Calgaich the Swordsman (45 page)

Calgaich and his spearmen stopped the Roman onset and drove them back through the reeling ranks of Lutorius’s command. Calgaich poised his great spear to hurl it at Decrius Montanas. The Roman legionnaire was not trained to think of himself as an individual, but rather as part of a fighting machine. Kill the leader and the unit could very easily be defeated.

“Montanas is mine, barbarian!” Lutorius shouted as he sank his sword a hand’s span into the throat of an opponent, withdrew it and then slashed sideways at another Roman, opening the side of his neck halfway to the spinal column.

The trampled sand was now blood-spattered and covered with wounded, dying and dead men. The heat within the arena was intense. Sweat mingled with the blood on the faces and bodies of the combatants. The din was terrific as sword blades clashed against shields, helmets and other swords. There was no sound from the men, other than the voices of Montanas, Lutorius and Calgaich as they gave their commands.

The barbarian spearmen drove the last of the Romans from the ranks of barbarian swordsmen. Lutorius reformed his broken ranks, as Calgaich and his spearmen dropped behind them.

The Romans came on again, a double rank of hard-fighting swordsmen, who seemed to sense victory. Again they crashed into the barbarian ranks. The barbarians dropped back. They began to break under the steady and relentless pressure of the ex-legionnaires.

The Romans saw victory within their grasp. In their excitement they broke their ranks and turned aside to pursue those of the barbarians who were wavering on the verge of panic but did not know where to run. The walls of the arena hemmed them in.

The prophetic words of Quintus Gaius came back to Calgaich:
Perhaps on your native soil you and your tribesmen can be a match
,
and sometimes more than a match against the legionnaires
,
but here you will fight within the confined area of the arena
.

Thunder rumbled in the skies over Rome. It reverberated through the seven hills and the narrow, twisted streets of the city.

The melee swirled about in the very center of the arena. One man was hardly distinguishable from another on the opposing sides except for the tall, helmetless warriors led by Calgaich.

Calgaich saw his chance now. The Romans had broken their own shield wall in their eagerness to cut down the barbarians. Calgaich pointed with his blood-bladed spear toward the center of the Roman ranks. He charged, followed closely by Lexus, Guidd, Girich, Niall, Catrawt, Onlach, Eogabal, Muirchu and Crus.

Montanas shouted a command. Some of his men dropped back before the barbarian spear charge and snatched up discarded
pila.
They turned at the command of the centurion and launched a flight of
pila
at short range. Catrawt went down with two spears in his chest. Crus knelt on one knee, sorely wounded. Before he could rise a
gladius
decapitated him.

Lexus took a
pilum
point through his left bicep. He staggered to one side while dragging the pilum with him. “Calgaich!” he cried.

Calgaich dropped his spear, whipped out his sword and slashed clean through the soft iron of the spear shaft so that only the barbed head remained in the arm of the Gaul.

Lexus grinned. “What do I owe you, Novantae?”

Calgaich grinned back as he sheathed his sword, “Kill me three Romans for that, Gaul!”

Montanas's spearmen drove back the barbarians. At a command from the centurion they unsheathed their swords and charged into the center of the barbarian line. They were met by Calgaich and five of his remaining spearmen. Calgaich drove aside the shield of a Roman and sank his spear point into the chest of the man. The spear blade caught between two of the iron plates of his body armor. Calgaich tried to withdraw it, but as the Roman fell he carried the spear down with him.

Calgaich drew his sword. The sun flashed from the magnificent weapon. A great roar went up from the spectators as they saw the weapon. It was already legendary in Rome.

Calgaich and Lutorius had not underestimated the fighting capabilities of the ex-legionnaires. They had known all along that the chances of victory rested on a razor's edge. Still, the combat, despite the surprise attack by the barbarians, had been comparatively even. There was one factor that Calgaich had
not
considered—the barbarians, mostly northmen, were not used to the intense heat and windless air of a city such as Rome and the concentration of it within the vast stone bowl of the amphitheatre. On their own ground, in their own countries, the barbarians would have been winning a victory. But here, under the Mediterranean sun and the furious onslaught of the acclimated ex-legionnaires, they began to drop back. There was no panic, but the odor of imminent defeat hovered over the barbarians.

