The First Blade of Ostia (5 page)

T
he arena was
small and quiet, but that was very much as Bryn had expected for his first duel. At capacity the low circular stand enclosing the sandy arena floor could have accommodated three or four hundred people, but if there were more than a few dozen there that day, Bryn would have been surprised.

The audience that were there were bored. They expected to see three types of swordsmen duelling that day. First, there were those like Bryn who were starting off. They had no name or reputation and most of them never would. The second type had once been able to draw a larger crowd, deserving of their place at a larger venue, but now were either too old or too broken to remain there. The final group had never amounted to anything but couldn’t accept the fact and were still eking out a meagre existence pursuing the deluded hope that they might still make it. They were the ones that Bryn felt the most pity for, and whom he most feared becoming.

There was also the chance of a predatory high-ranking duellist hunting in shallower waters, as Mistria had been doing that first day Bryn saw him duel. It was an unlikely, but unnerving possibility. He had no desire to be made to look a fool in his first duel by a far more experienced swordsman. Entering the Ladder marked as ‘one duel—no points’ would be a disaster and a huge embarrassment.

He was scheduled to fight first, a lower billing to the matches that would follow. He wondered if the crowd was small only because of the early hour and the arena would fill up later, when the main duels were scheduled. It didn’t matter; he wouldn’t be there to find out.

Despite the humbling size of the crowd, he was glad of having first billing. He hadn’t given much thought to fencing before an audience, in spite of the Major’s warning on his last day at the Academy. The prospect of fighting in front of those there to be entertained made him anxious. That the arena was all but empty gave him some small comfort.

Both Amero and Bautisto had gone with him, Bautisto out of professional necessity and Amero out of friendship. He knew his mother, and perhaps with more reluctance his sister, would have been there, but he had not told them that his first duel was coming up. He wanted to have a win or two under his belt before he added the pressure of having relatives in the audience.

The three of them sat in silence until the steward approached and told Bryn to ready himself. Bautisto jumped to his feet and began to direct Bryn through a sequence of attack and defence patterns intended to loosen him up and focus his mind on the task at hand. Bryn fought to concentrate. All he could think about was the significance of the occasion. It was the realisation of a dream that had begun so many years before, the pursuit of which had placed enormous financial burden on his family. He felt guilty about not having told them he was finally stepping into the arena, but once he had fought his first few duels and gotten past the initial nerves, he would.

With his mind skipping in every direction but the one in which it needed to be applied, Bryn knew his patterns were mechanical and imprecise, the type of swordplay that would ordinarily warrant a tirade of abuse from Bautisto. The sharp tongue was absent that day, surprisingly. Bryn moved from a high guard to a low and then moved as though to counter an imagined attack. He was slow, sloppy and—if honest with himself—a long way from his best. His hands were shaking, something he could not conceal.

‘Good,’ Bautisto said. ‘Smooth, controlled, precise.’

It was the mantra he repeated each time they began to learn something new. The words had a calming effect on Bryn, the familiarity sending him back to their shabby little salon in Docks rather than the small arena tucked away off a side street in the Cathedral quarter. Bautisto acknowledged a signal from the arena floor and fixed his gaze on Bryn.

‘Breathe and concentrate. The rest will follow. There is no one here today who can beat you,’ he said.

Bryn nodded, not able to think of anything to say. He struggled to keep his mind focussed. Amero gave him a nod and Bryn turned to walk into the centre of the arena. The Master of Arms was there, waiting by the black mark that would divide the two duellists before the match began. His opponent appeared a moment later, walking across the sandy arena floor toward him. As Bryn watched him approach he could feel his heart race and his mouth suddenly became very dry. Was it too late to go back to Bautisto for a quick gulp of water?

Bryn’s opponent took his place on the other side of the black mark. He was about the same height as Bryn, slender and with dark hair but several years older. He wore a beige duelling uniform that contrasted with Bryn’s dark blue kit. He seemed overly confident, while Bryn felt it was all he could do to try to hold down the contents of his stomach.

