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‘Garlan, my friend,’ said Salus. ‘I have two new arrivals here, who require new neck decoration.’
The smith spat into the hot coals beside him without the ring of his hammer losing a beat. ‘Friend. I am your friend when you need something. As you are mine, except that I never need anything from you. Except peace, so if you want to be my friend, bugger off. I’m busy.’
‘It is urgent, I am afraid, good Garlan. These two will fight in death matches tomorrow.’
The smith stopped hammering and looked the pair up and down. ‘Hardly worth my while, then, by the looks of it.’ He spat again. ‘Since I’ll be getting the iron back tomorrow night as it won’t stay on a neck with no head, I suppose I may as well oblige you. Consider it a loan.’ He pointed his hammer at Brann. ‘You.’ The hammer moved to indicate further inside the forge where a heavy block sat on the floor, a rounded section cut from its top surface. ‘There.’
Brann walked nervously across as the smith fetched a length of heavy chain. ‘Kneel.’ The chain was looped round his neck. ‘Head on the block.’ He leant forward, placing his face against the smooth surface. ‘Oh by the gods, are you trying to suffocate yourself, fool? Head to one side.’ He did so, and felt the chain drawn tight until it sat snugly. Rough jerks were followed by a snipping sound and the unneeded length fell to the ground. The chain pulled against his throat as it was manipulated before heat seared the back of his neck. He gasped and the metal hissed as cold water was thrown over it. The smith used his metal pincers to drag the chain, and Brann, to his feet. ‘Next,’ he grunted.
Brann moved to one side, his right hand automatically starting to reach for the chain. The swinging sword brought a glare from the smith and prudence suggested that he use his shield arm. His fingers found the chain and explored for a moment, though there was little to discover. The links were thick, it was heavy and he could fit only one finger between the metal and his neck.
Within moments, Grakk had been similarly fitted and they had obeyed Garlan’s second instruction to bugger off.
‘A skilled man,’ Grakk observed.
‘More even,’ Salus said, ‘than you saw there. Much more. You should see his silver-work, and his swords would sell for a fortune on the free market. But Salus saved his life many years ago, and he feels he cannot leave him until he has repaid the debt. A noble sentiment in his heart that his head appears to dispute on a daily basis. Still, he is here and our metal is the better for it.’
Brann fingered his chain again. This time his shield arm was the one to move first, and his fingers found the metal with ease. ‘So I am to die a slave after all,’ he grumbled.
‘Maybe, but maybe not, young pessimist,’ Salus pointed out. ‘Do you know how many killing blows cleave their way into a neck? Even a chance shallow slice there is likely to be your end. More than a few slaves have been glad they were not free men when they fought.’
Grakk nodded. ‘It does you no harm, son of the miller. Better a living slave than a dead free man. It is possible for a slave to wake as a free man someday, something a dead man cannot achieve.’
‘Better wrap me in chains, then,’ Brann muttered.
‘Funny you should say that,’ Salus beamed. He looked up at the sun. ‘Near enough mid-day. You should eat. You will need the strength of food.’
Marlo ran to one of the nearby buildings to fetch slices of cold meat that had a sharp tang to them and fresh fruit that Brann had never seen before but that had a juiciness and flavour that made it difficult to stop eating them and easy to forget the awkwardness of being fed by another. He grunted around a mouthful and nodded to Marlo that he was ready for another bite.
‘Enough,’ Salus steadied him. ‘It is pleasant to see a healthy appetite, but you will be sick before long if you continue. This is to give you strength, not slow you down. And so we now have work. Come.’
At his request, Grakk was given his swords and directed to a quiet spot where he could initially work by himself. Salus told Marlo to fill a waterskin and catch up with them, and took Brann beyond the buildings where the view opened up to reveal around a score of men and half that number of women working in groups or pairs with a range of weapons on a flat area that extended to the undulating ground, broken by walls and obstacles that he could barely make out and affording only the occasional glimpse of the far boundary of the compound. There was much shouting, some laughter and universal dedication.
Salus called over five of them and, at his instruction, they gathered lumps of the hardened earth and ranged themselves in front of Brann. Salus stepped away from him and, at his instruction, a clod whistled through the air and shattered unerringly against his forehead. He scarcely had time to yelp in surprise and pain before more followed.