Lexus was badly exhausted from the heat and a second wound. Guidd could hardly raise his spear and shield. Niall was bleeding from -three wounds.

The barbarians began to look over their shoulders, a sure sign of impending panic and eventual retreat that would be followed by a merciless slaughter if they broke their ranks. Chilo was battered to the ground, but luckily his excited opponent pressed on for more victims rather than slaying the Greek as he should have.

Calgaich heard the rumbling of thunder over the great bowl of the amphitheatre. He looked into the eyes of his battered, wavering and semi-exhausted command. He raised his sword and shook it toward the heavens. “Lugh of the Shining Spear!” he shouted with all his strength. “Help us, your children, in this foreign place of hell!”

The spectators roared with laughter. They stamped their feet in rhythm.
“Occide! Occide! Occide!”
they chanted in unison. “Kill! Kill! Kill!” The hellish roaring of their voices drowned out the sudden and ominous rumbling of thunder over the seven hills of Rome. The Romans were being fed like vampires with the sight of much blood and slaughter.

Suddenly the sky darkened. The sunlight vanished. The interior of the amphitheatre became darkly shadowed. The combatants fought on in an eerie semidarkness. A sudden deluge of icy rain streamed through the oval opening in the vast awning.

The rain was succeeded by a violent downpouring of hail as big as grapes, which battered down through the opening in the awning or tore great holes into the material. The hail pounded down on the shrieking spectators. The combatants stopped fighting and held their shields over their heads.

Calgaich swung his sword. "Come on, you barbarian sons-of-bitches! Do you want to live forever!” he roared.

The revived barbarians shouted and charged forward against the startled Romans. Calgaich's sword splintered shields and struck sparks from helmets. The barbarians were outnumbered, but the very impetuosity of their attack drove the Romans back toward the center of the arena.

Decrius Montanas saw that Calgaich was inspiring the attack. None of his men could get near the mad barbarian whose flashing, reddened sword blade cut men down on all sides. Decrius charged toward Calgaich.

"He's mine, barbarian!” Lutorius shouted.

"Get out of the way, you pig-shit!” the centurion yelled at Lutorius.

Lutorius grinned. "Make me, you privy maggot!”

The two of them stood toe to toe in die very center of the arena. The sun emerged and shone down on them from the oval opening in the awning. Chips of wood and pieces of leather flew from the sword strokes on their battered shields. It was a test of champions of the
gladius.

The centurion drove Lutorius down on one knee, then raised his sword for a killing stroke. Lutorius rammed his upper shield rim into the Roman's crotch. The centurion's sword blow was deflected, but still it struck Lutorius on the left shoulder between two of his armor plates. Blood flowed. Lutorius staggered to his feet as Montanas bent forward in sickening agony. Lutorius's blade flashed in the bright sunlight as it struck downward with full force and severed the centurion's head from his body. Blood spurted and gushed from the neck to drench Lutorius as the decapitated body took one full step and then crashed to the ground. Lutorius shouted in victory and then fell over the body of the Roman.

The leaderless legionnaires formed a shield wall and retreated, step by step, from the wild, free-swinging assault of the yelling barbarians. At last the rear rank stood with their backs against the arena wall just below the podium.

Calgaich stepped back and held out his arms to halt his maddened warriors. Calgaich was
fey.
His eyes glared. His mouth squared in a battle cry. There was no chance for the Romans now. They had fought well and desperately but they knew it was the end for them.

Calgaich looked up at the vast sea of faces and flourished his bloodied sword. “Romans! I am Calgaich mac Lellan, son of that Lellan who once led five hundred war spears against your legions! I am grandson to Evicatos the Spearman! Do you hear the wild fowl calling! The ravens gather for the flesh of these defeated men! Come to the sword welcoming!
All
of you! Stand not back, you proud Romans! This is a red welcome for a feast of human wolves! Do not stand back, you who sit there on your fat Roman asses looking down upon
fighting
men! Come! Try me! Is my challenge to fifty thousand of you the doorway to sudden death!”

“Damn him!” Ulpius Claudius stood up.

Antonia gripped her son's arm. “Are you mad! Sit down! For the love of the gods and your mother, my only son, do not challenge that madman of a barbarian.”

