed through the net, cutting it into halves. A return backhand sweep of the sword hit the trident shaft just below its head and cleanly sheared it off. The return stroke caught Rodan across the side of the neck and cut halfway through it. Rodan fell flat on the sand. He struggled convulsively for a few seconds and then lay still.

It had all happened so fast the spectators had been caught unawares.

Calgaich looked lazily about. “Who's next?” he asked carelessly.

A tall, broad-shouldered man had taken a seat in the sunlight beyond the awning. His hair was iron-gray, almost matching the color of his eyes. His nose jetted out from his bronzed face like the ram of a trireme. There was a look of absolute authority about him even as he sat.

Slaves dragged away the body of Rodan. They took away the damaged net and trident, then spread clean sand over the combat area to cover the widening blood stain and raked it smooth.

Crates brought vinegar water out for Calgaich. “The procurator Valens is angered,” he whispered. “Rodan was one of his favorites.”

“Then he should not have sent him out here.”

“He will find it hard to forgive Quintus Gaius for that. He was sure Rodan would defeat you.”

A Thracian fighter was next He wore the peaked Thracian helmet, and his legs were protected by greaves. He carried the small, round Greek shield and was armed with a long scythe-like dagger that was about the same length as the famed
Hispanicus gladius
of the legions.

The sweat was running off Calgaich. His tunic was soaked. He placed his sword and shield on the ground and took off his helmet. He stripped the tunic from his body and threw it to one side. The bluish tattoo patterns on his broad chest glistened from sweat.

Lady Antonia gasped a little. Her husband looked quickly at her. Her dark eyes were riveted on the splendid physique of the barbarian. She leaned forward a little. Lucius looked at his sister and then nodded knowingly to her husband.

Calgaich looked toward the podium. His eyes met those of Morar. She was so damned beautiful! She sat amidst the dark-haired, dark-eyed Romans like
a
lone golden flower amidst
a
bed of dark evergreens. She smiled slightly at him. How could a woman so beautiful be so evil? Was it truly so?

Calgaich put on his helmet and picked up his sword and shield. The Thracian stood beside Quintus Gaius. He was a younger man than Rodan had been, perhaps not quite as tall, but more muscular, with a deep chest and broad shoulders.

Quintus drew
a
line on the sand. He looked toward the podium. “A contest,” he called out, “between Scylax, Thracian, with fourteen victories, and Calgaich, swordsman, a barbarian. To the death!”

Calgaich smiled. “You forgot my one victory, gladiator master,” he reminded Quintus.

Quintus Gaius turned his head a little. “If you are trying to make a fool of me out here, barbarian, remember that once you are through here, you are back in my charge again.”

“If I
live,
master.”

"I'll see that you don’t, barbarian,” Scylax offered.

Their blades touched tentatively as they felt out each other’s guard. They circled. Their blades rang musically. Scylax was fast on his feet. He moved in, thrust his shield up under a downcoming stroke of Calgaich’s sword and stabbed toward his chest. The tip of his blade slit Calgaich’s skin. A slow trickle of bright blood ran down to mingle with the bluish warrior patterns. Scylax leaped backward, grinning at his slight victory. Then Calgaich’s blade leaped out like a tongue of flame. The tip of the sword cut a similar slit into the chest of Scylax. Blood ran down the dark hair on his chest and dribbled across his lean belly.

A shout went up from the spectators.

“They like the sight of blood, barbarian,” Scylax said.

“Yours or mine, Thracian?”

“Any blood at all, just so long as it's not theirs.”

“Stop that damned conversation and get to work!” Ulpius shouted. He looked at Valens. “Five to three on the barbarian.”

“He has great confidence in you, barbarian,” Scylax said dryly.

“I'd almost rather die than see him win any money on me.”

“I’ll give you that wish.”

Their blades clashed as they circled around, leaping and parrying blows with sword or shield. Gradually the greater skill of Calgaich, aided by his longer sword, began to give him the edge. Scylax fought steadily, but there was a desperation in his efforts. He fought in the approved style, a style that had given him fourteen victories in the arena, and he hoped that the
rudis,
the wooden sword of retirement, would be his with a few more victories.

Calgaich retreated warily from the persistent attack of the Thracian. Only he, and perhaps Quintus Gaius, knew that Scylax was getting careless in his attack, so desperate was he for a victory.

“Make him fight, Gaius!” Valens shouted. “Use the whips!”

“Coward!” a woman shouted at Calgaich.

Calgaich still retreated. Scylax rushed in, sensing victory at last. His rounded shield took ringing blows while his blade hacked and hewed at Calgaich's wooden shield, so that finally it split from top to bottom.

Calgaich leaped back and threw the shattered shield to one side. They circled again, breathing harshly, with mingled sweat and blood running down their bodies and bare thighs. Scylax’s mouth was square as he sucked in air. He was tiring.

“How close are you to the wooden sword, Thracian?” Calgaich asked.

“Perhaps another victory, barbarian.”

“My defeat?”

“That might do it.”

Calgaich nodded, then suddenly retreated. Scylax rushed in, thrust out his shield to take a blow, and stabbed in hard with his dagger. Calgaich wasn't there. He had leaped aside. He grasped his sword hilt with both hands and brought the gleaming blade down with a solid, sure stroke that struck the Thracian's left forearm just above the wrist. The severed hand and shield dropped to the sand.