Bryn knew little about the other man. The billing was only published a few days before the match, not giving Bryn the time to study his form. His name was Nava Nozzo, a banneret who had done much of his duelling on the regional circuit. He had a single scar on his face, below his left cheek, one of the defining marks of a swordsman. It could mean many things; that he was a poor fencer, that he had a large amount of experience, that he was sloppy with his razor in the morning—there was no point in trying to read anything into it. It was only another distraction. Bryn closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

The Master of Arms was speaking, but it took Bryn a moment to notice him. He felt so desperately thirsty, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

‘…salute and begin.’

Nozzo saluted with the thoughtless and practised manner of one who has done it many times. Bryn hurriedly mirrored the gesture. He had done it many times also, but never before in the arena, and never before when there seemed to be so many other things to take in. It felt awkward and unnatural, as though he had never held a sword before.

As soon as Bryn made his salute, his opponent dropped into a low guard. He would have known that Bryn was a Banneret of the Blue and even if this was his first time in the arena he was not a threat to be quickly dismissed. Bryn took two steps back, not committing himself to any form or guard. Nozzo made two probing strikes, beating on Bryn’s blade with his own. They were either taunts or invitations, but Bryn would not be drawn. He would dictate his own actions.

The first contact of steel against steel settled Bryn’s nerves. Gone were the thoughts of the audience, the heat and dust of the arena, the oppressive thirst he had felt. Now there was just him, his opponent, and their weapons—a situation he had been in more times than he could recall. If Nozzo was content to wait for the fight to be brought to him, then bring it Bryn would.

He lunged forward. It was an obvious attack, but a feint. He hoped his inexperience in the arena might lead Nozzo to be less suspicious of deceptive swordplay. He made to parry Bryn’s thrust, but by the time his sword was where the strike had been aimed, there was nothing there. Bryn had quickly changed direction, the tip of his sword flicking through clear air and into the chest of his opponent.

There was not enough force behind the attack to puncture the thick material on the front of his opponent’s doublet with the rounded, dull tip, but that was not necessary. A touch was all that was required, and it had been obvious and spotted by the Master of Arms. A ripple of excitement ran through Bryn’s chest. He had scored his first point in the arena.

There was some applause from the stands, but so little that it was possible to identify each individual clap. Bryn didn’t care; all he was interested in was the reset and the chance to score a second touch in the best-of-five duel.

The Master of Arms brought them back to the black marker and they saluted once more. Bryn’s opponent seized the initiative this time, coming at Bryn straight away. Bryn danced back, parrying effortlessly with his rapier, not needing to use his dagger. He felt light on his feet as he moved, the reward of the hours of nausea-inducing training that Bautisto had forced on them.

Nozzo would be more wary now; if he had any brains at all he wouldn’t succumb to underestimation again and see a novice mistake where there was none. Bryn had only used the trick because he wanted the easiest way to get his first touch out of the way and calm his nerves. It wouldn’t work again, so the true test was to come.

Bryn allowed Nozzo take the initiative, defending as he considered what to do next. He threw in the occasional riposte to keep Nozzo on his toes, but wanted time to find his rhythm. Bryn was revelling in the duel, but the sense of occasion made it difficult to concentrate. So many years watching, yearning. Now he was doing. There was something about it that made it feel far more real than any of the training, examination or competition duels he had fought. It seemed as though he had spent his life up to that point reading about a subject but was now, for the first time, experiencing it first-hand.

Bryn shook all the nonsense from his head. He parried the attacking sword and dagger and launched into a blistering series of attacks. He pressed forward with speed and intensity, raining in strikes, none of which were intended to score a touch. He knew he was fitter, and wanted to take advantage of it. He kept up the intensity until he could see that it was beginning to have an effect. Nozzo was labouring for breath, strain showing on his face. Every moment of Bautisto’s punishing training was now paying dividends. To be able to drive up the pace of a duel to exhaust a more experienced swordsman without any detrimental effect to himself was an asset beyond description.

