Firstly, crowd-pleasing. He had to be a showman. It was less important here, obviously, where the fight was to the death and the fickle crowd had no say, but the morale of his opponent would be affected by even the noise of the crowd around him. Plus the officers were looking forward to days of good spirits after this.
Secondly, the man was tall. Galba had advised Fronto how to use that against him.
“Thirdly”, Galba had wagged a finger in front of his face, “everything in the arena is a weapon. Every part of your body, every item you carry, the walls themselves and the dirt you walk on. Use everything you can. It increases your chance of success and makes it much more exciting for the crowd.”
And here he was, standing in front of that crowd, not knowing what the hell to do other than attack. He glanced around the spectators, trying to pick out his friends. Finally, he spied Priscus in the front row, other centurions of the Tenth around and behind him. Priscus extended both arms, palms upwards, in a gesture imploring Fronto to do something. As he looked left and right, he became aware that he was standing like a statue and that the noise of the crowd was gradually fading away.
He thrust his shield and gladius in the air.
“For Rome!”
Suddenly the cheers were back and increased tenfold. Fronto grinned. He could get the hang of this showmanship crap.
“For Cominius!”
Word of the realities of Cominius’ death and the true culprit had now been released, and every man present would have known that the Gaul had killed a senior officer of the Tenth Legion. Although few outside the Tenth would even have known Cominius by sight, every legionary resented such an ignominious death for a high-ranking Roman officer at the hands of a barbarian. As he invoked the name of the man most wronged by this Gaul, the crowd went mad.
The barbarian had walked perhaps a third of the way across the arena and had stopped, his long, broad-bladed sword hanging at his side, and the small, round buckler shield strapped to his arm.
Fronto realised that he couldn’t stand there and shout clichés at the crowd for long before he would begin to look like a coward. Gritting his teeth, he adjusted the large, oval red shield bearing the lightening stroke image and the ‘X’ numeral of his legion on his arm and hefted the shiny, pointed stabbing weapon. With a deliberate exaggerated slowness, he began to plod toward the Gaul.
Domiticus looked confused at the speed and manner of his opponent, and readied himself to defend against a possible charge. But the charge never came. The Gaul watched in astonishment as Fronto reached a standard marching pace and tramped toward him, shield high and sword held out just next to the rim. The Romans in the audience, of course, knew exactly what he was doing. It was what Marius’ Mules had been doing for centuries. A determined attack with the shield covering as much of the body as possible. A pace that would not leave Fronto breathless.
The Gaul, to his credit, did not launch the obvious charge, nor did he take the opportunity to taunt his opponent. Instead he stood his ground, arms at the ready, his grey eyes silently sizing up the Roman.
Fronto reached the centre of the arena at his steady pace. The crowd had gone quiet again; this time not through lack of excitement, but rather with anticipation, as they waited the tense seconds that seemed like hours for the two to meet. Fronto was playing the role of legionary down to the last inch and the troops loved it. They could respect an officer fighting hand to hand for the honour of Rome, but this was something else. Not just respect, but love. He was one of them.
As Fronto came within the Gaul’s reach, the tall warrior finally gave release to the tension that had been building for almost three minutes as the damned Roman had played to the crowd. He swung the great Celtic sword in a wide arc that could have smashed or removed a man’s leg. Fronto, however, was prepared. He swung the shield to the side and dropped down on one knee. The edge of the shield rammed into the dirt, and the Gaul’s sword hit the domed boss in its centre with such force that the shudder rattled every bone up from Fronto’s arm and to his jaw.
It had been a heavy blow, but Fronto was a step ahead. While the Gaul wrenched the sword back, his own arm also ringing with the blow, Fronto sliced out with his gladius. The Gaul’s shield covered the more vital areas of the lower torso and upper thighs. Dropping his sword hand slightly, the pointed tip cut through the calf of the Gaul; not a muscle shearing blow, but one which would cause discomfort and blood loss. Fronto couldn’t allow the man to die too quickly. The legions needed a show, and so did the General. The Gaul gasped, but didn’t scream. If Fronto didn’t hate the bastard so much, he might have admired him.
The barbarian had to pull his arm back a long way to make another swing like that, and Fronto took advantage, using the speed of his short, stabbing sword in close quarters. Another thrust brought a blossom of red in the thigh of the Gaul’s breeches. A third scraped along the man’s ribs with a sound that made Fronto wince. Again, the Gaul gasped. As the legate began to pull himself back to stand up, the tall warrior lashed out with a foot, catching Fronto’s shield and hurling him bodily backwards.
The Gaul grinned as Fronto, stunned by the blow and lying on his back, tried to drag himself to his feet. Domiticus issued a smile of the sort more usually seen on the muzzle of a hunting animal.
“My turn, Roman.”
Fronto was stunned. Two wounds to the same leg and the man was walking relatively straight and steady, and picking up speed! The blow to the man’s ribs was off-target, but must still be incredibly painful. The blood the man was losing would kill him eventually, but Fronto wondered how long he’d have to hold him off for that to happen.
Struggling up, he came to his feet just in time to raise the large, oval shield and block the overhead swing of the Gaul’s sword. The blow splintered the shield and sheared a whole arc of wood from it, leaving just over two thirds of the shape intact. The bronze edging strip where it had been ripped apart protruded like the lightening bolts painted on the shield’s face. If took Fronto a moment to realise that the sword had actually grazed his arm. Very lucky he’d held it where he did or he’d have been fighting the rest of this with a stump.
He attempted to get his sword into a position for stabbing, but the inevitable swing of that huge sword brought Fronto’s attention back to the shield again. The blow hit the boss at the centre again, severely denting it. The bones in Fronto’s arm felt like they had jumped about and jumbled up. He was sure at least one of the bones in his hand was broken.
He stepped backwards, giving ground to avoid contact with that blade again. He was aware that this would look terrible from the stands, but he was past caring. There was more to worry about than the crowd. He had to avoid those blows long enough to think, and for the feeling to come back into his arm.
Perhaps ten steps back and he stumbled, righting himself quickly, but not quick enough to avoid the Gaul’s next swing. He hurriedly threw the shield into the way, not paying attention to its most correct usage, and the huge sword cleaved a large portion off the top. The tip of the sword scraped along the brow of Fronto’s helmet and he could actually see down the length of the blade. That was too close for comfort. One more blow and his shield would be kindling. Nothing he could do then. He needed to fight for just a little more time. An idea was forming. If only he could just…
Priscus watched from his place at the head of the Tenth, though he was wondering how much longer he could watch. This was getting embarrassing. The Roman tactics had been fine to begin with, but they needed a unit of men following them, not an individual. The inevitable had happened. The Gaul had turned the edge and had discarded his own shield, subsequently pursuing Fronto most of the way across the arena, chopping chunks out of his shield as he went. Now things were looking a little desperate.