“Centurion Vitruvius has held the title of Legion Champion longer than any other,” Silius continued. “Therefore, he has been given the honor of presenting this ceremonial gladius to the man who proves himself worthy of being his successor to this auspicious title. Let the tournament commence!”
The roar from the crowd and combatants was deafening.
Artorius left the arena and walked over to a nearby tree, where he laid down. His was the fourteenth match, so he had a bit of time to rest. Magnus, who was fighting even later, joined his friend.
“Not going to watch the early matches?” he asked.
Artorius shook his head, eyes closed.
“No. If I watch, I’ll get all sorts of worked up, when what I need right now is to relax. I have to keep telling myself not to take any of these men lightly, with one mistake it could all be over. I hope you also do well, old friend.”
Magnus snorted. “I hope I don’t embarrass myself and get eliminated in the first round!”
Decimus was a fan of combat sports, and he was anxious for the competition to begin. He watched as two legionaries entered the arena, their friends shouting encouragement and colorful insults to the opposition.
“Think this will be better than that disastrous spectacle we had to witness in Rome?” Decimus asked his friends who were sitting next to him.
“Anything has got to be better than those sorry gladiators,” Gavius replied. “Not one of those guys knew how to fight!”
Valens laughed. “I think it would be more fun to watch our boys fight with metal weapons!”
They watched as the two legionaries faced each other and commenced fighting. One of the greatest challenges for Roman soldiers was when they had to face other Roman soldiers. Each used the same fighting style with identical weapons. It boiled down to individual ability, rather than style or weaponry giving a man the advantage. The two combatants rammed their shields together, looking for openings. One took a blow to the wrist, causing him to drop his gladius. His opponent was quick to exploit this, driving into his disabled foe and catching him with a blow beneath the ribs. A whistle blew, ending the match. Friends of the victorious soldier cheered wildly, while he tore off his helmet and ran into his ecstatic companions.
“Not bad,” Carbo observed. “Can’t wait to see how Artorius and Magnus do.” He would not have long to wait.
The first round of the tournament started at sunrise. By the time Artorius entered for his first match, the sun was casting its glow over the eastern edge of the arena. He limbered up his shoulders, arms, and legs as he waited for the signal. He entered the arena to the cheering from the Second Century. He couldn’t help grinning at the smattering of boos and profanity from what he assumed were the friends of his opponent.
He took a deep breath and mentally drowned out all distractions. His adversary was a rather slender legionary who looked to be a good sixty to seventy pounds lighter than Artorius. He knew better than to discount the man. Everyone fighting in this tournament was a professional soldier, and he had to treat them as such. On the whistle, they started moving towards each other. Artorius deliberately stalked his opponent, constantly driving forward. His opponent allowed their shields to collide, but then stumbled, realizing his error. Artorius knew the man would not dare allow himself to get into a test of strength against him, so he waited, stalking forward. Finally, the legionary made a move, trying to rush past Artorius’ right. The young decanus spun hard, swinging his shield for all he was worth. It just managed to impact the legionary on the shoulder, but it was enough. The man stumbled forward, catching a gladius thrust to the stomach before he could right himself. He fell to the ground, the wind knocked from him, as a loud shout erupted from the men of the Second Century and, indeed, most of the Third Cohort. Artorius removed his helmet and raised his gladius in salute. He then walked over and extended his hand to his fallen opponent.
“You really are the best there is,” the legionary said graciously as Artorius helped him to his feet. “I hope you win it all, sir.”
“I am going to try,” Artorius replied. He left the arena and walked down to his favorite spot by the river. He knew it would be a while before the rest of the matches were completed, and then a mandatory rest period of one hour was taken in between rounds. He had some time to relax. He was still within earshot of the cornicens’ horns that would sound the end of the round and the start of the next.
The larger part of the day was a blur to Artorius. As each round of the tournament commenced, he found his and Magnus’ names on the bracket. Magnus was advancing well, and Artorius was pleased when he saw both of them had made it to the quarter-finals. If they both won again, they would have to face each other in the next round. Artorius stepped into the arena, focused and oblivious to the shouts and frenzied activity that was taking place in the stands. The city’s populace was completely taken with the tournament, and all had their favorites amongst the legionaries.
Artorius settled into his fighting stance once more. He assumed that as the tournament progressed, his bouts would get progressively harder, but such was not the case. He had literally mauled his first three opponents, and this next one would prove no different. This time he took a chance and bull-rushed the man. He expected his adversary to step aside, but instead he stood his ground and absorbed most of the impact of Artorius’ charge. It proved to be his folly as the sheer ferocity of the sergeant’s attack winded him. Artorius swung his shield in a back-handed arc that knocked his opponent to the ground and simply placed the point of his gladius at the man’s heart. The legionary grimaced and nodded his submission.
A little over an hour later, Artorius returned for the semi-finals. He was surprised to see Magnus waiting for him at the entrance to the arena, devoid of weapons and helmet.
“Magnus, what in Hades are you doing here?” he asked, perplexed.
Magnus could only lower and shake his head.
“I lost, Artorius,” he said sheepishly.
“What do you mean you lost?” Artorius said, disappointment evident in his voice. “We were supposed to fight each other in this round!”
“I know,” Magnus replied morosely. “All I could think was one more match and I get to face Artorius to see who the better of us is. I lost my focus. I got careless. I tried to end the match early, and I stumbled.”
Artorius grabbed his friend by the shoulder.
“That is why I left the arena after each match,” Artorius said, “so that I wouldn’t lose focus. Not once did I even think about our pending match before this round. That is the only thing that separates us, Magnus. You have more real talent than anyone I know. None of the other alternate fighters even got past the first round, but you did. You have won three fights today against this legion’s best. You have nothing to be ashamed of, old friend. I hope you learned to not let your mind wander from the task at hand.” He clapped Magnus on the shoulder.
“Do me a favor and thrash that bastard,” he replied. “Unsporting son of a jackal spat on me after the match. He said, ‘your boy Artorius is next.’ ”
Artorius laughed. “Well, we are each entitled to our own opinions about people. All the same, I shall give him a good thrashing.” As he stepped into the arena once more, he took a series of deep breaths, clearing his mind. He would not allow himself to think about this being the man who had defeated his best friend. It was just another opponent, one who would fall like the rest. And fall he did.