The Boat of Fate by Keith Roberts Read Free Book Online Page A

soul into the work, and every last ounce of my strength. ‘When the steel’s in your hand,’ he would say time and again, ‘it’s no good looking for quarter. Only one thing matters; to stay alive .. .’
    His first concern was for my grip, for the injured finger never regained its use, and any backhand stroke tended to flip the sword up out of my hand. He devised a special hilt for me finally, angled slightly to the blade and with a curved tailpiece that fitted snugly in my palm. He had other tricks, too many to recall. Once he asked me, casually, whether I felt my strength had improved. I answered smugly enough that I could fight for half a day and not feel tired. He gave one of those humourless little smiles of his, and said no more; for the next practice he tied slabs of lead to my shield and blade, and I found just what it cost to make a thoughtless boast. Another time I confided to him that were I to meet my enemy again I felt sure I could beat him. He said nothing in reply, but I should have been warned by the expression on his face. Next time we fought he changed his tactics, barging me violently and hooking a foot behind my ankle. I landed sprawling; before I could roll aside the tip of his sword had kissed me lightly on belly and throat. ‘It’s not the man that’s worse than you that you must look to,’ he said savagely. ‘It’s the man that’s better....’ After that it was practice with the stakes again; he wouldn’t deign to fight me till I had once more been reduced to a true appreciation of my worth.
    Marcus always brought to practice a bottle of his sour wine; we would share it when training was through, sitting side by side, while he sketched points of tactics with the tip of his sword, dredged up some anecdote from his seemingly endless supply to illustrate a point he’d made. Other times he would discuss the styles of fighting of barbarians, frequently as we worked. ‘Your Libyan,’ he would say, ‘won’t stand unless he’s three or four to one. Don’t let that bother you. He’ll come at you bollock-naked anyway, not even a shield; just a bit of cloth wrapped round his arm. He carries one light spear; when he’s cast he’ll turn and run. A German’s a very different proposition. He’ll barge you, try and get you off your feet; and that bloody little sacred dagger he always carries’ll be in your gut before you’ve got time to blink. Come into him hard, shoulder and shield; and use the point. Always the point. Shield up, keep it up, and thrust. Into me now. The point, and again. Give me the point ...’
    Sometimes I worked with the trident and javelin to improve my balance and eye, but always we returned to the sword. Hour after hour, day after day; till one day I disarmed my instructor, sending his blade spinning to the ground. He straightened then, and laughed loud and long. When he had finished he shook his head. ‘There’ll be no more lessons, Caius,’ he said. ‘Only practice. I’ve taught you all I can. Except one thing.’ He drove his shield edge suddenly and violently at my stomach. I sat down with a thump, winded; when I looked up the tip of my own sword was pointed unwaveringly between my eyes.
    ‘That’s my final warning to you,’ said Marcus gruffly. ‘Never trust an unarmed man ...’
    It was only afterwards, riding back to Italica in the mellow sunlight of a summer evening, that the true significance of what he had said dawned on me. I glanced across at him, sitting his horse easily at my side; but his brown, keen face was remote and composed. He had given himself unstintingly; now his task was through. And it seemed another phase of life had ended for me before I could realise its passing. For years the daily practising had been an end in itself, something I had grown to do instinctively and automatically; now, abruptly, the future yawned blank as that first day at school. I was seventeen, tall for a Roman, strong well beyond my years; and the time had