Under the Shadow of the Eagle

Part Eight

—Did Boudicca forgive those who were not soldiers? —the woman asked forcefully.

—No —the man answered weakly.

—Did Brano listen to the envoys of the empire when they told him that his scales were out of balance? —she continued asking, looking down at her interlocutor.

—No —he answered again, sitting on the ground with his eyes fixed on the earth.

—Did the vengeance forgive those who owned you as slaves?

—... No.

—Why? Why do our heroes act like that?

—... Because no empire has mercy on those it conquers... so no conquered person owes mercy to any empire.

—You learn quickly... stand up —when she said that to the slave, the apprentice relaxed her tone.

—Yes... mistress —the man was quick to comply, but even when he stood up, he remained hunched over.

—I heard you became a champion again.

—I'm trying to.

—Pick up your axe.

—... Yes, mistress.

—And take off your cloak —the woman walked back up to the rocks where her long sickle rested, while still looking at the hidden face of her interlocutor—, a champion must show his face.

—... You're right...

A smile appeared on the apprentice's lips, and another almost formed on the slave's mouth. His hair was already long enough to be tied behind his head, and the tips of his beard were already beginning to touch his chest.

The woman was of the same height as him, though because of how hunched over he was, she looked taller. She wasn't thicker, but stood in such a way that she seemed more imposing. Her red hair was long and curly, her face was youthful, she wore only a loose dress covering down to her knees, a simple leather belt, a small axe on one hip and the curved knife of the druids on the other, and austere leather sandals. Although she looked defiantly at her opponent, waiting for the duel to begin, she leaned on her sickle as if it were a cane.

The axe and hunting knife of the slave were positioned just like his legs, his body turned to show less of itself, his hunched back tightened like that of a wolf, but the woman in front of him remained immovable, looking into his eyes, gripping only the wooden pole, with axe and knife still resting on her waist.

—Will you not defend yourself? —he asked.

—Why don't you come and check? —the woman's smile and eyes seemed to call out to him.

He did not respond with words, but with a charge towards her. The sickle stopped several attacks from the axe. The force of each hit shook wood and bones. For several minutes, the exchange remained the same, without spilling a single drop of blood... until the sickle caught the axe and, with a strong movement of both arms of the apprentice, both weapons moved away together.

The slave looked on in surprise at what had just happened, and would have stayed like that if a punch to his jaw had not interrupted him.

—Will you not defend yourself? —the woman asked, smiling just as before.

—... Of course I will —finally, he also smiled.

Fists were deflected, kicks were stopped, charges and headbutts were exchanged equally. One knee dug into a stomach, one elbow made an eyebrow bleed.

When the slave managed to catch the apprentice in a grapple, it was she who knocked him down.

Looking into each other's eyes, rolling slowly on the ground, holding on tightly and still exchanging blows, both thought of the knives they were carrying in their sheaths. As if reading each other's thoughts, in unison, they decided to leave them where they were.