When his opponent was red-faced and gasping for breath, Bryn fired in a scoring touch that the man didn’t have the wind to defend against. As they both returned to their places, Bryn could hear Bautisto’s applause standing out from the other more muted displays of appreciation. By now Bryn was tingling with excitement. He was on the verge of winning his first duel in the arena. Despite his nerves and the spectre of self-doubt lurking in the back of his mind, he had been in complete control from the outset. He had been foolish to get so nervous. This was what he was made for, what he had spent his life preparing for.

They reset and Bryn went straight at his opponent. Nozzo was still fatigued after the previous point; the brief respite of the reset had not been enough for him to catch his breath. Bryn had no intention of allowing him to do so now. He pressed in, sure that the duel was all but over. He had proved to himself that Nozzo couldn’t keep up with him. So focussed was he on his attack that it wasn’t until he could feel a point pressing against the material of his doublet that he realised he had been an over-confident fool. He hadn’t even noticed his opponent’s attack. He bit his lip to stifle his anger with himself.

He cursed himself as he walked back to the line, furious at his stupidity, but also realising that an important lesson had been learned. As they saluted and took their guards, Bryn could see that his opponent was still tired. Bryn had lost the previous point rather than Nozzo having won it. There would be no overconfidence this time, no mistakes.

The Master of Arms gave the command and Bryn went forward. Smooth, controlled, precise; just as Bautisto always said. A feint with his rapier and a thrust with his dagger was all that it took. A resigned look fell over Nozzo’s face as he was forced to accept defeat at the hands of a debutant. He displayed good grace in their final salute before Bryn hurried off the arena floor to talk with Bautisto and Amero. Every fibre of his being was electrified by the experience, but he could not shake the lingering disappointment of having conceded that point so foolishly. Few of the spectators paid him any attention, but he did not care; he was now a duellist.

‘
I
t’s
good to see you, Renald,’ Kristo dal Ronvel said.

Renald nodded and smiled, but did not get up from his seat in the Bannerets’ Hall lounge. ‘Likewise.’

‘What brings you to the city? You’re hardly ever here, even when the parliament is in session.’

‘Some business to attend to,’ Renald said. ‘I thought it would be nice to catch up with some old friends while I’m here. I’m not likely to be back before the next session in autumn.’

‘Well, I’m glad you got in touch. It’s been too long.’

Renald was too experienced a soldier to launch straight into his true purpose; he would manoeuvre first. He allowed the conversation to flow along, pandering to dal Ronvel’s overly nostalgic disposition. They had been friends once, comrades in arms. Renald supposed they still were, but he found as he got older he had less time for friends, only for those who could be of use to him. He gently steered the conversation along, until when dal Ronvel finally asked him about Amero, it seemed as though it was his idea entirely.

‘Oh, you know how young men are,’ Renald said. ‘I still remember all too clearly what we were like at that age.’

Dal Ronvel smiled in agreement. ‘Fighting, boozing, and whoring I expect, if he’s anything like my two lads. Has he joined a regiment yet?’

‘Sadly not,’ Renald said. ‘Young fool’s taken it into his head to enter the arena.’

Dal Ronvel raised his eyebrows. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘How do you think I feel? He’s a Banneret of the Blue, so he must have some skill. However, I won’t have him making a public spectacle of himself, or making a mockery of our family name.’

‘So that’s what you wanted to meet me about.’

Renald nodded. Dal Ronvel had never been a fool, but he was disappointed that his subtlety had gone to waste. ‘Not entirely, but I’d be very much obliged to you if you could help me knock this whole ridiculous charade on the head, sooner rather than later.’

‘What would you have me do?’ dal Ronvel said.

‘You still have influence with the Bannerets’ Commission, don’t you?’

‘I’m not on it anymore, but yes, I’m still involved.’

‘I want Amero’s first fight to be a mismatch.’

‘I can’t do that,’ dal Ronvel said, his voice hushed despite the lounge being otherwise empty. ‘Arranging for your son to win his first duel goes against everything the Commission was established to do.’