‘You have a shield, you know,’ Salus offered helpfully, just as Brann began himself to try to fling the shield to meet the missiles hurtling at him. Soon he was managing to deflect as many as made it past the shield as he tried to jerk the unwieldy wood in a dozen directions in the space of a few breaths.
‘Well done,’ enthused Salus when the hail had finished. ‘You managed to be hit by only half of them.’
‘Fantastic,’ glowered Brann, feeling as if his head, arms and legs had been beaten with staves and wondering if his left arm would ever lift a cup again, far less the shield. He rested his encumbered hands on his knees, fighting for breath and watching the sweat that dropped from his head dry quickly where it spotted the ground.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do better next time.’
‘Next time?’
‘You think tomorrow will be easy? We will do this several times. You must be as ready as you can.’
‘They are going to throw lumps of earth at me in the Arena?’
Salus looked long at him, as if dealing with a small child. ‘Whatever comes at you, you must be able to move your shield to meet it. Preferably without bothering your brain, though that may not be the hardest part for you.’
He thanked the throwers, who declared themselves enthusiastically available for the repeat sessions.
‘Now the sword. But first you drink.’ Water had never tasted so good.
They walked to a wooden post half again as tall as Brann and wrapped in thick rope.
‘The rope?’ Brann wondered. The lack of breath, the heat and the heavy tunic had combined to let him decide that the effort of speaking was worth keeping to a minimum.
‘Wood against wood tends to damage at least one of the woods. Rope absorbs the blow on both woods and is easier to replace if it wears. Now strike, left and right.’
When Brann felt like he could lift the sword no more, he made to stop.
‘Yes, you may stop with the post. But now you swing at nothing.’
‘At nothing? Why would I want to practise missing?’
‘Because you need to practise coping with missing. That is when you are at your most vulnerable. Off balance and out of shape. And it happens most when you are tired and least able to deal with it. Like you are now, and will be more before we finish. So swing right hard, stop it as quickly as you can, and swing back as soon as you can. Then right again.’
It wasn’t long before his arm started to seize up and forced a halt.
‘Not bad for a start.’ Salus lifted the water to Brann’s lips and he sucked it in greedily, feeling as if he could drink for ever. ‘Steady now.’ Disappointment surged as it was pulled away, scattering drops down his front. ‘Enough to keep you going, but too much and it’ll be coming back up before you know it. Now back to the shield work.’
A hard lump of earth exploded against the back of his head, his shocked flinch bending him over.‘Splendid! Our helpers have saved us the trouble of walking back over there.’
And so it continued, relentlessly. And worse each time. More clods flew, and in faster succession. He was urged to hit the post increasingly, not harder and quicker but longer and more. When he was striking at nothing, Salus would pick up a thick rod and poke him in the chest between swings, hard enough to cause pain even through the thick padding of the tunic. He started trying to bring up his shield following each missed swing, but only succeeded in hitting himself on the forehead. And the rod still poked him. Still, it seemed a decent move to attempt, and the rod would come at him whether he tried it or not, so he felt it was worth persevering with it.
And then back to the shield work. And again. And again.
While stopping for water, Brann stopped in mid-swallow. ‘I had forgotten about the heat.’ He was astonished at the realisation.
Salus clapped him on the back. ‘You see. Your first achievement! Now the post. Left then right then left.’
There was movement behind him. He whirled, crouching behind his shield.
‘Very good,’ said Cassian. He stepped forward and, with a finger, lifted the tip of the wooden sword so that it was held in readiness beside the protection of the shield. ‘Like a snake, ready to strike.’ He noticed Brann’s puzzled look. ‘Like an arrow drawn and ready to fly. No use fending off a blow if you are not able to exploit any opportunity, should it present itself.’
His eyes squinted slightly and he cocked his head. Twisting the strap on Brann’s right wrist, he turned the hilt a fraction in the boy’s grip. ‘This way, yes? Now you will swing more easily. Now, drop your sword then turn to face Salus.’
Brann whirled, and stood poised, shield and sword ready. Cassian adjusted his elbow and stepped back. ‘Good feet, good balance. Deliberate but almost right. And lead with your eyes. Dizziness is not a benefit when someone seeks to kill you. And you will see more, sooner. Now to me.’
He faced the old soldier again, who moved to correct his sword arm, then stopped with a shake of his head. ‘No, it’s fine. Now thirty more times doing it right. If you get it wrong, you start again.’
Brann got it right. By ten, the position didn’t feel so awkward. By thirty, his arms were following the pattern themselves.
