Bookworm Gladiator

SEPTIMUS

The Nokchi tent was somber. Lucius handed Septimus his dark helmet and pulled him into a bear hug, not letting go until their youngest Gayev, or Gaius as he was known, slapped them on the shoulder, "scoot now, my turn!"

The youngest Merkov was the only one who was ever cheerful before a fight. Well, Paco was the youngest Merkov, now that Septimus thought of it. How quickly time flies. The cycle of life does not stop for the incomplete. And that's what Septimus felt every time he donned his armour. Incomplete.

And he could never figure out what was missing.

"Walk with Asha," Hurek muttered when it was his turn. They touched foreheads and stayed that way until someone entered the tent. It was Hurek's odd companion, the skinny scholar from Atia's retinue. Cicero.

"You twisted your scythe like I told you?" he demanded. The bookworm had no business in fighting, and yet he was able to figure out things that had taken Septimus years to develop. He had a permanent frown on his face and spoke as if he carried the experience of a hundred years. Somehow, Septimus believed him.

"Yes, I did," Septimus held up his weapon: a scythe with it's blade turned upside down. Cicero had called it a stupid weapon, especially since the original blade only cut inward. After much arguing, he'd convinced Septimus to at least switch the blade around so that it functioned similar to a halberd. Admittedly, it flowed much better.

"Now, remember," Cicero continued, "Don't do anything brash in the first round. The fucker is too dangerous up close. Take it in stride and we'll see where to go from there."

Lucius didn't like Cicero. He called him a dried up pickle with shifty eyes. It was true, the sour man had an irritable way about him, and he was always scurrying about like he was up to no good. But that's what Septimus liked about him, interestingly enough. He seemed just as done with life's charades as Septimus was, and wanted to do something about it. And most of all, he didn't pretend to be better than anyone. Even now, he spoke to Septimus, a slave, as if they were equals and very familiar with each other. Even friends.

"Hello?" Cicero knocked on Septimus' helmet, "anyone there?"

"It will be fine," Septimus replied, "I'm ready."

Enough chatter and hugs, Septimus thought. It was time to reap some Latin blood.

***

Palmyra's afternoon sun was merciless. It left the ground simmering with heat waves, making it difficult for Septimus to see through his visor. He tried to seek out Brutus. But his helmet was so hot, he could feel his sweat evaporate from his cheeks and, trapped inside the metal frame, burn his eyes.

Septimus focused on the sound of his boots, instead. Clinking, step after step, crunching on the dry maydan field. The screams of his brothers mixed with that of the excited crowd, coming to a crescendo as Brutus' armored frame materialized from within the haze.

"Hail to Brutus! Hail to the Vigils of Mars!" his brethren called him. He turned to them, a dozen or so militiamen and Vigils, cheering from beside the royal platform. Septimus turned to his own corner, made up of slaves, laborers, and the odd Cicero, already screaming some instructions to him.

Besides just the slaves, though, he noticed others push closer to his side. Farmers, temple-worshippers, local citizens of all ages and profession. He could say anything to them and they would pay close attention to his words. And when had that ever been the case for a slave?

Septimus had grown up ignored and beaten, trying to claw back every inch of humanity he could for himself and his brothers ever since they'd been stolen as children. And so, with shoulders wide, he raised his scythe up to the crowd's pleasure, and chose a chant for himself. "Vivere liber! Vivere liber! Vivere liber!"

The slaves were unsure of his words, he could see. And it wasn't until Cicero, a patrician himself, cried the words that the others followed suit. Hurek's voice boomed, leading the others to drown the field with the sacred words. "Vivere liber! Vivere liber!"

The umpire, an unassuming priest-like figure, blew his horn and Septimus heard Brutus before he saw him. The man charged him like a bull, his leather-strapped boots throwing up dust as he barreled towards him. Vivere liber.

And then they danced. Septimus launched vicious swipes to keep the man from closing the distance and easily stopped him in his tracks. He had a squarish frame, his round shield and war-hammer clinched tight to his body, and a Centurion styled helmet of shining steel. It became a surprising obstacle, as it reflected the sun's glare, momentarily blinding Septimus.

Cicero had somehow figured that out and was yelling for Septimus to circle back around. To turn Brutus' back to the sun instead.

"Quit running, bitch," Brutus said as he followed.

Septimus gritted his teeth and found himself stepping forward, his scythe wayward, and Brutus whipped his strong-arm. The war-hammer smacked into Septimus shoulder with a crack that echoed across the field and even rang inside Septimus' helmet. Brutus followed it with a shield-bash, forcing Septimus on the back-foot.

He couldn't feel his arm, and he fought the urge to drop his scythe and start fist-fighting. "His legs, Septimus! Remember his legs!" Cicero screeched.

Septimus smacked the Vigil's knee with the butt of his scythe, which gave the aggressive man a pause, and then brought down the blade on his head. Brutus had the reflexes to bring his shield up at the perfect moment, though.