Mucius Claudius looked sideways at his wife. “Let him go, Tonia!” He smiled slyly. He knew Ulpius was not his own son. He had always hated Ulpius, and resented Antonia's love for him.

“Shut your mouth!” Antonia screamed.

“The legionnaires are without a leader,” Ulpius argued. “They haven't a chance now, at least with that mad barbarian leading the enemy.”

Morar leaned close to Valens. “See that he goes, Aemilius,” she murmured.

“It would be like a death sentence,” Aemilius prophesied.

Morar smiled. “One enemy less for you, beloved.”

The procurator nodded and looked sideways at Antonia. “Perhaps two,” he said quietly. “Ulpius is the only human being who ever meant anything to that gilded whore. If he dies, it will destroy her.”

Calgaich picked up the great war spear of Evicatos. He held it in his right hand, while the magnificent sword was in his left. He flourished the two weapons and pugnaciously eyed the quiet spectators. “Are you all afraid?” he shouted.

Lutorius sat on the bloodied sand near the body of Decrius Montanas. “There is a madness in you, barbarian. Would you fight all of them?”

Calgaich grinned. “What have I to lose,
calo?
If I survive this day it will only be to ready myself for another slaughter like today, and then another, until at last I, too, will die on these bloody sands.”

“Go on, Ulpius!” Valens shouted. “Show that mad barbarian the swordsmanship of a Roman legionnaire!” “No!” Antonia screamed.

Ulpius vaulted the iron fence that protected the audience from the arena and landed lightly on the sands. The sun shone on the curiously designed Celtic gold arm torque he had taken months ago from the sacred wood. He snatched up a legion shield and sword. One of the ex-legionnaires placed a helmet on his head.

Calgaich thrust the tip of his spear into the sands to hold it. He backed slowly toward the center of the arena. “Stand still, barbarian!” Ulpius shouted.

Calgaich stopped. “I'm waiting, Roman. I've waited a long time for this day. I will not run from you.”

Ulpius raised his sword, then looked up at the sea of expectant faces. “I ask the procurator of the Games the right to champion these Romans! Whoever wins this combat between me and this braggart of a barbarian, this Calgaich, shall thus decide the victory! Romans! Do you agree?”

Aemilius Valens stood up. He looked up at the vast audience. He looked down into the arena, where the last of the Romans still stood with their backs against the wall. The bloodied sands were dotted everywhere with the bodies of the wounded, the dying and the dead. It had been a great show thus far.

Rufus Arrius Niger stood up. “Procurator! The barbarian has been fighting in the arena all this time. The tribune is fresh. Can this be a fair match?”

Calgaich looked up at the hawklike face of his grandfather. “Don't intercede for me, Roman!”

Niger nodded. It would have been what he would have said were he in his grandson's position. “So be it, Grandson!” he cried.

“Procurator!” Ulpius called out.

Valens nodded, raised his white handkerchief and let it drop.

Calgaich smiled crookedly. “I once said, Roman, that somewhere you and I would see between us who has the longest legs to run.”

“Always the braggart!”

“I will make good on my bragging.”

The tribune moved forward, chin tucked in behind the rim of his shield, sword held low at his right side.

Calgaich moved sideways, lightly beating his sword blade on the rim of his battered shield. He was tired. Further, a sword tip had penetrated into the muscles of his left shoulder, so that he was tiring more and more from holding up his shield. He could feel the mingled blood and sweat running down his back, soaking his tunic and the backs of his trouser legs.

“Stand still!” the tribune snapped.

Calgaich spat to one side. “Come and make me!”

Ulpius launched his attack. He raised his shield high to parry the expected blow of Calgaich's sword and then thrust hard with his
gladius.
Calgaich's sword tip swept under the Roman's shield instead of descending upon it. The tip slit Ulpius's tunic just over the crotch, a finger's breadth from emasculating him. He leaped back in panic. Calgaich's sword blade rang dully on the tribune's helmet. Ulpius blinked his eyes from the shock. He retreated quickly.

“Stand still, Roman!” Calgaich jeered.

The tribune recovered and closed in, shield low and outthrust, while his sword drove in quickly toward Calgaich’s face. Calgaich involuntarily drew back his head. Ulpius's shield clashed hard against Calgaich's to drive it upward. The Roman's sword traced an angry red line across Calgaich's right thigh.