And in this he begged my attendance. 'It's time for a diversion, Caesarius, if only for a day or two,' he said. 'You're disappointed in me, I know. A change of view is what we need.'
We were late arriving that day because of pressing business that had kept him at the palace — vastly late, to the irritation of the crowd, which typically looked forward as much to viewing the Emperor and his entourage in the box as the actual combat down below. The preliminary rounds had already been fought, and the mob had begun clamoring for the event for which it had paid, the battle between champions. It was only at this time that Julian arrived, followed by myself and a modest train of courtiers. The crowd erupted in cheers as he took his seat and nodded to the president of the circus to announce the climactic event.
There was at this time a Gallic champion with the unpronounceable nickname of Vercingetorix, in commemoration of the powerful Arverni chieftain who had so vexed Julius Caesar centuries before. He was said to have never been defeated in gladiatorial combat — which goes without saying, because all battles at this level were to the death. The man was huge — a good head taller than average, and solid muscle from head to toe, with long, auburn hair flowing loose to his waist and enormous mustaches streaming down the sides of his chin, a source of fascination to the crowd. As Vercingetorix was announced he sauntered into the arena to deafening cheers, as nonchalant as if returning from the market, his hands swinging freely at his sides, nodding casually up to acquaintances he recognized in the stands. He wore only a crimson loincloth and a dark, polished-leather helmet that obscured the entire top of his face, with openings for his eyes, serving the dual purpose of keeping his impressive hair out of his vision, and lending him a terrifying appearance, like that of an executioner. He wore sturdy sandals and a tiny string around his neck, which appeared all the more thin and fragile by contrast with the brawniness and rippling sinews of his shoulders and chest. A tiny object hung from the thread, which he kissed as if it were a talisman as he stopped short in front of the Emperor's box, his enormous sword hung casually at his right side from his broad belt. His shield, a custom-made affair of at least four thicknesses of ox hide overlayered with a sheet of bronze and studded with costly jewels and gold inlay, hung from its carrying strap across his shoulder, like a trophy on display. Although Vercingetorix was young, perhaps no more than twenty-five, one could tell at a glance that he was a showman as well as a supreme fighter, and he cultivated the appearance of a barbarian chieftain, much to the crowd's delight. He stood motionless before us, staring at the Emperor through his mask, his massive chest rising and falling slowly, and I marveled that a man could stand naked before a hundred thousand people, about to fight in combat to the death, and breathe so deeply and calmly.
'Where were men like that when we were fighting Chonodomarius, Caesarius? Julian asked in a whisper, gazing in amazement at the warrior's sheer bulk. The sun glinted off the tiny talisman hanging from his neck, almost buried in the mat of reddish hair covering his chest, and I saw that it was a cross.
The president of the circus then announced Vercingetorix' opponent, a Romanized Syrian giant, taller even than the Gaul, though less Herculean in build, with long, rangy arms and a quick, nervous spring to his step as he trotted across the arena to take his place at his rival's side, facing us. This man was darker, with deep olive skin and a head almost shorn but for a layer of short, bristly hairs. He was older than the Gaul by some ten or fifteen years, and his face was scarred like one who has survived many such battles, with his nose lying lopsidedly to one side. Perhaps the most salient feature about his physique was the inordinate size of his right biceps and forearm, his sword arm; the forearm alone bulged to almost twice the size of its comrade on the left, with a swell almost like that of a thigh muscle, from years of exercise and training in swordsmanship.
He, too, was naked but for a loincloth and a large sword and shield, though his weapons were completely unadorned, lacking even in polish, as of one who refrained from all external frills or distractions that might burden him in the task at hand. He looked like a military man, and indeed, a courtier nearby whispered to me that he was a former legionary, plucked from his army duties in the East by imperial scouts who had been impressed by his size and fighting ability. His reputation was as a scutarius, a gladiator favoring the large shield and sword. Leo, for that was the name he had chosen, was famed throughout the Empire for his long reach and his lightning speed; and the cheers of the crowd when his name was announced were soon drowned by the cries of the bookies and the bettors as they adjusted their odds and placed their final wagers on the match's outcome.
Side by side they stood, Vercingetorix and Leo, staring hard at Julian, until with a nod from the president, an orchestra blasted a cacophonous fanfare and the crowd fell silent. At another nod, the two warriors simultaneously raised their right arms in salute, and intoned the customary greeting in clear, confident voices: Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant! 'Hail, Emperor, those who are about to die salute you!' They then retreated several paces in opposite directions to mount their shields, still keeping their eyes expectantly on the imperial box. At the final nod, this time from Julian himself, they drew their swords, turned away, and looked at each other for the first time.
A fever seemed to grip the stadium as the combatants warily circled each other, every man in the crowd standing and straining to see over the heads of those in front of him, bellowing at the top of his lungs the name of his favorite, or the action to be taken: 'Strike, Gaul!' 'Slaughter him, Leo!' 'I've bet my house on you!' 'I've wagered my daughter on your head!' 'Kill him!' 'Kill the bastard!'
The fighters clashed fiercely but cautiously, ducking and bobbing their heads right and left, performing half lunges with their swords, each testing the reflexes of the other, their eyes fixed only on each other's eyes, unblinking, focused with a concentration that blotted out all other sights around them.
Suddenly the Syrian launched himself forward, his shield held high in a tremendous lunge, landing with a crash on the Gaul's shield. The crowd's roar swelled as the two scuffled for an instant, their swords flailing and hammering, the Gaul suffering a glancing blow on his left shoulder that seemed to enrage him. Summoning all the force in his legs, he sprang forward against Leo, who was still bearing down upon him with his shield. The Syrian, overpowered by Vercingetorix' superior weight and strength, let the Gaul's momentum carry him forward, while he himself fell and rolled deftly on his back away from his opponent's rush. Vercingetorix, however, was too skilled to be fooled by such an old trick. He skidded to a stop and whirled just as Leo was again leaping to his feet. Disappointed that he had missed a chance to impale his enemy while he was down, Vercingetorix relaxed slightly to prepare for his next move, dropped his shield a few inches, and stole a glance at his bleeding shoulder.
That was the mistake the wily Syrian had been waiting for. During his entire roll and feint, Leo's eyes had never left those of Vercingetorix. Now, in that split second when he saw the Gaul glance away, when he detected the tiniest hint of distraction in his enemy's attention, he leaped.