'Come on!' shouted Cato, waving his fist, caught up in the excitement. 'You've got him!'
A piercing shriek split the air as the heated iron came into contact with the swordsman's back and he instinctively recoiled, straight onto the barbed tips of the trident. He howled as one prong entered his thigh, high up near the hip, and tore free with a thick gout of blood which flowed down his leg and dripped onto the grass. The swordsman swiftly side-stepped away from the heated iron and tried to get some distance between himself and the wicked tips of the trident. Those who had bet on him shouted their support, willing him to close the distance and stick it to the trident while he still could.
Cato saw that the trident was grinning, aware that time was on his side. He just had to keep his opponent at a distance long enough for the loss of blood to weaken him. Then close in for the kill. But the crowd was in no mood for a waiting game and jeered angrily as the trident backed away from his bleeding foe. Up came the heated irons again. This time the swordsman sought the advantage, knowing that his time for effective action was short. He rushed at the trident, raining blows on the tip of his weapon, forcing the tall Briton back. But the trident was not going to fall for the same trick. He slid his grip down the shaft and suddenly swung it at the legs of the swordsman, then ran round to the side, away from the irons. The shorter man jumped awkwardly and landed off balance.
A series of thrusts and parries clattered out and then Cato noticed that the swordsman was swaying, his steps becoming more and more uncertain as his lifeblood ebbed from his body. Another attack from the trident was beaten off, but only just. Then the swordsman's strength appeared to give out and he slowly sank down onto his knees, sword wavering in his hand.
Macro jumped to his feet. 'Get up! Get up before he guts you!'
The rest of the crowd rose, sensing that the end of the fight was near, most of them desperately urging the swordsman to stand up.
The trident thrust forward, catching the sword between the prongs. A quick twist and the blade spun from the swordsman's grip and landed several feet away. Knowing all was lost the swordsman slumped onto his back, waiting for a quick end. The trident shouted his victory cry, and shifted his grip forward as he advanced to stand over his opponent and deal the final blow. Legs astride the heavily bleeding swordsman, he raised his trident high. The swordsman's buckler suddenly swung up with savage desperation and slammed into the taller man's groin. With a deep groan the trident doubled up. The crowd cheered. A second blow from the buckler smashed into the man's face and he went down on the grass, weapon slipping from his grip as he clutched at his nose and eyes. Two more blows to the head from the buckler and the trident was finished.
'Marvellous stuff!' Macro jumped up and down. 'Bloody marvellous!' Cato shook his head bitterly, and cursed the trident's cockiness. It never paid to assume your foe was beaten simply because he appeared that way. Hadn't the trident tried that very trick earlier in the fight?
The swordsman rose to his feet, far more easily than a critically wounded man could, and quickly retrieved his sword. The end was merciful, the trident was sent to his gods with a sharp thrust under the ribcage into his heart.
Then, as Cato, Macro and the crowd watched, a very strange thing happened. Before the eagle-bearer and his assistant could disarm the swordsman, the Briton raised his arms and shouted out a challenge. In crudely accented Latin he screamed out, 'Romans! Romans! See!'
The sword swept down, the grip was quickly reversed and with both hands the Briton thrust it into his chest. He swayed a moment, head lolling back, and then collapsed onto the grass beside the body of the trident. The crowd was hushed.
'What the fuck did he do that for?' Macro muttered. 'Maybe he knew his wounds were fatal.'
'He might have survived,' Macro replied grudgingly. 'You never know.'
'Survived, only to become a slave. Perhaps he didn't want that, sir.' 'Then he was a fool.'
The eagle-bearer, concerned about the uncertain change in the audience's mood, hurried forward, arms raised. 'Right then, lads, that's your lot. Fight's over. I declare the swordsman the winner. Pay up the winning bets, and then back to your duties.'
'Wait!' a voice cried out. 'It's a draw! They're both dead.' 'The swordsman won,' the eagle-bearer shouted back.
'He was finished. The trident would have bled him to death.' 'Would have,' agreed the eagle-bearer, 'if he hadn't screwed it up at the end. My decision's final. The swordsman won, and everyone's to pay their debts. Or they'll have me to deal with. Now, back to your duties!'
The audience broke up, quietly streaming through the oak trees towards the tent lines while the eagle-bearer's assistants heaved the bodies onto the back of a wagon, to join the losers of the earlier bouts. While Cato waited, his centurion hurried off to collect his winnings from his cohort's standard-bearer, surrounded by a small mob of legionaries clutching their numbered chits. Macro returned a short while later, happily weighing up the coins in his purse.
'Not the most lucrative bet I've ever made but nice to win all the same.'
'I suppose so, sir.'
'Why the long face? Oh, of course. Your money went on that cocky twat with the trident. How much did you lose?'
Cato told him, and Macro whistled.
'Well, young Cato, you've still got a lot to learn about fighting men, it seems.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Never mind, lad. It'll come in time.' Macro clapped him on the shoulder. 'Let's see if anyone's got any decent wine to sell. After that we've got work to do.'
As he watched his men leave the dell from the dappled shadows of a large oak tree, the commander of the Second Legion silently cursed the swordsman. The men badly needed something to take their minds off the coming campaign, and the spectacle of British prisoners taking it out on each other should have been entertaining. Indeed, it had been entertaining, until the end of the last fight. The men had been in high spirits. Then that damn Briton had picked his moment for that pointless gesture of defiance. Or not so pointless, reflected the legate grimly. Maybe the Briton's sacrifice had been deliberately aimed at undermining the morale-boosting diversion.
Hands clenched behind his back, Vespasian slowly walked out of the shadows into the sunlight. Certainly these Britons did not lack spirit. Like most warrior cultures, they clung to an honour code which ensured that they embraced warfare with a reckless arrogance and a terrible ferocity. More worrying was the fact that the loose coalition of British tribes was being led by a man who knew how to use his forces well. Vespasian felt a grudging respect for the Britons' leader, Caratacus, chief of the Catuvellauni. That man had more tricks up his sleeve yet, and the Roman army of General Aulus Plautius had better treat the enemy with more respect than had been the case so far. The death of the swordsman illustrated all too well the merciless nature of this campaign.
Pushing thoughts of the future aside for the moment, Vespasian made his way over to the hospital tent. There was an unfortunate matter he could put off no longer. The chief centurion of the Second Legion had been mortally wounded in a recent ambush, and had wanted to speak to him before he died. Bestia had been a model soldier, earning men's praise, admiration and fear throughout his military career. He had fought in many wars across the empire, and had the scars on his body to prove it. And now he had fallen to a British sword in a minor skirmish that no historian would ever record. Such was army life, Vespasian reflected bitterly. How many more unsung heroes were out there waiting to be snuffed out while vain politicians and imperial lackeys grabbed the credit?