A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow - By Levkoff, Andrew Page 0,44
On their urging, I had let Hanno sleep in. The stable master showed us to three available mounts. Betto came into my stall and was about to remove the tack from where it hung on the wall when he was brought up short by my upturned palm. “Tend to your own beast, good Betto, and let me see if I can calculate through logic what goes where.”
“That would be an interesting experiment to watch, were we not of a mind to be home before nightfall.”
“Let him be,” Malchus said, leaning up against a post to watch.
Betto’s eyes, which even in repose risked bursting free of their sockets, bulged even further. “I can’t look,” he said, walking off across the straw-strewn floor to prepare his own mare. “He’s buying us supper if we’re late.”
After I said good morning to the bay gelding assigned to me, letting him get my scent and speaking polite words of introduction, I covered his back with a felt pad, secured the four-horned saddle by tying off the girth as well as the breast and breech straps. To protect his flanks, I attached pendant cloths to the saddle. The bay took the bit and bridle easily enough so, gently holding the single rein I stepped up onto the mounting block and swung my right leg over the saddle. Once settled, I nodded at Malchus. Smiling like a proud father, he unhooked the stall ropes, patted the gelding’s neck and we backed out of the stall. Betto was still fussing with his mount’s girth.
“On my parents’ farm in Elateia I usually rode bareback, but this arrangement should pose no problem. Race you to the Porta Flaminia and back? Whenever you’re ready, that is.”
Malchus said to Betto, “By the look of it, Flavius, we’ll be back in time for you to treat us to a fine and sizable lunch.”
•••
At long last, the day arrived when I stood with both wooden gladius and wicker shield in perspiring but determined hands. I was going to learn to how to fight. Not how to wrestle, a sport I had enjoyed with my father as a child, but to learn the way of the Romans, the killing way, with sword and shield, javelin and dagger. We stood before a thick, six-foot tall, vertical training post, identical to the ones used by gladiators preparing for the arena. I would be taught many of their own techniques: the parry and feint, the over-the-shield stab, the knee-drop and groin-thrust.
Malchus took me through each maneuver, step by step.
By mid-morning it was clear to all assembled, most especially to my embarrassed, humiliated self, that I was useless.
Betto said it best when he observed, “Malchus, he’s useless!”
As much strength and stamina as I had gained, the coordination of sword and shield was simply beyond me. Within minutes I would tire of holding my scutum aloft, even the lighter, standard version. Practicing with a stationary post was bad enough; sparring with my friends provided proof beyond question that if my goal was to tread the fields of Elysium before my time, wielding a gladius against an enemy with the least particle of prowess was the surest way to transport me there. After all that work! I was uncharacteristically irate; words of solace from Betto and Malchus made my failure all the more frustrating. I hurled my shield and sword to the ground, thoughtless of the damage I might be doing to the equipment. Like a child, I stomped to the edge of the training field where I could hopefully continue my silent tantrum in peace. Betto, not one to let any hornets’ nest be without shaking it to be sure that no one was left at home, followed me, chattering words of useless encouragement at my heels. Hanno made to run after me, but Malchus grabbed the sleeve of his tunic and shook his head. They stood holding hands a few feet from the training post.
Flavius, you have brought this upon yourself. I spun round; if I could not carve him to tatters with a sword, my tongue, always honed and at the ready, would serve to prick and wound. But then I had a better idea. “Betto!” I growled in a tone even I did not recognize. The look on his poor face stuffed my curses down my throat, but not my frustration. “Give me that!” I snapped, pointing to his dagger.
“Alexander,” he said, suddenly timid, “I don’t think that’s—”
“Now!” He removed the pugio from his belt and reluctantly