He folded his arms, the blade of his sword wavering slightly and catching the rays of the morning sun, flashing them back around the crowd.
Varro coughed, though Salonius saw his face and was sure he heard the word ‘arsehole’ disguised in there. In other circumstances the juvenile behaviour would have made him laugh.
Iasus took a step back from the arena’s edge and glanced up the slope at Sabian, who nodded slightly. Clearing his throat, the guard captain once more addressed the combatants.
“Can there be no peaceable resolution?”
Varro growled “No.”
“Very well then.” Iasus pointed to two ends of the makeshift arena. “The regulations laid out under military law for this are as follows: The combatants will separate to a distance of thirty paces before we start. Combat will begin when I call the order. There are no restrictions given to the precise nature of combat, and so the employment of certain tactics is down to the conscience of the individual.”
He paused to let his words sink in and then took another breath.
“A halt can be called at any time by either party by addressing the adjudicator, that is myself. Equally, I have the right to call a halt at any point. No other party may stop the combat, though they may approach me to do so. Combat will end when only one party remains alive. At that point, the second of the losing combatant may elect to issue their own challenge and step into the arena. The winner of the combat is absolved of any crime for which he stands accused and may return to active service on clearance by the medical staff. The remains of the loser will be dealt with appropriately. Are these regulations clear?”
Varro and Cristus chorused their understanding.
“Then let the parties separate by walking a further ten paces apart from where they currently stand.”
Varro crouched and, jabbing his sword in the ground, picked up a handful of dry dirt, rubbing it into his hands before retrieving the blade and standing again. With a quick glance at the retreating figure of Cristus, he spat once on the floor and then turned his back and walked away, counting his paces.
Catilina leaned close to Salonius.
“Can he actually win? Cristus may be more of a politician than a general, but he prides himself on his swordsmanship. He’s won competitions.”
The young man nodded unsurely.
“I didn’t realise Cristus was that good, but Varro’s still going to win. Cristus has rigid thinking. He can only see black and white. Varro’s cleverer than that. The captain won’t win because he’s better with a sword; he’ll win because he can outthink the prefect.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Salonius continued to nod.
“I am. I know I am.”
Catilina swallowed nervously and briefly flicked her eyes toward the eaves of the sacred wood and then focused on Varro, standing poised to one side of the arena, glaring at his opponent, who swung his sword in figure eights with a flourish.
Iasus’ sharp voice made her jump.
“Begin!”
Cristus stepped forward, still swinging his blade in elaborate arcs, smiling confidently. Varro pursed his lips, glanced once, quickly at Catilina and mouthed something that Salonius couldn’t quite see, and then began to walk forward slowly and purposefully, his sword held straight in his hand and his eyes locked on his adversary.
Salonius tensed and felt Catilina’s good hand grasp his wrist. He encompassed her small and delicate hand in his and cast a sidelong glance at her. A single tear ran down her cheek, past her hardened, resolute features.
Varro struck first.
It was a thorough, hard, military blow; backhanded and aimed horizontally at elbow height. As he’d predicted, Cristus suffered a fleeting moment of indecision as to how to block the blow before hurriedly raising his blade and bringing it back down, awkwardly and barely in time to turn the blow away.
Varro took a step back.
“That’s your problem, you see, Cristus? You’ve only ever fought gentlemen under peaceable circumstances. You’ve never fought anyone who’s only goal is to kill you. That’s why you’ll lose.”
Cristus stepped back.
“You’re an idiot Varro,” he said, quietly enough to be inaudible beyond the pair of them. “You’ve damaged my reputation almost beyond repair. If I’m to come out of this smelling sweet, I need to make this a show. I need them to think I deserved to win. You’re just going to look like a thug.”
Varro growled and suddenly lunged, thrusting his sword at Cristus’ belly. The man laughed and wheeled aside, bringing his own blade down on Varro’s theatrically, with a ringing noise. In an almost blinding flash of speed, the prefect’s blade flicked across the captain’s hand guard and scraped along the wood and leather contraption Salonius had created. Within, Var5ro heaved a sigh of relief. Even that fancy scratch could have ended it. He looked up at Cristus, who was smiling benignly.
“Tut tut, captain. Calmly, now.”
Spinning around to face the man again, Varro felt a wrenching in his side. He reached down and grasped his waist, his eyes momentarily blurring.
“Not yet…”
“What was that?” Cristus chuckled. “Your wound and the venom causing trouble. Please rise above it. If I finish this too quickly it’s such a wasted opportunity.”
Varro suddenly winced and dropped to all fours, making a hacking sound. Cristus sighed as he wandered casually over to the stricken captain.
“Come on, Varro. Get up and die on your feet.”
Varro grinned. In a lightning quick move, he rolled onto his side, bringing his sword down to the grass, directly onto Cristus’ foot. With satisfaction, he drove the blade through flesh and bone and into the earth, breaking several bones in the middle of the man’s foot and pinning him agonisingly to the floor.
Cristus stared down in shock and horror at his maimed foot as Varro rolled back out of reach and slowly and painfully climbed to his feet.
“Never be drawn in by deception, you piece of shit.” He tapped his wounded side and smiled at the dull, echoey thudding noise.
Cristus moved ever so slightly and, as the muscles in his foot tore further around the deeply-wedged blade, let out a piercing shriek that cut through the silence of the hillside. Varro laughed.
“You are a good swordsman, Cristus. You’re also an idiot, a liar, a traitor and shortly a corpse. Best concentrate on pulling that blade out of your foot. Can’t reach me until you do, and the blood’s trickling away slowly.”
As he spoke, he began slowly to circle Cristus. The prefect attempted to keep his front facing the captain but, as Varro circled behind him, it was impossible. Even the effort made his face contort with the agony shooting up from his foot. Varro stopped directly behind him, smiled, and very, very gently kicked the stricken leg from behind. Cristus shrieked again, so loud that the birds left the canopy of the sacred wood. Combat all but forgotten, the prefect reached down toward the hilt of the sword pinning him, his mouth opening and closing in an ‘O’ of exquisite horror and agony.
With a calm smile, Varro reached out and gently plucked the man’s sword from his hand. The smile deepened as Cristus tried to turn once more and raised a hand to ward off the blow. Almost causally, Varro swung the prefect’s sword, cutting the fingers from the raised hand.
Fresh agony rang through Cristus as he stared first at his hand, with only a ‘V’ of thumb and forefinger remaining, the others lying like uncooked meat on the grass. With a grisly, determined look, Varro took his other arm by the wrist.
Cristus stared at him, repeatedly mouthing the word ‘no’ through a veil of tears, though no sound issued.