‘Good boy.’ Cassian looked delighted.
Brann looked at him. ‘When do I start practising with an opponent?’
The man leant on a plain staff, for all the world like the shaft of a spear without the head. ‘Did you not listen earlier? You cannot learn to fight in one day. Your brain would not accept it. We must train your muscles. You are not used to the movement of a shield or sword, but your muscles learn and remember on their own. They do not need the brain to work out what is best and waste time telling them. If they do it often enough, they do it themselves. So we are teaching your arms to remember. If you come back tomorrow, we can start to teach your head.’ His hand patted Brann’s head then, almost absently, ruffled his hair. ‘Listen to Salus. He is a good man, and has won many fights, inside and out of the Arena. You will most probably die tomorrow, but his words will reduce that possibility a little each time you hear them. Now, the post. Left then right then left. And always with the shield ready to protect.’
He nodded at Salus and ambled away, smiling benignly at the gladiators he passed. No matter their activity, they stopped as he passed and greeted him with their right hands on their chests.
Salus’s face dropped into a glare of an intensity that tightened Brann’s chest. ‘You see the respect and the affection that man brings from those gladiators? That comes from his achievements and his knowledge, yes. But it also comes from his simple acceptance of everyone who comes here to live, and his passion to protect them by improving them as fighters in every way he can. Already he does that for you, so if you want any chance at all to live tomorrow, you will listen and remember every word he says, and waste no time questioning him.’
Brann nodded through his embarrassment.
Salus’s smile returned like the sun emerging from a cloud. ‘Good. Now, face that post and show me you heard the man.’
By the time Brann turned from the post to take the next clod on his shield, the old man was gone. But the fatigue had eased just enough to see him through to dusk.
Before he allowed him to eat, Salus took him into the main house, leading him through to the room with the pools where he had met Cassian. Brann wondered if the master of the school ever met anyone in his house with clothes on, but found the room empty, little light entering by the windows but lamplight glowing on the still surface of the water.
He turned to Salus. ‘Where is he?’
The big shoulders shrugged. ‘No idea. Now let Marlo take off your clothes.’
‘What?’
But before he could object, the padded tunic was unlaced at the shoulders and fell to his ankles under its considerable weight. Brann felt as it he was rising off the ground.
‘Oh, that feels so good.’ A flash of a blade saw Marlo expertly slice his clothes until they, too, lay on the floor. Brann dropped his shield to cover himself. ‘Oh, that’s just great. Now what will I wear tomorrow?’
Salus looked puzzled. ‘You think we have no clothing to give you? What you had was nice for visiting the Emperor, but not so suitable for the Arena. And if you are to live or die as a man of Cassian, you must be seen as one.’ He patted the symbol on his own tunic. ‘Now, into the first bath.’
‘The what?’
‘Bath. The pool of water nearest you.’
Brann tilted the sword and shield pointedly. ‘With these?’
‘Why not? They are wood. They will not rust.’
The water was warm and, he had to admit, extremely pleasant. He started to relax, the wooden weapons lying on the surface until, to his shock, Marlo stripped as well and slipped in. He recoiled in horror, but the boy just grinned.
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Northerner. You have two things missing from your chest and something extra between your legs. Not my type. My duties only extend so far.’
He rubbed a block of soap on Brann and eased the lather through his hair, then scrubbed at him with a hard-bristled brush.
‘Good,’ Salus nodded in approval when he was clean. ‘Now for your muscles. Into the second bath.’
He gasped with the heat of the water as he sank into the middle pool. Sitting neck-deep, he felt his arms and legs grow weak and his head light.
Salus stood over him. ‘Thirty breaths in this bath, then thirty in the next. Six times in each.’
Brann rose and emerged from the water, deep pink on all but his head. He stepped into the third pool but snatched his foot back with a yelp. ‘You are not serious! That’s like ice!’
Salus shoved him between the shoulders and he was launched headlong into the water, the sudden cold constricting his chest and tensing every part of his body. As he surfaced, spluttering, the man said amiably, ‘Better to endure shock for one second than to drag it over many. Thirty breaths, then back in the hot.’
‘I’ll have to start breathing again before I can count them,’ Brann gasped.
Marlo patted him dry with a thick towel at the end.
‘If that was meant to make me feel better, it was a waste of time,’ Brann grumbled. ‘I feel as weak as ever.’
