Masters of the Sea Trilogy: Ship of Rome, Captain of Rome, Master of Rome. John Stack

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СКАЧАТЬ Septimus walked out into the dawn light, the V maniple were forming on the training square for roll call, the procedure carried out with practised efficiency before the men were released for breakfast. Each contubernia of soldiers shared a single tent and the men ate in their groups, the arrangement more efficient in a temporary camp. Septimus noticed Silanus walking towards his own tent and moved to intercept him.

      ‘Silanus!’

      The centurion turned to the call and his expression immediately became dismissive as Septimus approached him.

      ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

      ‘Really,’ Silanus replied with a sneer, ‘about what, marine?’ Again the last word was spat out, but Septimus ignored the gibe.

      ‘About the training, about how your men aren’t ready for battle, not against an enemy trained on the deck of a galley where a legion’s formations count for naught.’

      ‘So you say, marine. I say my men are unmatched in combat and no matter how differently the Carthaginians fight, even one to one, my men won’t be beaten.’

      Septimus smiled, although the smile did not reach his eyes. Silanus had taken the bait.

      ‘Would you be willing to test that assertion in single combat?’ Septimus asked. ‘You against me?’

      ‘Gladly,’ Silanus nodded, returning Septimus’s smile with the same underlying enmity. He made to turn but Septimus grabbed his sword arm, arresting him.

      ‘But if I win,’ Septimus continued, ‘I want your word that you and your men will submit to the training.’

      Silanus looked wary. ‘And if I win?’ he replied.

      ‘Then I’ll back down and concede that your men are without equal.’

      Again Silanus nodded, jerking his arm to release Septimus’s grip, a malicious grin once more on his face, and walked away.

      Septimus watched him go before turning to find Quintus standing behind him. His optio moved forward.

      ‘Your orders, Centurion?’ he asked.

      ‘Form up the men around the training square, Quintus,’ Septimus said with a smile. ‘I’ll be teaching the first lesson today.’

      Fifteen minutes later the legionaries of the V were formed on three sides of the square with the Aquila’s twenty marines occupying the fourth side. The shouts of encouragement were sporadic as bets were exchanged between the marines and the legionaries, the odds agreed as even. Septimus and Silanus stood at the centre of the square, six feet apart as each limbered up, their heavy wooden training swords swinging with ever-increasing speed as the tempo of calls from the crowd increased. Quintus stepped forward between the two fighters and drew his sword, holding it straight out between them until both were ready. With a flash he dropped his blade and withdrew, the shouts from the crowd reaching a crescendo as the fight began.

      Septimus studied Silanus’s movements as the two began to circle, noticing immediately that although he was right-handed, his body was finely balanced, the natural weakness of his left trained out of him many years before. Silanus moved with practised ease, confident of his ability and yet not rushing his attack, sizing up Septimus with every turn, weaving his sword from side to side to distract the marine. The two men continued to circle.

      ‘The Fourth Legion, the boars – right, Silanus?’ Septimus said, his words breaking the silence between the men although they were surrounded by a wall of sound.

      ‘What?’ Silanus said after a moment, his face betraying the break in his concentration.

      ‘You’re a man of the Fourth? A boar. One of the boars of Rome?’

      ‘Yes, I am,’ Silanus replied, the need to do so automatic.

      ‘Then what does that make your mother?’ Septimus said, loudly enough only for the centurion to hear.

      Silanus’s face was mottled with anger as he tore into the fight, the words striking rage into his heart. Septimus had been ready for the strike but he was shocked by the sheer speed of the movement, his anticipation of the style of attack saving him, giving his reactions the extra time needed to counter the lunge. Silanus had attacked in the manner of the legions, albeit in a stylized way born out of adaptation to one-to-one combat. He had feigned to his left, where training dictated he lunge with his shield, before following through with the sword in his right hand. Septimus countered the stroke before backing off, the centurion following him step for step, keeping the pressure up, raining blow after blow on the marine.

      The cheers from the legionaries of the Fourth becoming ever more strident as Silanus moved in for the kill, Septimus continuing to give ground before the furious centurion, waiting for the perfect time to counterattack. The moment came without warning and Septimus shifted the balance of his stance as he made ready. Where before Silanus had randomized his strikes, the sustained attack on Septimus had made his movements rhythmical, the years of training overcoming his individual style to reassert itself over his actions. It was the failure of all men of the legions in one-to-one combat and was the first lesson Atticus had taught Septimus on the Aquila. In one-to-one combat, predictability was death.

      Septimus allowed the centurion one more strike, his mind predicting the blow long before it began. Then he counter attacked.

      Septimus sidestepped the next expected strike and parried Silanus’s blade, breaking the centurion’s rhythm. He immediately followed with a thrust to the centurion’s groin, a killing blow that forced Silanus to react swiftly, his body turned off balance. Septimus reversed the strike at the last moment and brought the blade higher to the centurion’s stomach, again forcing Silanus to further shift off balance to counter the stroke, the original feint slowing his reactions. Silanus’s twisted torso exposed his kidneys and Septimus struck beneath the centurion’s extended sword at his lower back. The centurion grunted loudly as the tip of the heavy wooden sword struck his kidneys, driving a sharp pain into his stomach and chest. He immediately withdrew, pain etched on his face.

      Now the men of the Aquila were cheering with blood lust as Septimus pressed home his attack, this time Silanus giving ground as the marine rained unpredictable blows on him. Septimus’s training on the Aquila came to the fore as the marine gave full vent to the conditioning of his combat instincts, while Silanus’s reactions became erratic as desperation crept into his defence as he fought to break the cycle of attack. Septimus feigned a strike to the centurion’s lower left side and suddenly thrust his sword upwards, the point driving towards Silanus’s face. The centurion reacted instinctively, without thought to the consequences, and whipped his sword up, swiping Septimus’s blade away but leaving his entire torso exposed. Septimus circled his blade around the sideswipe and brought the blade under Silanus’s arm, turning his body around as he did to put maximum momentum behind what he knew would be the last strike. The flat blade of the wooden sword slammed into Silanus’s stomach with a force that drove the wind from his lungs, and he pitched forward over the sword, falling heavily on all fours, his own sword thrown from his hand by the strength of the impact.

      Septimus stepped back from the defeated centurion and turned to his men, holding his sword aloft in victory. He made to walk over to them when a hand on his shoulder arrested him. He turned to find Silanus facing him, the centurion still hunched forward with his hand over his stomach.

      ‘By the gods, Septimus, you fight like Pluto, like the lord of the underworld himself,’ Silanus СКАЧАТЬ