Slowly, with dreadful inevitability, the two fur-clad Quadi with swords in hand plodded across the clearing, their footsteps perfectly in time as their eyes remained locked on this foolhardy Roman. Rufinus tensed the muscles in his sword-hand and closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the dell from above and superimposing a mental image of a boxing arena.
It was just like the opening moves of a bout in the inter-century championship. The one on the left who had almost stuck him while he was down was large, yet moved with a certain grace, like Lollius Victor of the Second Cohort. The other was light and reedy… not strong enough for the arena really; an archer by nature. ‘Victor’ was the one to watch. Any moment now, they would break and try to take him simultaneously, but Victor would land the first blow, his companion less sure. The reedy man would pause, looking for an opening, wanting to be sure of his own safety as he struck.
It was all down to speed and planning. If it were two opponents in the ring, something that rarely happened within the rules, he would deliver a sharp jab to Victor to keep him busy and off-balance. Then, while the bigger man reeled back, he would slam a quick succession of body blows to the thinner man, ending with an uppercut that would take him out of the running entirely, just in time to return his attention to Victor before the big man swung.
His father had never understood about boxing. Pater considered it mindless thumping and had averted his gaze at the mention of his youngest son’s celebrated achievements for his unit. But then, the day his father shared anything other than cold disapproval would see one of them crossing the Styx. Boxing was a matter of planning, strategy, knowing your opponent and being able to anticipate moves in advance. In that way, a good boxing match was as tactical and well-thought through as any general’s battle plan.
It had helped Rufinus in many situations to visualise a predicament as a bout in the ring.
Victor first, then, to knock him off balance, while he dealt with the archer quickly, bringing the odds back down in his favour. The only sign of change in him as the two barbarians broke into a run was the whitening of his knuckles on the leather-bound hilt of his gladius.
Predictably, the larger man swung as he reached Rufinus, the other stepping to the side, his eyes narrowing as he searched out a safe opening.
Rufinus, only waiting to see if the attack would be a lunge, a slash or a chop, ducked beneath the swing with prepared grace, coming upright as the Germanic blade whistled through the empty air. Without pause, he stabbed the sword into the only part of the barbarian that readily presented itself, the point driving into the man beneath the collar bone. Not a bad wound, but enough to knock him off-balance.
As Victor fell back in surprise, the reedy man was already coming for him, assured of a safe route of attack, Rufinus’ sword now in the wrong hand and on the wrong side of him.
Letting go of the hilt with his right hand as the shocked brute fell away, Rufinus turned, grasping the gladius with his left and wrenching it back out just in time to parry the smaller man’s lunge.
As the reedy archer fell toward him, putting all his strength behind the failed strike, Rufinus drew his head back, then threw it forward, head-butting the barbarian in the temple. Had he still been wearing his helmet, which lay somewhere on the battlefield, smashed and with a detached cheek piece, the blow would have killed the man outright. Even bare-headed he felt something break beneath his forehead as the man collapsed like a puppet in a children’s show.
Already as he turned, the larger man had recovered and, while his next swing was somewhat lighter than previous ones due to the wound in his shoulder, the barbarian’s face showed only hatred and determination as the blade was knocked easily aside. No fear or pain.
Rufinus quickly reassessed the situation. The remaining man was not going down quickly or easily. A blinding rage seemed to have gripped him and he advanced steadily, swinging again, this time with more force. Rufinus parried while his mind raced.
Berserk, the warrior grunted as Rufinus’ gladius again turned the blow, and brought his sword round for another swing with surprising speed. The man’s arm swung left and right, slashing and swiping with the sword, a pendulum of glinting iron as Rufinus lightly back-stepped with each swing, knocking the blows aside. Slowly he retreated across the clearing, parrying and buying himself time.
The barbarian would wear himself out in good time. The repeated swinging of the heavy blade with the wound in his shoulder would tire him and very soon one of those blows would be badly executed: he would overextend.
It was all about timing. As soon as the man opened up, Rufinus would have him. It…
The back-stepping Roman’s world turned upside down.
As he landed heavily on his back on the hard ground, a knobbly root digging into his ribs, he knew the first moment of panic.
The reedy man he had felled with a head-butt was remarkably still conscious. Battered and agonised, he’d been unable to help his companion, but fortune had swung his way as the wretched Roman had backed straight past him. It had been simple – the work of but a moment to grasp Rufinus’ ankle as he passed.
The legionary stared as the man before him lifted his long, Germanic sword in two hands, ready to bring it down and send him to the afterlife. Rufinus’ fingers closed on empty air; the fall had knocked the gladius from his grip.
Desperately, he watched the blade descend and, as soon as he judged it had reached the point of no return, rolled to his right, gratefully taking the opportunity to elbow the reedy archer in the face, smashing more bones.
The warrior’s long sword crashed into the ground but did not bite deep as it might have done another time. The icy hardness of the dirt sent a shockwave up the blade that the warrior, enraged and roaring, entirely ignored. The barbarian easily drew the sword back and raised it for a repeat overhead blow.
He would not fall for the same easy move twice. Indeed, as Rufinus tried desperately to think of a way out of the predicament in which he now found himself, the barbarian placed a heavy boot on Rufinus’ stomach and pressed down with agonising force, holding him in place so that the legionary’s head was in perfect position for a skull-splitting strike.
Rufinus’ mind raced through every trick he knew. Nothing would help now, though, pinned to the ground under the full weight of a man and watching his death descend with dreadful certainty.
Not even time for a prayer. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. No retribution for the Rustii now; no tearful reconciliation with his estranged father. No glory. Just his head on a Quadi spike.
Something wet spattered across his face.
Rufinus opened his eyes in surprise and was blinked repeatedly as a slick of blood filled his vision. His heart pounding in his chest, he lifted his hand and wiped away the bulk of the liquid. A second spray splashed across him as the blade that had protruded from the surprised barbarian’s chest was withdrawn.
He blinked again as the berserk, enraged barbarian, sword still gripped in his hands as he stared down at the gaping hole in his chest, toppled to the hard ground to the side.
In his place stood a Praetorian guardsman, white tunic under glinting mail spattered with droplets of blood, snowy cloak billowing impressively despite the lack of a breeze. The man’s crest bobbed as he turned and shouted something to a friend; something Rufinus could not quite hear over the thudding of his veins.
Hands reached down for him, helping him up.
Rufinus shook his head and wiped his eyes again. Half a dozen Praetorians had entered the clearing and were making sure the warriors were deceased, driving their daggers into the back of the barbarians’ necks, severing the spines.