Artorius stalked the man, same as before. His adversary tried to thwart his advance, but Artorius was able to deflect every one of his strikes. Finally, he managed to catch the man on the foot with the bottom of his shield. The legionary yelped and tried to hobble back. Artorius crouched low and blasted into the man like a battering ram. He then fell upon his stricken foe and with the flat of his gladius gave him a hard rap across the genitals.
“That was for Magnus,” he whispered into the man’s ear. He then exited the arena as quickly as he had entered.
Ellard found Torin leaning over the rampart of the wall that surrounded the compound. As he walked up the steps to replace him on guard duty, he tried to speculate just how old Torin was. The life of a labor slave could be severe and cause one to age well beyond their years. Torin’s head was shorn, with a scruffy face and neck. He was of average build, his muscles taught and wiry. The man had done some serious work in his time. Torin looked down at Ellard as he climbed the steps before continuing his gaze into the distance. The sun shone through the distant hills with a light breeze blowing over the rampart.
“I’ve come to relieve you,” Ellard stated.
Torin grabbed his spear and shield, and started down the steps without a word.
“You believe that Greek and his rhetoric, don’t you?” Ellard asked.
Torin stopped and turned to faced Ellard. “That Greek is the one hope we have of survival,” he said levelly. “While the rest of you grab ass and fight with each other, I try and learn how it is I might actually live to enjoy freedom.”
Ellard raised his hands in resignation. “Hey I meant no offense, friend. We are here with a common purpose, are we not?”
“No, we are not,” Torin retorted. “You come for plunder; you care nothing for Gaul and whether or not it remains enslaved.”
“And you do?” There was no doubt of the sneer in his voice. “When a man lives only for his own survival, it is impractical to care about the affairs of an empire. I care not for Sacrovir or the Romans. Sacrovir has offered me money, whereas the Romans offer only slavery and death.”
“I was not always a slave,” Torin said softly. “I once had a family and a life worth living.”
“What happened?”
“They were taken from me.” There was deep sadness in Torin’s face. “Land that I farmed was taken by a Roman overseer. Suddenly, I had to pay tribute on land that belonged to my house for three generations! When I refused to pay, I was accosted by Roman troops, beaten, and taken away in chains. I never heard what happened to my wife and children, though I can only assume they shared a similar fate. When I refused to work for my new masters they did this to me.” He removed his tunic and revealed a back covered in scars. “They threatened to have me crucified when the master decided he had better plans for me. I ended up in that stinking cage with you and Radek.” Before Ellard could question him some more, Torin turned and walked briskly down the steps. He bumped into Radek, who was coming up to join his friend; for he had, indeed, started to form a type of bond with his fellow runaway.
“What’s with him?” he asked as he set his weapons against the rampart.
Ellard let out a slight chuckle. “Seems our friend has a noble reason for fighting the Romans.” “Well, let him,” Radek snorted. “I just wish we would get on with it; though from what I hear Sacrovir has what he thinks is a cunning plan to deal with the Rhine Legions.” Ellard was taken aback by this last statement.
“Why should he wish to engage the Rhine Legions? There are but a few cohorts in the region as it is. Why should he wish to bring more Roman forces against us?”
“Well, I can’t be certain, but I think he wants to make as loud a statement as he can possibly make,” Radek answered. “In order to do that, he needs to lure at least some of the legionary forces on the Rhine into battle. Smashing a few cohorts will not send a strong enough message to the Emperor.”
Ellard let out a loud sigh. “At least, in the meantime, we get fed and have a few coins in our pockets,” he observed. “I would just as soon get this fiasco over with. I would just as soon piss on that pompous Greek than have to endure anymore of his drills or talk of Sparta. Sparta fell long ago to Macedonia, who in turn fell to Rome. That man just needs to let it go already. If he’s looking to revive Sparta, he’s come to a strange place.”
It was late afternoon, almost evening. While a thief and a former slave in Sacrovir’s army went about guarding their little rampart, the final match of the Twentieth Legion’s Tournament was set to take place. The amphitheater was packed beyond capacity. It seemed as if the entire city had come out for the final match. Artorius noticed that Camillus had brought the century’s signum, which he planted in front of their section. Artorius took a deep breath and eyed his opponent. This man had also made his way through five battles, though Artorius had no idea as to how hard he had had to fight. He did not recognize the man, though he looked to be a bit older and was probably from the First Cohort.
The whistle blew and they advanced. Artorius noticed his adversary was circling, but not backing up. He was not in the least intimidated. Artorius hit him with one of his bull-rushes, yet the legionary stood his ground and pushed back. The man knew how Artorius fought, and he sought to best him at his own game. Artorius knew he had to change tactics. He immediately increased his rate of attack, trying to work his way quickly around both sides of the legionary’s shield. In his fury, he caught a blow to the wrist, which caused him to drop his shield. He then flashed back to a similar match against Vitruvius. As his adversary rushed at him, Artorius grabbed his shield with both hands and rolled over backwards, throwing the legionary over the top of him and onto his back. Artorius quickly regained his feet and lunged at the man, his gladius aimed at his heart. The man was knocked almost senseless, having been thrown almost directly onto his head. In an instant, the match was over, and the crowd went into a hysterical frenzy of cheering.
Artorius removed his helmet as members of the Second Century swarmed around him. He extended his hand and helped his fallen foe to his feet. When the man removed his helmet, Artorius recognized him to be Centurion Draco of the First Cohort.
“Well fought, son,” Draco said, shaking his hand vigorously.
“And to you, sir,” Artorius replied. He was hoisted onto the shoulders of some of the legionaries and carried over to the reviewing stand, where stood Silius, Calvinus, and Vitruvius.
Silius raised his hands, silencing the crowd. “Sergeant Artorius,” he spoke, “you have proven yourself to be not only the most skilled close-combat fighter in this legion, but of the entire Rhine Army! You have, indeed, earned the honor of being named Valeria’s Legion Champion!” He then took the ceremonial silver gladius that Vitruvius handed him and presented it to Artorius.
As he turned and faced the crowds of people who witnessed his triumph, he at last allowed his emotions to break free. He raised the sword high and roared a triumphal battle cry that shook the arena. It was echoed by the men of the Second Century, as well as everyone in the amphitheater. He then let out another howl of victory and held both fists in the air. He lowered his hands and closed his eyes, savoring his hard-earned victory.
It proved to be a long night for Artorius, and he was glad he napped between matches throughout the day. His friends were intent on getting him drunk and each wished to fondle the ceremonial gladius he was awarded.
“It’s not a phallus, Valens!” he jeered as Valens placed the gladius back on the table sheepishly, his face red with embarrassment.
Each man that he’d fought bought him a drink, with the exception being the one who defeated Magnus. It mattered not to Artorius. He was feeling the effects of his drinking when Magnus walked over and put his arm around his shoulders.