Recruits in full gear were required to complete 18 miles in five hours, then 22 miles in the same time. My responsibilities at home foreshortened my regimen, but within a month, I had become Heracles in his prime, or Milo of Croton, Olympic champion. I purchased a small, polished bronze mirror and secreted it beneath my bed, admiring my progress at the end of each day.
That was before Malchus and Betto took me off the blessedly level track and into the cursed hills. On the first incline, the stamina and strength of which I had become so proud fled like terrified children. The blisters and sores which had hardened to callus on the track were chafed and shredded anew. Muscles in my thighs and calves, corded and toned, found infant cousins I had never met, but who now cried out each night to make my acquaintance. There was no question of surrender. Come morning, the memory of Livia in Palaemon’s grasp or the wild moons of Velus Herclides’ eyes pitched me from my bed into the sweat-stained embrace of my cross. To spur me up the steeper hills, I dreamed it was not weighted wood I carried but Livia, heroically spiriting her away from mortal danger, some imagined, some all too real. I was so exhausted by bedtime I forgot to look in the mirror.
I was strong, bursting with stamina, and begged now to learn the offensive skills I would need to be of any use in a fight. My teachers scoffed and told me fighting was the least fraction of a legionary’s skills. I told them I did not wish to become a soldier; what I wanted to avoid was the feeling of total uselessness should anyone I cared about ever be threatened again. Almost simultaneously my two friends said, “Then you’ve got to learn to be a soldier.”
They taught me marching formations, basic camp construction and layout, how to pitch the eight-man contubernium tent, how to strike it and efficiently pack the mule assigned to each unit. I failed to see how this would protect Livia in a scuffle. Nor was I amused when Betto suggested I show the ones I cared about how to hide behind the mule.
One morning in early October they led me to the stables adjacent to the Circus Flaminius. On their urging, I had let Hanno sleep in. The stable master showed us to three available mounts. Betto came into my stall and was about to remove the tack from where it hung on the wall when he was brought up short by my upturned palm. “Tend to your own beast, good Betto, and let me see if I can calculate through logic what goes where.”
“That would be an interesting experiment to watch, were we not of a mind to be home before nightfall.”
“Let him be,” Malchus said, leaning up against a post to watch.
Betto’s eyes, which even in repose risked bursting free of their sockets, bulged even further. “I can’t look,” he said, walking off across the straw-strewn floor to prepare his own mare. “He’s buying us supper if we’re late.”
After I said good morning to the bay gelding assigned to me, letting him get my scent and speaking polite words of introduction, I covered his back with a felt pad, secured the four-horned saddle by tying off the girth as well as the breast and breech straps. To protect his flanks, I attached pendant cloths to the saddle. The bay took the bit and bridle easily enough so, gently holding the single rein I stepped up onto the mounting block and swung my right leg over the saddle. Once settled, I nodded at Malchus. Smiling like a proud father, he unhooked the stall ropes, patted the gelding’s neck and we backed out of the stall. Betto was still fussing with his mount’s girth.
“On my parents’ farm in Elateia I usually rode bareback, but this arrangement should pose no problem. Race you to the Porta Flaminia and back? Whenever you’re ready, that is.”
Malchus said to Betto, “By the look of it, Flavius, we’ll be back in time for you to treat us to a fine and sizable lunch.”
•••
At long last, the day arrived when I stood with both wooden gladius and wicker shield in perspiring but determined hands. I was going to learn to how to fight. Not how to wrestle, a sport I had enjoyed with my father as a child, but to learn the way of the Romans, the killing way, with sword and shield, javelin and dagger. We stood before a thick, six-foot tall, vertical training post, identical to the ones used by gladiators preparing for the arena. I would be taught many of their own techniques: the parry and feint, the over-the-shield stab, the knee-drop and groin-thrust.
Malchus took me through each maneuver, step by step.
By mid-morning it was clear to all assembled, most especially to my embarrassed, humiliated self, that I was useless.
Betto said it best when he observed, “Malchus, he’s useless!”
As much strength and stamina as I had gained, the coordination of sword and shield was simply beyond me. Within minutes I would tire of holding my scutum aloft, even the lighter, standard version. Practicing with a stationary post was bad enough; sparring with my friends provided proof beyond question that if my goal was to tread the fields of Elysium before my time, wielding a gladius against an enemy with the least particle of prowess was the surest way to transport me there. After all that work! I was uncharacteristically irate; words of solace from Betto and Malchus made my failure all the more frustrating. I hurled my shield and sword to the ground, thoughtless of the damage I might be doing to the equipment. Like a child, I stomped to the edge of the training field where I could hopefully continue my silent tantrum in peace. Betto, not one to let any hornets’ nest be without shaking it to be sure that no one was left at home, followed me, chattering words of useless encouragement at my heels. Hanno made to run after me, but Malchus grabbed the sleeve of his tunic and shook his head. They stood holding hands a few feet from the training post.
Flavius, you have brought this upon yourself. I spun round; if I could not carve him to tatters with a sword, my tongue, always honed and at the ready, would serve to prick and wound. But then I had a better idea. “Betto!” I growled in a tone even I did not recognize. The look on his poor face stuffed my curses down my throat, but not my frustration. “Give me that!” I snapped, pointing to his dagger.
“Alexander,” he said, suddenly timid, “I don’t think that’s-”
“Now!” He removed the pugio from his belt and reluctantly surrendered it to me, handle first, looking as if I were about to stab him with his own knife. I held it by the tip of its seven inch blade, thrust him aside and with an atavistic shriek hurled it at the training post, over thirty feet away. By the time Betto finished shouting ‘LOOK OUT!’ the blade was vibrating chest-high in the center of the wood. Malchus, who had instinctively shoved Hanno to the ground along with himself on top of the poor boy, rose on one elbow and let out a whoop that stopped all activity on the field.
“Very good, master,” laughed Hanno, half obscured by Malchus’ stomach.
Malchus slapped the flattened boy on the shoulder and shouted, “That was one throw in a hundred!”
But it wasn’t.
From that moment on, my early morning exercise regimen ended with a good half-hour of knife practice. Not hand-to-hand-I was still a dead man up close, but I had found my combative niche. This gift had its limits, to be sure-for one thing, more than half the time it was the butt of the knife that hit the target, but hit the target I could! It was better than standing by helpless when help was sorely needed. There was nothing I could not do with a dagger. I threw side-arm, over-arm, blade-first, haft-first, over distances that actually drew crowds when I practiced. I could unsheathe and deliver with accuracy from either side; the normal throw when unsheathed from the right, or across the body in a single motion when flung from the left. Anything with an edge and a handle would do: kitchen knives, carving knives, butcher knives, even gladii. It was as if my right arm and wrist had become imbued with a godlike harmony of balance and motion any time a blade was placed in my hand.