slapped the leather-wrapped hilt of Exalter, my over-long great sword that hung at my left side. Like the Saxon chieftain, I too had a punching dagger on my other hip, a slender ribbed blade under a bone handle. Behind my neck I had another, shorter dagger, sheathed and part-concealed under my segmentata armour. It was handily placed for an over-the shoulder draw.
My segmentata armour had long ago replaced the usual chain mail. It was much lighter and its lobster-like hoops, held by internal leather straps, moved easily over a lanolin-greased leather jerkin. I was not wearing metal greaves to protect my shins – vital in a shield wall - but I noticed that my opponent was, although his feet were relatively unprotected. That weight on the legs could be a factor in slowing down his pace a little.
I assessed what his war kit told me. Like me, he had on a Roman-style helmet with cheek pieces, but his breastplate was leather and over it he wore a bear’s pelt jerkin that would not only keep him warm but would deflect or absorb most blows. His arms were bare, heavily tattooed and sported bronze bands at bicep and wrist. In his right hand he carried a war axe, double-bitted. That meant I’d have to be aware of the backswing, I thought. What looked like an iron-bladed sword was thrust into his broad belt and he had a short dagger strapped to the inside of his right forearm. Interesting. Was he left-handed?
Like me, he carried no shield, like me he was a big man. I considered that he would be faster on his feet because I have a mutilated left foot from a long-ago duel like this one, but he could well be slower and clumsier in his arm movements with that huge axe. He wore trews and short boots that looked soft and loose. My own footwear was standard legionary issue: toeless, heel-less socks and open-toed marching boots with nailed soles. We were on sheep-nibbled turf, level and springy. I felt I would have an advantage in the footing.
I looked into the fellow’s face and was amazed to see that he was chewing something. He grinned, mistaking my surprise for fear and when he spoke I thought what I saw was a mushroom cap in his mouth. “I’ll be keeping that,” he said, nodding to my sagum, a prized piece of equipment. “And that, too,” looking at the beautiful sword that was Exalter. I let him boast and pretended fear. The longer we delayed the more the hallucinogenic mushrooms would have time to act.
“Do we have to do this?” I said in a low voice.
He grinned again. “Strip naked, pile your clothes and weapons on the ground and crawl away. You’ll have to say politely ‘Thank you, Boartooth, for letting my miserable self live.’ I’ll take your horse and equipment, and I might let you liv e,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I think I’ll just take your head. After I knock the teeth out, it will make good eating for my pigs. The tee th don’t digest well, you see.”
His face flushed. “We’ll see who takes whose head,” he growled. I was watching for it, and I saw the first tiny upwards movement as he suddenly swung the axe in his right hand, so I easily sidestepped the lunge, and I drew Exalter in the same motion.
Perhaps, I mused as we circled each other, he was not left-handed, or maybe it was a ruse. I had Exalter pointed at him and suddenly, I tossed it from my right to my left hand. His eyes widened and I knew he was left-handed and now considered his advantage of surprise was over. I silently thanked the gladiator instructors at the Carnutum school who had taught us those street-fighting techniques so many years ago. Their tricks had saved my life several times, now they would be tested again. I tossed the sword back to my right hand again, confusing him more.
Boartooth was grasping his axe handle in both hands, holding the weapon out in front of him, bitts horizontal. It was a clumsy position, and I judged he planned a stab at my chest to unbalance me, because a swing would give me too much
My segmentata armour had long ago replaced the usual chain mail. It was much lighter and its lobster-like hoops, held by internal leather straps, moved easily over a lanolin-greased leather jerkin. I was not wearing metal greaves to protect my shins – vital in a shield wall - but I noticed that my opponent was, although his feet were relatively unprotected. That weight on the legs could be a factor in slowing down his pace a little.
I assessed what his war kit told me. Like me, he had on a Roman-style helmet with cheek pieces, but his breastplate was leather and over it he wore a bear’s pelt jerkin that would not only keep him warm but would deflect or absorb most blows. His arms were bare, heavily tattooed and sported bronze bands at bicep and wrist. In his right hand he carried a war axe, double-bitted. That meant I’d have to be aware of the backswing, I thought. What looked like an iron-bladed sword was thrust into his broad belt and he had a short dagger strapped to the inside of his right forearm. Interesting. Was he left-handed?
Like me, he carried no shield, like me he was a big man. I considered that he would be faster on his feet because I have a mutilated left foot from a long-ago duel like this one, but he could well be slower and clumsier in his arm movements with that huge axe. He wore trews and short boots that looked soft and loose. My own footwear was standard legionary issue: toeless, heel-less socks and open-toed marching boots with nailed soles. We were on sheep-nibbled turf, level and springy. I felt I would have an advantage in the footing.
I looked into the fellow’s face and was amazed to see that he was chewing something. He grinned, mistaking my surprise for fear and when he spoke I thought what I saw was a mushroom cap in his mouth. “I’ll be keeping that,” he said, nodding to my sagum, a prized piece of equipment. “And that, too,” looking at the beautiful sword that was Exalter. I let him boast and pretended fear. The longer we delayed the more the hallucinogenic mushrooms would have time to act.
“Do we have to do this?” I said in a low voice.
He grinned again. “Strip naked, pile your clothes and weapons on the ground and crawl away. You’ll have to say politely ‘Thank you, Boartooth, for letting my miserable self live.’ I’ll take your horse and equipment, and I might let you liv e,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I think I’ll just take your head. After I knock the teeth out, it will make good eating for my pigs. The tee th don’t digest well, you see.”
His face flushed. “We’ll see who takes whose head,” he growled. I was watching for it, and I saw the first tiny upwards movement as he suddenly swung the axe in his right hand, so I easily sidestepped the lunge, and I drew Exalter in the same motion.
Perhaps, I mused as we circled each other, he was not left-handed, or maybe it was a ruse. I had Exalter pointed at him and suddenly, I tossed it from my right to my left hand. His eyes widened and I knew he was left-handed and now considered his advantage of surprise was over. I silently thanked the gladiator instructors at the Carnutum school who had taught us those street-fighting techniques so many years ago. Their tricks had saved my life several times, now they would be tested again. I tossed the sword back to my right hand again, confusing him more.
Boartooth was grasping his axe handle in both hands, holding the weapon out in front of him, bitts horizontal. It was a clumsy position, and I judged he planned a stab at my chest to unbalance me, because a swing would give me too much
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