Fronto shook his head in a daze and drew sharp breath at both the heat of the floor where he floundered and the pain in his shoulder, ribs and knuckles. Pushing himself up against the granite stand, he reached his full height for only a second before he had to duck madly to avoid the swung sword that whistled past his ear.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” he shouted, unable to concentrate enough to think of anything more useful, hoping that someone would hear the cry.
Quickly recovering, he danced out of the way of where he could see a vague looming shape and suddenly found himself mere inches away from Priscus, who pushed him back, just as a long, narrow and sharp sword swished through the air where he had been. Castor and Pollux had clearly marked their own targets.
As he staggered from Priscus’ shove, Fronto heard the attack coming before he saw it and threw himself forward into a painful roll across the mosaic floor, the blade passing harmlessly over the top of him as he came back up against the bench where he had so recently been relaxing.
“A hundred denarii just to piss off and bother someone else” he yelled.
His answer came in the form of the gladiator’s shield, swung out horizontally so that the dented bronze strip along the edge caught Fronto on the elbow, spinning him bodily and sending him sprawling across the bench.
Across the room he heard a cry of pain and could only hope it was the other gladiator and not Priscus that had issued the sound. There was no time to enquire, though, as, ignoring his throbbing elbow, he jumped up onto the bench, spied the looming shape of the huge man and kicked out as hard as he could.
The gladiator, even suffering such a restricted view and all but rendered deaf by the huge helmet, pulled back out of the way and the momentum carried Fronto off the bench and face first onto the floor.
How could the man be this alert and quick in such armour?
He struggled to turn onto his back and once again had to roll out of the way as the gladius slammed point first into the floor where he had been, sending up shards of plaster and half a dozen black and white tesserae.
Fronto scrambled away past the wide granite labrum, desperately trying to plan a useful move, but unable to come up with anything. The forbidding shape of that enormous helmet with its incongruously elaborate feathers appeared out of the enveloping mist and suddenly the sword lunged across the huge bowl’s flat surface, the water slopping this way and that, splashing Fronto’s chest as he danced back and right, being sure to keep the huge labrum between them.
As the sword pulled back away, Fronto anticipated the next move and ducked down to his left as the huge shield swept horizontally across the water’s surface, smashing the nozzle that fed the fresh water into the bowl and causing the jet to spray out at an angle.
He hardly had time to straighten again before he had to duck back out of the range of that thrusting blade.
And then he saw it coming.
Pollux made his mistake and Fronto, every bit as experienced in combat as the gladiator, recognised the opening for the opportunity it was and leapt on it.
Drawing the shield across, the gladiator repeated the sweeping blow, but this time as a backhand, the shield sweeping across the space as Fronto ducked sharply.
For a second, no more, the shield was swinging harmlessly out of the way and the sword was pulling back to the right for another blow.
Tensing, Fronto leapt bodily across the wide bowl, his finger tips wrapping themselves around the brim of the helmet and the feather-holder, his bound left hand scrabbling to maintain a grip on the short nozzle, snapping off the blue barb. His feet dangling as he lay across the bowl, his belly submerged in the cold water, Fronto hauled with every ounce of strength, yelping at the pain in his two broken fingers.
The move took the gladiator by surprise and the white eyes widened in their darkened hollows as he was pulled from his feet and slammed down face first into the bowl. The helmet disappeared into the cold water, the torrent running through all the gaps and holes in the iron construction and filling it in moments.
The huge man tried to shout, but the sound came out as submerged bubbles. The shield flailed and the sword jerked, trying to land a blow, but the man was prone, partially submerged and in desperation, bordering on panic. The gladius blow landed harmlessly on the granite edge of the labrum and the blade skittered away while the shield proved too heavy in the circumstances to lift over the top.
Fronto almost lost his grip as the huge, powerful killer struggled to free himself, and was forced to pull himself up and over until he was lying on top of the gladiator, both hands on the helmet, holding the face underwater.
Again and again the man bucked, trying to throw off his assailant until, after a lifetime of moments, the spasms slowed and the jerking stopped. Fronto held the head under the water for a count of forty, just to be sure, and then slid backwards until his feet touched the warm floor. The gladiator lay still in the huge, shallow bowl, his heavy helmet keeping him anchored there, bubbles occasionally escaping a join in the helmet.
He stepped back, taking a heavy breath, and suddenly became aware of the continuing grunts and scrapes of fighting across the room in the fog.
“Priscus?”
“Bit busy!” the reply came, sharply.
Fronto squinted into the mist and could just make out two shapes moving in the whiteness. A whirring confirmed which one was the double-bladed Castor.
Grimacing, Fronto stepped back to the slumped figure in the bowl. The sword had gone from the man’s hand sometime during the last throes of the struggle and could be anywhere on the floor in the mist. Narrowing his eyes, the weary legate crossed to the far side and worked the shield straps free from the man’s arm until the huge, rectangular item was in his hands.
Gritting his teeth, he padded quietly, barefoot, across the patterned floor toward the shadowy shape. Priscus had somehow managed to pull a heavy wooden slat from the bench and was using it like a sword to parry the blows of the gladiator, though the state of the wood and the tinny, acrid smell of blood announced that he wasn’t doing very well.
Smiling, Fronto approached the killer and raised the shield above his head.
“Hello” he said warmly.
The man spun round, a sword flicking out, ready to deliver a horrible blow but, as he did so, Fronto brought the huge, heavy shield down hard on the man’s unprotected skull, the rounded bronze boss smashing into his forehead just above the eye. The blow was hard enough to send the gladiator flat to the floor, his swords falling away, unheeded, as he passed from consciousness in an instant.
Priscus looked up at him in surprise as he lowered the wooden slat.
“A shield? Really?”
Fronto shrugged.
“You’d prefer I spent some time scouring around for something better?”
Priscus laughed as he reached down and gingerly touched a deep wound on his forearm.
“Thanks. Your style’s a bit peculiar, but your timing’s excellent as always.”
He paused to deliver a hearty kick, full of feeling, to the unconscious gladiator.
“What do we do? Tie him up and interrogate him?”
“No point” Fronto shrugged. “We know damn well who he was working for and what he was trying to do. Never leave a vengeful enemy behind you.”
Reaching down, he picked up one of the man’s swords and examined it.
“Ever seen one like this before?”
“Nope. Thin and sharp. Some sort of cavalry weapon I suppose. Hurts, though, I can confirm that for you.”
Fronto smiled as his friend fingered another wound on his thigh.