Julius poured wine for the Gaul and watched as Mhorbaine topped it up with water.

“I’ve never seen a finger bowl used like this before,” Mhorbaine said. “Good idea, though, when the wine is so sharp.”

Artorath dropped his weight, shifting his center of balance. Domitius collapsed over him and found himself being lifted into the air. There was a brief sensation of terrifying flight and then the ground connected and Domitius had the wind knocked out of him. He lay groaning while Artorath chuckled.

“You’re strong for such a little fellow,” he said, though he knew by then that not one of the Romans could understand real words. They did not seem particularly bright to the big Gaul. At first, when he had held up a coin and mimed holds for them, they seemed to think he was insane. Then one of them had come too close and Artorath had flipped him onto his back with a grunt. Their faces had lit up at that and they dug in their pouches for coins to match his own.

Domitius was his fifth opponent for the evening, and though Artorath still went through the routine of biting the silver coins he was given, he thought he could well have enough for a new horse by the time Mhorbaine had finished charming the Roman leader.

Artorath had noticed Ciro standing apart from the others. Their eyes had met only once, but Artorath knew he had him. He relished the challenge and took pleasure from throwing Domitius as close to Ciro’s feet as he could.

“Any more?” Artorath boomed at them, pointing to each one and waggling his bushy eyebrows as if he spoke to children. Domitius had pulled himself upright by then and had a mischievous grin on his face. He held up a flat palm in an unmistakable gesture.

“Wait here, elephant. I know the man for you,” Domitius said slowly.

Artorath shrugged. As Domitius jogged away into the main buildings, Artorath looked questioningly at Ciro, beckoning him forward and waving a coin in the air with the other hand. To his pleasure, Ciro nodded and began to remove his armor until he stood wearing only a breechcloth and sandals.

Artorath had drawn a ring in the ground with a stick, and he pointed for Ciro to step over the line. He loved to fight big men. Small ones were used to looking up at their opponents, but warriors of Ciro’s size had probably never met a man who towered over them as Artorath did. It gave him a great advantage, though the crowd never knew it.

Ciro began to stretch his back and legs and Artorath gave him room, moving swiftly into his own loosening routine. After five bouts, he hardly needed it, but he enjoyed showing off to a crowd and the Roman soldiers were already three deep around the little space. Artorath spun and leapt, enjoying himself immensely.

“Do they say big men are slow where you come from, little soldiers?” he taunted their blank faces. The evening was cool and he felt invincible.

As Ciro stepped into the ring, a voice called out and many of the soldiers grinned in anticipation as Brutus came running back with Domitius.

“Hold, Ciro. Brutus wants a turn before you beat the big ox,” Domitius said, panting.

Brutus came to a halt as he caught sight of Artorath. The man was enormous and more heavily muscled than anyone he had ever seen. It was not simply a question of strength, he saw. Artorath’s skull was half as large again as Ciro’s, and every other bone was thicker than a normal man’s.

“You have to be joking,” Brutus said. “He must be seven feet tall! You go ahead, Ciro. Don’t wait for me.”

“I fought him,” Domitius said. “Nearly had him over as well.”

“I don’t believe you,” Brutus said flatly. “Where are your marks? One punch from those big fists would put your nose through the back of your head.”

“Ah, but he isn’t punching. It’s like Greek wrestling, if you’ve ever seen it. He uses his feet to trip you, but the rest is holds and balance. Very skillful, but as I said, I almost had him.”

Ciro still waited patiently and Artorath only raised an eyebrow in Brutus’s direction, completely oblivious to the conversation going on around him.

“I can beat him,” Ciro said, in the pause.

Brutus looked dubiously at Artorath. “How? He’s like a mountain.”

Ciro shrugged. “My father was a big man. He taught me a few throws. It is not Greek wrestling that he is doing. My father learned it from an Egyptian. Let me show you.”

“He’s yours, then,” Brutus said, clearly relieved.

Artorath looked at him as he spoke, and Brutus waved a hand to Ciro, stepping back.

Once again, Ciro stepped over the line and this time he moved forward in a quick lunge. Artorath matched him and the two men met with a hard smack of flesh that made the watching soldiers wince.

Without pausing, Ciro broke the grip on his shoulders and took an outside line, narrowly avoiding the big Gaul’s horny feet as they swept toward his ankles. Ciro slid past him and tried to leap away, but Artorath spun and held him before he was clear.

Their legs entwined as each man fought to throw the other. Artorath twisted out of Ciro’s hands and very nearly threw him over his hip, the move spoilt by Ciro dropping into a low crouch and then launching himself, trying to take Artorath off his feet. Against such a big opponent, it only made Artorath stagger, and automatically he crossed his forearms and pressed them against Ciro’s throat, heaving backward.

It might have been the end if Ciro’s heel hadn’t blocked his step so that Artorath fell like a tree, crashing into the earth with Ciro on top of him. Before the Romans could begin to cheer, the twined figures exploded into an even faster struggle, breaking and taking grips and using the slightest purchase to apply holds on joints that would have broken in smaller men.

Artorath used his powerful hands to lock Ciro’s throat again, and Ciro found his little finger and snapped it with a jerk. Though he growled, Artorath maintained the grip, and Ciro was growing purple as he found another finger and sent that the way of the first. Only then did the big man let go, holding the injured hand.

Ciro came to his feet first, bouncing lightly. The big Gaul rose more slowly, with anger showing for the first time.

“Should we stop it?” Domitius asked. No one answered.

Artorath launched a hard kick that missed, stamping the ground as Ciro sidestepped and grabbed Artorath around the waist. He failed completely to lift the big man. Artorath managed to lock Ciro’s wrist, but his broken fingers lost their hold and he bellowed in Ciro’s ear as the Roman chopped his foot into Artorath’s knee and brought him down on his head. The Gaul lay stunned, his great chest heaving. Ciro nodded to him and helped him to his feet.

Brutus watched with fascination as Artorath grudgingly opened his belt pouch to give back one of the coins he had won. Ciro waved it away and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You next, Brutus?” Domitius asked slyly. “His fingers are broken, you know.”

“I would, of course, but it wouldn’t be fair to hurt him further,” Brutus replied. “Take him to Cabera and have that hand splinted.”

He tried to mime the action for Artorath, who shrugged. He’d had worse and there was still more silver in his belt than when he’d started. He was surprised to see open cheerfulness on the faces of the soldiers around the ring, even those he had beaten. One of them brought him an amphora of wine and broke the wax seal. Another patted him on the back before walking away. Mhorbaine was right, he thought. They really were a strange people.

The stars were incredibly sharp in the summer sky. Though Venus had set, Julius could see the tiny red disk of Mars, and he saluted it with his cup before holding it out for Mhorbaine to fill. The rest of the Gauls had retired long before, and even the watered wine had helped to relax the wariest of them toward the end of the feast. Julius had spoken to many of the men, learning their names and the locations of their tribes. He owed a debt to Mhorbaine for the introductions and felt a pleasant, drunken regard for the Gaul as they sat together.