‘You are tired because you have worked; water cannot fix that. It is unfortunate, and you would have benefited from a rest day today, but you will be better tomorrow tired with muscles that know how to move than fresh and flailing.’
‘So how does this help then?’
‘This, curious one, is to let you move tomorrow. Were you merely to sleep now, you would wake with limbs stiffened to immobility. The hot lets your blood flow, the cold tightens your muscles in. One then the other flushes the blood through the muscles, like bellows sucking in air then shooting it out, taking with it all that should not be there. Your muscles will be clean and ready for tomorrow.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Now, clothing, food and sleep.’
As soon as he woke, he could feel the wisdom in Salus’s words. He started a stretch, and was immediately reminded of the heavy wood attached to his wrists.
He had slept soundly. Even the prospect of what lay ahead when he woke and the awkwardness of having a wooden sword and shield strapped to him hadn’t managed to stop him from sinking into deep slumber as soon as he had laid back. That was the benefit of exhausting himself. He had no exhaustion now to overwhelm his thoughts. His breathing quickened and his stomach clenched. Today was when it happened. Today, he could push away the prospect into the future no longer.
He had been wakened by the sound of the men in the cots around him waking and rising, and he grew jealous of the ordinariness of their actions. He ached with a yearning for mundane daily life and felt tears of despair fill his eyes. He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor, and blinked in time to see two familiar figures approaching, wiping the back of his right forearm across his eyes before anyone could notice the moisture, and cursing silently the stupid blunt weapons he was forced to grip.
‘Excellent, you are eager for the day,’ Salus boomed. Brann didn’t feel it was worth disagreeing with the assessment, though it could not have been further from the truth. His guts were trying to force themselves up through his throat and he lurched slightly.
If Salus noticed, he chose not to acknowledge it. ‘Marlo, if you could be so good as to help our young friend dress?’
An under-tunic, open almost from armpit to waist, allowed him to dress without removing the shield, and the weight-laden padded tunic was laced onto him once more. Numbly, he followed Salus to the rope-wound post, stopping only to eat briefly the same food as had been his lunch the previous day, turning away from those around him to mask the sight of Marlo feeding him like a baby.
The movements against the post were fluid, much to his surprise and Salus’s delight. When he swung at fresh air, it seemed easier to drag the sword back than it had been just the evening before. Right, then left, than right again. As he started to bring the heavy wood back again, Salus flashed the rod forward. He flicked up the shield, knocking the rod skywards, then crashed the sword into it on the swing that followed. He wasn’t sure who of the pair of them was more astonished.
Salus waved away the clod-throwers who were about to start launching their missiles. ‘Thank you, but if he can do that with his shield, not necessary.’ He turned to Brann. ‘What made you think of that?’
Brann managed a small smile. ‘I thought of it yesterday, but my arm wouldn’t do it. To be honest, I had forgotten it again until my arms did it.’
‘Today is a good day to start doing it.’ Cassian’s voice behind him made him jump. There was a woman with him this time, tall and willowy, dark of skin and eyes and with hair that was a mass of thick tendrils, halfway between black and white. ‘Thank you, good Salus. Your work has been well done. The results have exceeded expectations.’
Salus nodded his head. ‘You are kind, boss, but the boy did it. I hope there is a chance I will see him again today.’
Brann felt his eyes filling up again. He suddenly felt very young. Too young to be facing this. But Salus could not have done more to help him. He turned to the large man. ‘I, er, I…’
Salus grinned. ‘I know. You love me, of course you do. Now come back and make me my dinner tonight.’ Before Brann could answer, he was walking away.
The woman cut in, turning the boy by the shoulders and looking him over. ‘Strong for his size. You have rowed?’ Her voice was cool and measured. Brann nodded. ‘That helps. Let us visit the pig.’
Brann wondered who warranted this name, but was almost disappointed to find it a literal description. He was taken to a side room in the building where he had eaten and found the carcass of a pig hanging from the ceiling.
Cassian nodded to Marlo. ‘Relieve our young friend of his practice weapons.’
Considering the ease with which the boy’s knife sliced through the leather straps, the knots having been tightened beyond unpicking by the bathwater the night before and the movement before and after, Brann was relieved that his speed of use was matched by a surety of movement. The wooden weapons fell to the ground and Brann looked at his hands in surprise as they rose towards the ceiling of their own accord, as if he were a puppet operated by an invisible giant.
