“Hermes is a good instructor to teach you swordplay,” I told him. “Have you considered the gear you’re going to take with you?”
“Ah, I am not sure I understand,” the boy said.
“Simple enough. If it’s Spain or Gaul, you want the best sword you can buy. Get Gallic swords if you can, both a short sword for foot-fighting and a longsword for horseback. If it’s Macedonia, you want the best horses you can get. If it’s Parthia, don’t stint on your armor, because those buggers love to shoot you full of arrows. Greek plate armor is the best over there, the arrows just glance off.”
“Ah, thank you, Senator. I shall remember your advice.”
“No you won’t. You’ll probably just get killed like all the other young fools who go out to join the eagles with their heads stuffed with Homer and stories about Horatius.”
He wandered off, shaking his head. “A little rough on him, weren’t you?” Hermes chided.
“I just gave him almost the same advice my father gave me when I went off to Spain. Only the probable theaters of operation are different. I didn’t listen, why should he?”
I went to one of the equipment racks and tossed my toga atop it, then selected a wicker practice shield and a wooden sword. These were weighted to give them the feel and balance of real arms. Gladiators often trained with double-weight and even triple-weight arms, to build up strength and to make the real arms feel light when they went to fight seriously. I had always considered this a questionable practice and Asklepiodes concurred. He said that it caused more injuries in training than anything else.
“All right,” I said to Hermes, “Let’s fight.”
“I’m tired!” he protested. “I’ve been here all day!”
“That’s your fault,” I told him. “Now suffer for it.” I launched an attack at his face, forcing him to raise his shield, then I went low with a stab at his leading thigh. He evaded both easily. Tired or not, he was about fifteen years younger and trained daily with the sword. We contended for a long while, and I almost got the better of him a few times, but in the end he wore me down and I had to call a halt. We got a polite round of applause from the spectators and Balbus relieved me of my shield and sword, which I could barely lift by that time.
“You’re not too far off your best form, Decius Caecilius,” he said.
“You are too kind. I’m getting old and slow.”
“But you have a lot of sneaky and treacherous moves. That makes up for a bit of slowness brought on by age.”
“I’ve always prided myself on my utter lack of honor on the battlefield.” I saw Asklepiodes standing by in the crowd that had been watching. “Please excuse me, I need to speak to the physician.”
“I need to confer with him myself,” Balbus said. So we went over to him.
“Fine fighting on both your parts,” the Greek commended.
“I’m not a patch on Senator Balbus,” I said truthfully.
“Doctor,” Balbus said, “I have some sort of strain in my right leg that needs attention. Come, I’ll treat all of us to dinner.”
“I’ve been out all day,” Asklepiodes protested. “Let’s go to my apartments and I’ll have dinner brought in.” Physicians are usually eager to sponge dinner off somebody else, but Asklepiodes had grown wealthy with his uncanny ability to cure wounds. Treating the gladiators of the school took up no more than half of his time. There was so much fighting among Romans of the ruling class in those days that he made a fortune sewing up the cuts and stabs that adorned aristocratic hides like military decorations. He once reduced a depressed skull fracture right in the Curia Hostilia when the clubbed senator was too severely injured to be moved.
In his spacious receiving room we sat and relaxed among his vast collection of weapons. He gave orders to his silent slaves in their incomprehensible Egyptian dialect and then he went to Balbus. “Let’s have a look at that leg.”
Obediently, Balbus put his foot on a sort of footstool that Asklepiodes had devised for displaying and immobilizing the leg. The Greek set about feeling that brawny limb and making wise noises.
“What will it be, Balbus?” I asked. “Parthia?”
“Almost certainly. Caesar is my patron, and just now he’s on the outs with Antonius, so I’ll probably go as his legate, if not Master of Horse. Antonius is to stay in Rome.”
“So I’ve heard. My wife thinks he’ll loot the whole city.”
“Unlikely. He’ll squeeze, but he’s a better politician than that. Caesar will return someday, and Antonius will want to be in his good graces.”