The Third Day

After about a third of our allotted hour had elapsed, I instructed Markowitz to sit down and catch his breath while I went to fetch water for us both. As I did, Lavon walked up to me and spoke quietly.

“How’s the lesson going?” he asked.

I just shook my head. Though I had more subject matter expertise than my pupil, I was still a bumbling amateur compared to anyone who had grown up using these weapons.

The archaeologist must have sensed my doubts. “Does he stand a chance?” he asked.

“It depends on who they bring up,” I replied, “though his real problem is that he hasn’t mentally accepted what he’s going to have to do. Do you know if he managed to kill that lamb in the Temple yesterday, or did the priest have to do it?”

“I don’t know. I never saw him again until we got back here.”

I just stared ahead for a moment, trying to get my head around the insanity of it all. I had always thought that these types of fights were organized ahead of time, though once again, my impressions were wrong. Lavon explained that impromptu exhibitions of this nature were commonplace throughout the ancient world.

“There’s even an example in the Old Testament,” he said. “Two of King David’s commanders got together, and I suppose they were bored. One of them said to the other, ‘let’s have some of my young men fight your young men.’ So they paired up a couple of dozen and went at it.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Each man stabbed his opponent. They all died.”

I sighed; then I glanced up at the sun and forgot all about the water. I strode back to Markowitz and slapped him hard across the shoulder with my wooden sword.

“Get up,” I said. “Hit me.”

He shuffled to his feet and made a halfhearted attempt. I swatted him again, this time hard enough to really sting.

“I said, hit me!”

Though better, his next effort still fell well short of the mark.

I popped him again, and again.

He fell back at first, but finally he let out a loud yell and took a wild swing. Although I deflected the blow with ease, this was progress. For the first time, he attacked as though he meant it.

We sparred for a little while and then I tried to show him how to make the killing stroke. He struggled; the motion was not what he had expected.

“You have to forget every sword fight you’ve ever seen in the movies,” said Lavon. “You’re holding a Roman gladius, not a medieval broadsword. You’re trying to stab your enemy, not lop off his head.”

Lavon spotted an idle Roman soldier and called him over. They spoke briefly; then the man demonstrated the procedure far more competently than I could have. The legionnaire grinned as Markowitz repeated the drill several times, then patted him on the back and ambled off to rejoin his unit.

“Remember,” I said, “go for the gut. If you stab him in the ribs, your sword could get stuck. While you struggle to pull it out, your opponent will be able to kill you before he dies.”

He nodded, though this seemed to be more of a reflex action than a sign of genuine understanding.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How did you deal with it?”

Inwardly, I groaned. We could discuss philosophy afterward, if he lived.

“I dealt with it by thanking God that my enemy was laying there on the ground instead of me,” I snapped.

This was accurate enough, though for much of my career, their destruction had taken on an antiseptic quality. On my last posting, I had reviewed the videos of missile strikes from the air conditioned comfort of a headquarters conference room, with a cup of coffee in my hand.

“Don’t tell me you enjoyed it!”

“In war, enjoyment is not a factor. It’s kill or be killed. Take your pick.”

“I don’t want that on my conscience,” he said.

“Your conscience should be the least of your worries. At least one of you will not walk away from this place. Besides, if you win, the worst thing you’ll be guilty of is the desecration of a corpse.”

He looked at me in confusion.

Lavon came to the rescue. “Ray, Bill’s right. The prisoners here are all dead men. Within a week, not one of them will be alive, regardless of whether you fight or not; whether you win or lose; live or die.”

Markowitz stared at him as if he were trying to convince himself of the truth.

“Do you remember that terrible sight coming into the city?” I asked. “Of course you do. You’ll never forget that as long as you live. That, you must remind yourself, will be your opponent’s fate should you fail in your duties here.”

“What you do will be an act of mercy,” said Lavon.

Finally, his mind started to point in the right direction; and not a moment too soon, either. At the other end of the courtyard, about thirty Romans had begun to form a ring with their shields.

“This gives the Octagon a whole new meaning,” I quipped.

Lavon laughed. Markowitz did not.

The archaeologist headed across the fort; I suppose to stall the inevitable as long as he could. Meanwhile, I worked Markowitz through a few blocking moves with the shield and found his progress to be satisfactory enough.

Well, not really satisfactory, but he had advanced as far as he could reasonably go without tiring himself out before the fight.

Just then, Lavon came back and beckoned us to follow.

“Showtime,” he said.

***

A crowd of off-duty soldiers had gathered in the second floor windows to observe the action, though neither Lavon nor I paid them any attention. Instead, we both watched the passage leading down to the dungeon, eager to learn the identity of Markowitz’s opponent.

A few minutes later, I breathed a sigh of relief as two Romans dragged up the youngster they had hauled in with Barabbas. If anything, the kid looked even more frightened and bedraggled than he had the day before.

“Ray might have a chance after all,” I said to Lavon.

The ring of shields opened to permit the combatants to enter. Soldiers had deposited a gladius and a small Thracian shield at opposite corners of their square. Markowitz picked his up and noticed that it felt much lighter.

“The practice swords are heavier, to build strength and speed,” said Lavon.

Ray ran his thumb across the blade and nearly cut himself. I watched his opponent do the same.

“He can’t be older than sixteen,” said Markowitz.

“Don’t think about that,” I ordered. “Remember what we told you: he’s a dead man whether you do anything or not. Kill him quickly and he won’t suffer with the others.”

Moments later, Pilate looked down from a second story window and motioned for them to go ahead; but those expecting a good match were disappointed.

Each combatant stood as far away from his opponent as he could, grasping his sword in a most unsoldierlike manner. Neither man showed the slightest inclination to begin.

“Hey Antonius,” one of the soldiers upstairs yelled out. “Now we see how scribes fight. Maybe they can throw ink pots at each other.”

The others roared laughing, but Markowitz and the kid didn’t move.

Finally, Pilate lost patience. He motioned to an officer: Get on with it.

Soldiers in each corner pushed the combatants forward. Both took a few half-hearted swings, though these grew more forceful as the full gravity of the situation started to sink in.

“Ray, you idiot,” I yelled. “Get a grip on yourself. Run him through now!”