The men say you are the best close combat fighter to have ever lived. Yet this Sacrovir claims to have a gladiator that’s better than you. You simply want to know if, in fact, there is somebody better than you, don’t you? They always say that there is someone better out there. Perhaps he is here. If so, it is time to meet him.
As he paced back and forth in contemplation, he saw a figure lurking in the shadows. Sacrovir strode towards him. Vitruvius forced himself to withhold a snort of disgust. Instead, he kept a hard yet unconcerned expression about him.
“Ready for your meeting with immortality?” Sacrovir asked as he stopped in front of Vitruvius.
“What do you want?” Vitruvius asked coldly.
“Just making sure the prey for my champion is ready and fit to meet his fate,” Sacrovir replied, shrugging. He then interlocked his fingers, his hands in front of his chest, walking around Vitruvius and looking him up and down. “I do hope the army has trained you sufficiently. The crowd will want a spectacle, and what a shame it would be if you should die too quickly.”
“If you’ve come to try and unnerve me, you’re wasting your time,” Vitruvius remarked, watching as Sacrovir continued to walk around him, looking as if he smelled something bad. By the Hammer of Vulcan, he really despised this man.
“But you are unnerved,” Sacrovir hissed, his face close to Vitruvius’ ear. “Your friends say you are some sort of god. They say you’ve killed more men than most of them combined. Yet you are assailed by doubts; doubts as to the true extent of your abilities. And you will never satisfy those until you can find the one who is truly your match. A god? All I see is a man, who when he walks down that corridor will begin his final journey to the land of the dead.”
With a flash Vitruvius slammed Sacrovir into a column, pinning him against it with his left arm. In the same instant he drew his gladius and placed the point against the smaller man’s throat. Remarkably, Sacrovir maintained his composure.
“You won’t even think about killing me. What a pity,” he said with much venom in his voice.
“And why not?” Vitruvius replied into his ear. “You said so yourself, I’ve killed more men than any. What does it matter if I add one more?”
“Because you are not above the law and to kill me would be murder. Then, instead of the privilege of dying at the hands of my champion, you’d have to settle for being strangled or perhaps thrown to the lions; how boring, how unoriginal,” Sacrovir sneered.
Vitruvius shoved his weight into Sacrovir, pressing his gladius point hard against the man’s neck. Sacrovir gasped now in near panic. A trickle of blood started to seep from where the weapon was cutting into him. Vitruvius then withdrew his sword and stepped back. It was true; to kill Sacrovir now would be murder. As the disgusting little man started to breathe more easily, Vitruvius lunged forward and slammed his forehead into Sacrovir’s. The Gaul screeched and fell back against the column, his hands over his face.
“I’m going to kill your champion,” Vitruvius growled. “I’m going to run him through and deny the crowd and you the pleasure of any spectacle. Today, scum from Hell, you will see how real soldiers of Rome fight!” He then turned, grabbed his shield and helmet, and coolly walked down the long corridor leading to the arena.
It was dark and foul smelling in the corridor, yet at the end shone a bright light. He could hear the chants and howls of the crowd. They were filled with blood lust and anticipation. Vitruvius slowed to a walk and started to breathe easier. He could not let Sacrovir unnerve him. To cause him to react in anger would only give his gladiator an advantage. He then started to calm himself, like he had hundreds of times before. This was nothing to him. He only had to face one man today. The threats and shouts from Sacrovir he heard from the dungeon only made him smile and relax.
“I will have your heart on a spit before I’m done with you, Optio Vitruvius of the Twentieth Legion! I curse you and all soldiers of Rome!”
Vitruvius laughed and shook his head. He stopped just short of the entrance into the arena, donned his helmet, took a deep breath, and waited for the orator to announce him.
The arena was packed beyond capacity for the final match of the day. Even the military seats were crowded with soldiers, anxious to see one of their own take down a famous gladiator in close combat. The orator stood in front of the Imperial box. Artorius was shocked to see that the Emperor Tiberius was in attendance for this event. Artorius sat towards the edge of their section and was surprised when he looked over into the next and saw Camilla with a man he could only assume to be her husband. To call him a ‘man’ was too generous. He was very thin with thick, curly hair, a hooked nose, and looked as if he were wearing some form of makeup. He turned his nose up at everything and talked in a loud voice to his friends who were gathered around him. Most looked equally effeminate. Artorius wondered if he was more interested in little boys than little girls.
He noticed that Camilla was sitting with the side of her head resting on her left hand. Her stola pulled up around her neck in an obvious attempt to hide her marks from the night before. Her eyes gazed over his way, and she seemed startled to see him. Artorius sat back, smiled knowingly, and winked at her. She gave a half smile back, readjusted her palla to cover her neck up once more, and turned back to the games.
Artorius then noticed the silence that had overtaken the arena. He glanced over to see the Emperor standing. Tiberius nodded to the orator who then turned to the crowd.
“Citizens of Rome!” he began. “On this final day of the triumphal games, commemorating the great victories wrought against the hordes of Germania, the Emperor is pleased to bring you one last match involving two of the most skilled combatants to have ever graced the arena. In an historic first, the Emperor has granted his blessings allowing one of the very legionaries who won victory for the Empire to compete in this match. Your Emperor presents to you Optio Marcus Vitruvius of the Twentieth Legion!”
The crowd came to its feet, applauding and shouting accolades as Vitruvius stepped into the arena. He looked very calm as he stepped to the center of the arena in front of the imperial box.
“His opponent,” the orator continued, “is not unknown to many of you. In thirty-two matches, he has not been defeated. His name is legendary in the east, as well as in North Africa. The Emperor is pleased to give you…Nubandi!”
On the other side of the arena, a gigantic African walked through the portal. Many in the crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers. They had placed bets on whom the “mystery” gladiator would be, hoping he was a favorite of theirs, along with betting on the outcome of the match.
The African giant looked to be nearly two and a half meters tall, with muscles the size of tree trunks. He was completely bald with a slim mustache gracing his upper lip and reaching down to his chin, his black skin shone with oil. He wore no armor, only a leather loin cloth and studded metal belt. In his hands he carried a huge round iron shield and a broadsword that any other man would have required two hands to pick up, let alone use. He walked arrogantly and confidently into the arena, just a few meters from where Vitruvius stood eyeing him.
The optio was surprisingly calm. He scanned his opponent, not in reverence, but rather in the method that a man looks for weaknesses in the one he is about to destroy.
Alright,Vitruvius, he’s big and he doesn’t look too happy, he thought. He did not find that he was afraid of his opponent. Whenever it came time for battle, instinct took over. Perhaps he was the best there ever was. If he was, he was going to prove it to all of Rome soon enough. He started to assess his target.