Etruscan Blood by AM Kirkby
***
She came to see the drill every few days. Faustus was always there, always working, with the weights, with the spear, or boxing, or wrestling; Servius exercised alone, privately, and earlier in the morning, for which she was grateful. She made a point of watching a different exercise every day, and it was rarely the one in which Faustus was involved; and a rumour went round that she was looking for bodyguards, for herself or for Tarquinius, with which she wasn't entirely displeased.
When she did see Faustus, he looked robust as ever, except that a closer look revealed that paleness round the mouth, the excessive sweat, the whitish cast to his eyes. His heart might kill him today, or tomorrow, in a week, a month; or he might last until age took him away with a whisper in the night. Nothing was certain. Except that no-one now yielded ground to him; he lost as often as he won.
It had rained the night before, after weeks of drought; the surface of the ground was slimed with mud, but underneath the baked dirt was rock hard. She saw one man slip, his front foot rushing away from him; the hard landing winded him. No athlete escaped the mud; their calves were brown with it; it splashed up in streaks over their torsos and faces. One wrestler had been taken down, rolled over, arm-locked; when he stood up to fight again, the sweat running down his face and chest carved pale tracks in the mud.
It was getting muggy already. The air blanketed her, heavy and damp; it was difficult to inhale, as if the air had thickened and become viscous.
Today, she let herself watch Faustus, for once. He'd already exercised with weights, vying with a much younger man to lift the heaviest, and winning; but now, sparring, he looked tired. Whenever he stepped back, it seemed that one leg dragged. The left, it was; favouring the right leg whenever he attacked. And on the attack, he was still as fast as he needed to be. The Roman style wasn't fast, it was solid, always pushing. She thought of the way the boys had fought in Tarchna when she was a girl, as fleet as swallows carving up the air, or trout leaping in water. Well, that dragging left foot might be simple tiredness, she supposed.
But Faustus was still ahead; he was cunning enough to lead his opponent into his reach, and turn him into the sun – that was a simple enough trick, but it was interesting how many men forgot it once the fight started heating up.
"Come on, old man," Faustus' opponent said, goading him on. That was never a good idea, she could have told him.
Faustus seemed not to have heard.
"Slow. Slow and old."
Faustus stepped back. He looked suddenly very tired.
His opponent smiled. Stupid; it was always stupid to let any rival know what you were thinking, though perhaps it was excusable in this case. He stepped in, raising both fists ready.
And suddenly, Faustus had stepped inside his reach and landed a punch. The other man stood dazed for a moment; Faustus took advantage of that to punch him again, then stepped back before his opponent had a chance to grapple with him.
"Old and slow," Faustus said. "But not stupid."
The other man spat. Spit mostly, and some blood.
"I'll fight two of you," he said.
"You think I can't take you alone?"
"Leave pride out of it. Him" – he pointed out one of the lads Tanaquil had spoken to, the one who was in Tarquin's horse – "he'll do."
The other man began to protest again, but the youngster was already stepping forward. One against two, then; really, Faustus should know better, but then men never did. As for leaving pride out of it; hypocrite. Or was he really so blind to himself? Some men were. She hadn't thought he was so stupid, though.
Voices from behind her:
"He shouldn't be doing that at his age."
"He asked for it."
"Even so. They shouldn't let him."
"His choice."
They were wary of Faustus, you could tell. Circling him, not coming to close quarters,as if they were facing an angry bull; harrying him, working together, so that he could never face one without turning his side or back to the other, exposing him to attack. Three would be better, but even with two they were closing down his options and making him work the way they wanted. Whenever he turned, they turned with him. There was no escape.
He stood still for a moment, as if puzzled, and they started to close. Then suddenly he rushed one of them, jabbing, and was past, breaking their teamwork, making them reassess how to tackle him.
That had served them notice. Faustus was still dangerous. They moved faster now, coming in further and dancing back, teasing. One made a run to try to take Faustus down, but the old Roman moved with surprising sudden speed, grabbing his opponent's arm and sinking his knees, bending, to throw him over one shoulder to hit the ground on his back, hard.
That gave him a few moments respite. The man slipped twice, getting up, in the thin mud. The youth looked across; seeing Faustus make for his still scrambling companion, he shouted to attract Faustus' attention, and when that failed, started in to grab Faustus from behind. As he came, though, Faustus sidestepped; he made to run past, but hadn't noticed Faustus reaching a foot out, and tripped, planing on the mud like an ugly duck trying to land.
Faustus reached up with one hand to wipe his forehead; a streak of mud smeared across his temple. The sweat was running into his eyes now, and he was squinting occasionally against the sun. With two opponents he couldn't use that trick of drawing them into the glare, and anyway, they'd be wise to that now. They were pushing him harder, and his left foot was dragging more noticeably.
"Give me a moment," Faustus said. Tanaquil knew then that he was beaten. He'd never asked quarter before.
He'd never been given quarter. And he wasn't now; the two attackers exchanged looks, then pressed on.
"A Gaul wouldn't give you a moment," the youth said.
Describing it afterwards, Tanaquil would sometimes say that it all fell apart from there. But it didn't, quite; that was a simplification. First she noticed the absence of strategy; Faustus was just responding to each movement, to each attack, with no sense now of an overall direction or rhythm. The tactics of desperation. You wouldn't, perhaps, have noticed the lack of strategy unless you'd been looking for it, unless you knew what you were looking for. And then his response to each stroke became slower, and as he slowed, his own attacks were more desperate, and seemed to have too much energy invested in them, so that they nearly overbalanced him more than once.
"Don't fall," she thought; that would suit her purposes at all, for him to be picked up and dusted down, and told not to over-exert himself.
Was his face reddening and darkening, or was that the lateness of the hour and the sunset colours flaming on his skin? His breath was coming hard; she saw him rub his ribs with his left hand. He was stooped a little now, as if the muscles of his flanks had tensed up and warped him, as if he'd aged suddenly in the last few minutes of fighting. His balance was gone; he lurched forward, crabbed his way reluctantly back, that foot dragging very badly now.
"Oh, let the old man alone," said the older one of his sparring partners, and stepped back. But the other kept going.
Now Faustus was weary, even his cunning couldn't keep him ahead. Twice the youngster landed a punch on him, each time springing back outside his reach before Faustus could retaliate. Whenever Faustus came near him, he sidestepped, or leapt back; he must be trying to tire the older man out. Tanaquil recognised the strategy. But Faustus kept going, kept trying, though he was grunting hoarsely, clearly in trouble.
And he was smart. Gods, but he was smart. As the youth ran for him, he stepped back, a little out of line, and as soon as he did it, Tanaquil could see exactly what Faustus had seen already, and reckoned on as a weapon, a rock lying in the mud between him and his attacker. A one in twenty chance; not more. But it worked. As the young man came on, his eyes on Faustus, he swerved sideways, and one foot came down on the rock. His ankle twisted; he staggered. Instantly, Faustus moved, grabbing his shoulders, throwing him down, winding him.
That should hav
He stopped. He looked above the lad's head, somewhere into the distance, it seemed; what was he looking for? What did he hope for? He swayed, once or twice, as if his body so hard used had gone soft; and then he toppled forwards, and fell with his face in the mud, and did not get up.
Later, people would say he'd grabbed at his chest, that his face had contorted with pain, that he'd seen death approaching. But Tanaquil saw the truth; he fell as insensible as a felled tree or a pole-axed ox.