Good, still good, Septimus thought, already huffing and hissing for air through his stuffy helmet. His body screamed discomfort, and he felt incomplete. But he'd created some distance at last so he kept at it.

Knee... head. Ankle... head. Shin... head...

Brutus snarled in frustration. Like a lion being held away from his dinner. Every time he came close, Septimus gave him a reason to turtle up. His forearms burned with the constant combinations, and his vision had gotten much worse than he could have imagined. Brutus was just a blurry shadow through his visor, swinging a large, squarish club that was his war-hammer.

Septimus took a moment to draw his breath and almost caught another wild swing by the Vigil. He blocked it with the shaft of his scythe, and the war-hammer blew it to smithereens with a resounding snap that jolted the crowd to a frenzy. But before Brutus could capitalize, the umpire blew his horn, saving Septimus at the last second.

The Vigil snarled in frustration, war-hammer raised as Septimus held up what was left of his scythe in a pathetic attempt to block. He waited for the man to lower his weapon and be cajoled away by the umpire. Brutus' glare betrayed his intentions. Septimus would find no honor here.

***

Lucius dropped water on Septimus' head as Hurek rubbed cold meat into his shoulder. "Goat milk," Cicero offered but Septimus refused. He didn't feel like drinking or eating. He just needed to breathe. The helmet lay on his lap but he kept thinking of chucking it away. "Paco," Septimus called, "Where's Paco?"

The boy hopped in front of him, "Lamur uncle! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, boy. Listen to me," Septimus pulled the child close. "You take of your uncles and your mother, you hear?"

"Don't talk like that," Lucius said, "you'll be fine."

"But he needs to understand-"

"He does," Lucius said firmly, anger in his voice. Hurek laid a hand on Septimus' knee, "You'll be fine, cousin. Keep him away and leave it to crowd decision."

"Fuck that," Cicero hissed, his bald head coming into view. "You need to wrestle him."

"What?" both Hurek and Lucius said incredulously.

"Look, you have no weapon-"

"I brought a second scythe," Septimus replied simply and he could see Cicero struggling to contain his frustration. The scholar rubbed his temples, "look, you have no good weapon against him. He's covered head to toe, and his armor is not wheat!"

"The scythe represents life and death, and freedom from-"

"For fuck's sake Septimus," Cicero cried, "Listen, the next time Brutus puts his weight on his right foot, he's getting ready to lunge, you hear? You tackle him in that moment. He won't be able to defend."

Slowly, Septimus nodded. It might give Septimus a chance to not depend on his vision so much. He could barely see as it is.

"Feint, duck, tackle," Cicero repeated.

***

Brutus began the second round the same way - charging down the center, lunging with his war-hammer like a wild man. But Septimus had a good gauge of the distance, now. He circled to Brutus' shield side, placing careful jabs at his legs and keeping the ferocious fighter at bay. Brutus in turn, had the muscle memory to play the little game, but he quickly grew frustrated again, taking more chances with his sweeps.

It began as little swipes to slap away Septimus' scythe. He blocked head shots with the shield, and anything below he tried to swipe into it, stepping closer and closer. Until Septimus finally offered a feint, and he took it.

Brutus' movements weren't quick enough to hide his intent. He pulled back, heavier than before, and just as Cicero described, leaned into his lead foot. Septimus, with full faith in the scholar's words, didn't think twice.

He dropped his scythe and launched into the Vigil's hips. He smacked the air out of the man's lungs as they crashed into a dusty scramble. Their heavy armour turned out to be the perfect entrapment, as Brutus couldn't slip away so easily. Septimus climbed over and around to Brutus' back, using years of experience to manipulate the man's frame and balance. The Vigil refused to let go of his weapon, trying to use it to post himself up. A mistake.

Septimus kicked at it, forcing the man to fall face first into the dirt. The next few shots came so naturally, Septimus wondered why he hadn't done this from the start. He smacked his knee into Brutus' helmet, black iron on steel, again and again. The position was ingrained in Septimus muscle memory, and he didn't even need to see clearly. He felt the man's movements and guided his own, eyes closed, focusing on their breaths, their grunts, the placement of their limbs and the momentum of their core.

Septimus was lost in his own world, in a meditative state. So when the horn finally blew, it brought with it a thunder of noise and voices he'd managed to tune out. "Vivere liber! Vivere liber!"

Hurek's booming chant, Lucius and Gayev's howls, and especially the slaves; who had never before raised their voice in front of freedmen and citizens, were finally screaming at the top of their lungs. Septimus left the Vigil on the floor, and with a ragged throat itching for fresh air, he pulled his helmet free. Despite the heat, Septimus almost felt like he'd been hit with a fresh breeze.

"Vivere liber!" They chanted, and Septimus raised his scythe to their cries. But something felt wrong, as Septimus caught what Cicero was doing. His mind didn't entirely catch up to the scholar's words, but the man was screeching and jumping and pointing at something behind Septimus.

Brutus?

Septimus finally turned back to the Vigil and barely caught the last image of a war-hammer rushing towards his face.

***