Scylax hurled away his dagger. He grasped his forearm above the stump. The blood rushed through his fingers and dripped to the sands. His eyes were wide in his head.

“Habet! Habet!
He's wounded! He's wounded!'' the spectators shouted. They leaped to their feet.

Calgaich turned to look toward the podium. The eyes of the spectators were wide in their heads. Their mouths were open, with the lips drawn back, baring their teeth, like so many animals. Only the tall, gray-haired man who sat alone in the sunlight had not moved.

Scylax looked at Calgaich with sick, uncomprehending eyes.

“There's your retirement, Roman,” Calgaich said quietly. “If not that, I would have had to kill you.”

Some of the spectators had turned their thumbs down, while many of the others were waving handkerchiefs, and holding up their right thumbs.
“Mittel! Mittel
! Let him go! Let him go!” they shouted.

Quintus looked at Valens. The procurator's face was dark with congested blood. Both Rodan and Scylax had been favorites of his. He had won a great deal of money from betting on them. Now this stinking barbarian had neatly eliminated both of them. Damn Scylax anyhow! He should have beaten the barbarian upstart.

“Mittel! Mittel!”
the spectators shouted. They were standing now and stamping their feet.

Valens nodded and turned up a thumb, almost as though in disgust. Ulpius held out a hand for the payment of his bet on Calgaich.

Attendants rushed the stricken Scylax from the field to the hospital. Slaves came out on the sand and covered the bloodstains. Calgaich placed his sword on the sand and picked up his tunic.

“Wait, barbarian!” Quintus ordered.

Calgaich turned slowly to look at the gladiator master. He held the tunic against a slight wound on his chest. He looked up toward the podium and saw the murderous look on the face of Aemilius Valens.

Already some of Calgaich’s friends were running across the arena toward him. Quintus motioned to the men with whips. They advanced toward the running men, who came to a sudden halt, and then hastily retraced their steps.

“What the hell is this?” Lutorius shouted. “He’s beaten two of your best! You bastards!”

Valens stood up. “Get Togatus,” he ordered.

“Are you mad!” Lady Antonia shouted at him. “The barbarian has proven himself this day, Valens!”

“Not against Togatus.”

“But Togatus will be fresh, while the barbarian is tired and wounded.”

“Wounded? That pin prick?” Valens laughed.

“Would you like to have one for yourself, Roman?” Calgaich shouted at him.

It became very quiet in the stands. Valens turned his head slowly to look at Calgaich. “That settles it! Gaius! Send for Togatus at once!” Then he noticed the gray-haired man, looking at him. “It is my right, Senator!” he added harshly. “You know the law as well as I do.”

“I said nothing, Aemilius Valens,” the senator responded. “However, the man has well proven himself. What more do you want of him? Are you making something personal of this. What has he ever done to you?”

There was no reply from the procurator. He turned away.

They brought Togatus to the arena. He was a burly veteran, a victor in twenty-one combats, who had already refused the wooden sword twice. Rumor had it that Valens had been considering replacing Quintus Gaius with Togatus. It was his right and privilege to do so, for was he not the procurator of the Games, as well as the favorite of the emperor?

A trainer came out onto the field and stanched the flow of blood on Calgaich's chest by the use of cobwebs* and a soothing unguent. “Your time has come, barbarian," he whispered. He did not sound unsympathetic. Togatus wasn't popular at the Ludus Maximus.

Calgaich shrugged. “I've already put two of Valens's pets out of business. If I defeat Togatus, what's to prevent them from sending on others, until they kill me at last?"

“Nothing, barbarian. You might think of your mates here at the school. As bad as the Oak Tree is, he's far better than that bastard Togatus."

Togatus was of the school of
hoplomachi,
or fully armored gladiators, named after the famed early Greek Hoplites. The ranks of the
hoplomachi
were composed of the most enormous and heaviest men of all gladiator types. They wore rounded helmets whose bottom edges came down to rest on their shoulders and chests so as to protect their necks and throats. A thick, ornamented cuirass protected their upper body. They wore a
greave
on their left leg only, and a linked metal sleeve on their right, or weapon, arm. They carried the big curved shields of the legionnaires. Some of them were called
postulate
They were allowed to carry any weapon they desired. Togatus had selected a heavy mace with a ponderous lead head.

“Nothing can stand before him, barbarian," the trainer murmured over his shoulder as he left the field.

Calgaich took another of his shields from Crates. It would be scant protection against the lead mace. He watched Togatus as the
hoplomachus
was helped into his fighting gear. Only a week ago he had watched from a distance as Togatus had fought at a private showing against three
tirones.
They had tried to fight the armor-plated animal as best they knew how, and when they had run from the field in panic, they had been driven relentlessly back by whips and red hot irons, to be brutally battered to death by Togatus. The drunken spectators had howled with laughter at their antics to escape him. The sand of the fighting area had been dyed a solid crimson when the massacre was over. Calgaich could still hear the merciless thudding of the mace on the armor and bodies of the doomed men, and their hoarse screams of anguish.

Togatus thrust his thick left forearm into the loops of his curved shield. He grasped his mace and turned toward Calgaich. It was an eerie sight, for Calgaich could see nothing of his face, covered as it was by the faceplate of the helmet. Togatus moved slowly and ponderously toward the line which Quintus Gaius had marked on the fresh sand. He rested the head of his mace on the sand and looked at Calgaich. He said something within the hollow-sounding helmet.