‘How many … Krajka are there?’ Marcus asked.
The old man smiled, showing only three teeth in black gums.
‘Not enough. We practise on those came with you today. Other warriors need to see how you people fight, yes?’
Marcus looked at him in disbelief. The future was clearly bleak for those left in the fort. They had been allowed to make the safety of the walls just so the young blueskins could blood themselves against reduced defenders. It was chilling. The legion believed the blueskins to be close to animals in intelligence. Any captured prisoners went berserk, biting through ropes and killing themselves on anything sharp if they couldn’t escape. This evidence of careful planning – and one who spoke a civilised language – would wake them up to a threat they didn’t treat seriously enough.
‘Why didn’t the men kill me?’ Marcus asked. He fought to remain calm as the old man leaned closer to his face and sour breath washed over him.
‘They very impressed. Three men you kill with short sword. Kill like man, not with bow or spear throwing. They bring you to show to me, as a strange thing, yes?’
A curiosity, a Roman good at killing. He guessed what had to come next before the old man spoke.
‘Not good to have young warriors admire Roman. You fight Krajka, yes? If win, you go back to fort. If Krajka kill you, then all men see and know hope for future days, yes?’
Marcus agreed. There was nothing else to do. He looked into the flames and wondered if they would let him use his gladius.
Blueskins had come over from all the other campfires, leaving them barely defended. Marcus realised the men in the fort could not be aware of the opportunity. They would still see the spots of light in the mountain darkness and not know the bulk of them had trotted over to see the contest.
Marcus was allowed to stand and a circle was marked out with daggers stuck into the soil. The blueskins gathered outside the line, some balancing friends on their shoulders so they could see. Whichever way Marcus turned, he could see a heaving wall of blue flesh and grinning yellow teeth. He noticed how many of the eyes were pink-rimmed and decided it must be something in the dye that irritated the skin. The older, potbellied blueskin stepped into the circle and gravely handed Marcus his gladius, stepping back warily. Marcus ignored him. You didn’t need the scout’s eye to sense the hostility here. Lose and be cut to pieces to show their superiority, win and be torn apart by the mob. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what Gaius would do and had to smile at the thought. Gaius would have killed the leader as soon as he handed over the sword. It couldn’t get any worse, after all.
The leader was still visible, his belly sticking into the circle space, but somehow it didn’t seem right to run over and stick the old devil. Perhaps they would let him go. He looked around at the faces again and shrugged. Not very likely.
A low cheer built as one of the Krajka came through the circle, with the warriors parting briefly and then shoving their way back into position to get a good view. Marcus looked him up and down. He was much taller than the average blueskin and had a good three inches on Marcus, even after the growth he’d put on since leaving Rome. He was bare-chested and muscles shifted easily under the painted skin. Marcus guessed they were probably about equal in reach. His own arms were long, with powerful wrists from hours of sword practice. He knew he had a chance, no matter how good the man was. Renius still worked with him every day and Marcus was running out of opponents to give him a challenge in the practices.
He watched the way the tall man moved and walked. He looked into his eyes and found no give. The man didn’t smile and wouldn’t understand insults anyway. He walked around the edge of the circle, always staying out of reach in case Marcus tried a wild attack. Marcus turned on the spot, watching him all the time until he took up his position on the opposite side, twenty feet away. Tactics, tactics. Renius said never to stop thinking. The point was to win, not to be fair. Marcus winced as the man drew a long sword that reached from his hip to the ground, a shining length of polished bronze. There was the edge. He hadn’t really noticed before, but the blueskins were using bronze weapons and a hard iron gladius would soon take the edge off it, if he could survive the first few blows. His thoughts raced. Bronze blunted. It was softer than iron.
The man walked closer and loosened his bare shoulders. He was wearing only leggings over bare feet and looked supremely athletic, moving like a great cat.
Marcus called to the leader, ‘If I kill him, I walk free, yes?’
A great jeer went up from the crowd, making him wonder how many understood the language. The old blueskin nodded, smiling, and signalled with his hand to begin.
Marcus jumped as drums sounded over the chatter of the crowd. His opponent relaxed visibly as the rhythms were pounded out. Marcus watched him lower into a fighter’s stance, the sword held out unwavering. The extra inches on the blade would give him the advantage in reach, Marcus thought, rolling his shoulders. He held up his hand and took a step back to remove his tunic. It was a relief to be free of it in the stifling heat, made worse by the nearby fire and the sweating crowd. The drumming intensified and Marcus focused his gaze on the man’s throat. It unnerved some opponents. He became utterly still while the other swayed gently. Two different styles.
The Krajka barely seemed to move, but Marcus felt the attack and shifted aside, making the bronze blade miss him. He didn’t engage the gladius with the blade, trying to judge the man’s speed.
A second cut, a smooth continuation of the first, came at his face and Marcus brought his gladius up desperately with a ring of metal. The blades slid together and he felt fresh sweat prickle on his hairline. The man was fast and fluid, with killing strikes that seemed only flicks and feints. Marcus blocked another low cut into his stomach and stepped and punched forward into the blue body.
It was not there and he went sprawling on the hard ground. He got up quickly, noting the fact that the Krajka stood well back to let him. This was not to be a quick kill then. Marcus nodded to him, his jaw clenched. Feel no anger, he told himself, nor shame. He remembered Renius’ words. It does not matter what happens in battle as long as the enemy lies at your feet at the end of it.
The Krajka skipped lightly forward to meet him. At the last second, the bronze sword flicked out and Marcus was forced to duck under it. This time he didn’t follow through with a lunge under the blow and saw the man’s readiness to reverse his sword into a downwards slash. He had fought Romans before! The thought flashed into Marcus’ head. This man knew their style of fighting, perhaps he had even learned it with a few of the legionaries who had disappeared over previous months before killing them.
It was galling. Everything he had been taught came from Renius, a Roman-trained soldier and gladiator. He had no other style to fall back on. The Krajka was clearly a master of his art.
The bronze sword licked out and Marcus blocked it. He focused on the lightly pulsing blue throat and could still see the shifting arms and sinuous moves of the body. He let one blow slide by him and stepped away from another, judging the distance perfectly. In the space, he struck like a snake and scored a thin line of red in the Krajka’s side.
The crowd fell suddenly silent, shocked. The Krajka looked puzzled and took two sliding steps away from Marcus. He frowned and Marcus saw he had not felt the scratch. He pressed his hand to the red line and looked at it, his face blank. Then he shrugged and danced in again, his bronze sword a blur in the light and shadows.
Marcus felt the rhythm of the movements and began working against the flowing style, breaking the smoothness, causing the Krajka to jump back from a sword held out rigidly and again when Marcus’ hard sandals cracked against his toes.
Marcus advanced, knowing his opponent’s confidence was wavering. Each step was accompanied by a blow that became another, a flowing pattern that mimicked the style the Krajka employed against him. The gladius became an extension of his arm, a thorn in his hand that required just a touch to kill. The Krajka let a throat cut pass a hair’s-breadth from his skin, and Marcus could