The man walked closer and loosened his bare shoulders. He was wearing only leggings over bare feet and looked supremely athletic, moving like a great cat.

Marcus called to the leader, "If I kill him, I walk free, yes?"

A great jeer went up from the crowd, making him wonder how many understood the language. The old blueskin nodded, smiling, and signaled with his hand to begin.

Marcus jumped as drums sounded over the chatter of the crowd. His opponent relaxed visibly as the rhythms were pounded out. Marcus watched him lower into a fighter's stance, the sword held out unwavering. The extra inches on the blade would give him the advantage in reach, Marcus thought, rolling his shoulders. He held up his hand and took a step back to remove his tunic. It was a relief to be free of it in the stifling heat, made worse by the nearby fire and the sweating crowd. The drumming intensified and Marcus focused his gaze on the man's throat. It unnerved some opponents. He became utterly still while the other swayed gently. Two different styles.

The Krajka barely seemed to move, but Marcus felt the attack and shifted aside, making the bronze blade miss him. He didn't engage the gladius with the blade, trying to judge the man's speed.

A second cut, a smooth continuation of the first, came at his face, and Marcus brought his gladius up desperately with a ring of metal. The blades slid together and he felt fresh sweat prickle on his hairline. The man was fast and fluid, with killing strikes that seemed only flicks and feints. Marcus blocked another low cut into his stomach and stepped and punched forward into the blue body.

It was not there and he went sprawling on the hard ground. He got up quickly, noting the fact that the Krajka stood well back to let him. This was not to be a quick kill then. Marcus nodded to him, his jaw clenched. Feel no anger, he told himself, nor shame. He remembered Renius's words. It does not matter what happens in battle as long as the enemy lies at your feet at the end of it.

The Krajka skipped lightly forward to meet him. At the last second, the bronze sword flicked out and Marcus was forced to duck under it. This time he didn't follow through with a lunge under the blow and saw the man's readiness to reverse his sword into a downward slash. He had fought Romans before! The thought flashed into Marcus's head. This man knew their style of fighting, perhaps he had even learned it with a few of the legionaries who had disappeared over previous months, before killing them.

It was galling. Everything he had been taught came from Renius, a Roman-trained soldier and gladiator. He had no other style to fall back on. The Krajka was clearly a master of his art.

The bronze sword licked out and Marcus blocked it. He focused on the lightly pulsing blue throat and could still see the shifting arms and sinuous moves of the body. He let one blow slide by him and stepped away from another, judging the distance perfectly. In the space, he struck like a snake and scored a thin line of red in the Krajka's side.

The crowd fell suddenly silent, shocked. The Krajka looked puzzled and took two sliding steps away from Marcus. He frowned and Marcus saw he had not felt the scratch. He pressed his hand to the red line and looked at it, his face blank. Then he shrugged and danced in again, his bronze sword a blur in the light and shadows.

Marcus felt the rhythm of the movements and began working against the flowing style, breaking the smoothness, causing the Krajka to jump back from a sword held out rigidly and again when Marcus's hard sandals cracked against his toes.

Marcus advanced, knowing his opponent's confidence was wavering. Each step was accompanied by a blow that became another, a flowing pattern that mimicked the style the Krajka employed against him. The gladius became an extension of his arm, a thorn in his hand that required just a touch to kill. The Krajka let a throat cut pass a hairbreadth from his skin, and Marcus could feel the hot gaze above his own. The man was angry that he had not won easily. Another blow was blocked and once again the bare feet were crunched under hard Roman sandals.

The Krajka gave out a strangled groan of pain and spun, leaping into the air like a spirit, as Marcus had seen the others do before. It was a move from the dance and the bronze sword whirled with him, coming out of the spin unseen and slicing Marcus's skin across the chest. The crowd roared, and as the man landed, Marcus reached up and caught the bronze blade with his bare left hand.

The Krajka looked in astonishment into Marcus's eyes and found for the first time in the whole battle that they were looking back at him, cold and black. He froze under that gaze and the hesitation killed him. He felt the iron gladius enter his throat from the front and the pouring wetness of blood that stole his strength. He would have liked to pull his blade back, cutting the fingers away like overripe stalks, but there was no strength left and he dropped into a boneless sprawl at Marcus's feet.

Marcus breathed slowly and picked up the bronze sword, noting the twisted and buckled edge where he had caught it. He could feel blood trickle over his knuckles from the cut on his palm, but was able to move the fingers stiffly. He waited then for the crowd to rush in and kill him.

They were silent for some time and in that silence the old blueskin's voice called out harsh-sounding commands. Marcus kept his eyes on the ground and the swords loose in his hands. He was aware of footsteps and turned as the old blueskin took his arm. The man's eyes were dark with astonishment and something else.

"Come. I keep my word. You go back to friends. We come for you all in morning."

Marcus nodded, scarcely daring to believe it was true. He looked for something to say.

"He was a fine fighter, the Krajka. I have never fought better."

"Of course. He was my son." The man seemed older as he spoke, as if years were settling on his shoulders and weighing him down. He led Marcus outside the circle and into the open and pointed into the night.

"Walk home now."

He stayed silent as Marcus handed him the bronze blade and walked away into the dark.

The fort wall was black in the darkness as Marcus approached. While he was still some distance away, he whistled a tune so that the soldiers would hear him and not put a crossbow bolt into his chest as he drew close.

"I'm alone! Peppis, throw that rope back down," he called into the silence.

There was scrambling inside as the others moved to peer over the edge.

A head appeared above him in the gloom and Marcus recognized the sour features of Peritas.

"Marcus? Peppis said the 'skins had you."

"They did, but they let me go. Are you going to throw a rope down to me or not?" Marcus snapped. It was colder away from the fires and he held his damaged hand in his armpit to keep the stiff fingers warm. He could hear whispered conversations above and cursed Peritas for his cautious ways. Why would the tribesmen set a trap when they could just wait for them all to die of thirst?

Finally, a rope came slithering over the wall and he pulled himself up it, his arms burning with tiredness. At the top, there were hands to help pull him onto the inner wall ledge, and then he was almost knocked from his feet by Peppis, who threw his arms around him.

"I thought they was going to eat you," the boy said. His dirty face was streaked where he had been crying, and Marcus felt a pang of sorrow that he had brought the boy to this dismal place for his last night.

He reached out a hand and ruffled his hair affectionately. "No, lad. They said I was too stringy. They like them young and tender."

Peppis gasped in horror and Peritas chuckled. "You have all night to tell us what happened. I don't think anyone will sleep. Are there many of them out there?"