Slowly, swords ready, the picket advanced on me. I stepped back, over fallen bodies. It is hard to break or attack the picket. I pretended to stumble and the center man rushed forward to press his putative advantage.

"Wait!" cried the leader, in the rear rank.

The man who had been the center man was at that time dead.

I pretended my blade had been wedged between the ribs of the center man.

Another Taurentian, by instinct, but not trained instinct, hurled himself forward, and so died.

The four remaining men attempted to retain the picket. Moving back warily I remained as close as I could to the picket, but out of reach, hoping to draw yet another Warrior prematurely into attack. They remained together. As a Warrior, though it was not to my advantage, I found this satisfying.

A close-formed military formation is difficult to maintain over rough terrain. Indeed, the Torian Squares, which I have mentioned, common among Gorean infantries, with their superior mobility and regrouping capacities, had, long ago, made the phalanxes of such cities as Ar and, in the south, Turia, obsolete.

The Gorean phalanx, like its predecessors of Earth, consisted of lines of massed spearmen, carrying spears of different lengths, forming a wall of points; it attacked on the run, preferably on a downgrade, a military avalanche, on its own terrain and under optimum conditions, invincible; the Torian Squares had bested the phalanx by choosing ground for battle in which such a formation would break itself in its advance.

The invention and perfecting of the Torian Squares and the consequent attempts to refine and improve the phalanx, failures, were developments which had preceded the use of tharlarion and tarn cavalries, which radically changed the face of Gorean warfare. Yet, in the day of the tharlarion and tarn, one still finds, among infantries, the Torian Square; the phalanx, though its impact could be exceeded only by the tharlarion wedge or line, is now unknown, except for a defensive relic known as the Wall, in which massed infantry remains stationary, heroically bracing itself, when flight is impossible, for the devastating charge of tharlarion.

It seemed to me obvious that the men who faced me intended to do so as a group; already two had been lured from the picket and had died; I did not expect that another of the four would singly rush upon me. I backed among the bodies of the fallen Taurentians. Unevenly, with difficulty, the picket followed, their eyes on me. Then the picket charged but, as I had intended, across the field of their own fallen. I leaped to one side. The end man stumbled in an attempt to turn to me and I passed the side of the blade beneath the helmet and was behind them. Attempting to remain together they wheeled, each in place. One man lunged for me, but stumbled across another fallen Taurentian and his fellow, moving forward, fell across him; rather than attack the men who had fallen, on whom the attack would be expected, I struck the remaining man, he standing, the leader, engaging him singly in the moment and felling him. The remaining two Taurentians who had stumbled scrambled to their feet, scraping awkwardly back through the sand.

He of the two who was senior told the other, "Withdraw." No longer did they wish to press the battle. No longer could they be as confident of the odds as they had been but a moment before.

The two men withdrew.

The crowd was howling with pleasure, well pleased at what spectacle they had witnessed.

Then they began to scream with anger. Taurentians, perhaps two hundred of them, were filing rapidly to the sand, weapons ready.

So it is thus I die, I said to myself.

I heard the leader of the men I had attacked laugh.

"How does it feel," he asked, "you who are about to die?"

The laugh died in his throat for through his breast there suddenly flew a heavy Gorean arena spear.

I spun and saw, standing beside me, on my right, sword drawn, in the heavy helmet of the arena fighter, with the small round shield, the sheathed right arm and shoulder, Murmillius.

My heart leaped.

"Charge!" cried the leader of the new Taurentians, those who had rushed down to the arena.

The crowd began to press against the spears of the Taurentians in the tiers, who, at the edge of the tiers, at the top of the wall overtopping the sand, resolutely held them back.

The Taurentians rushed upon us and, side by side, with the marvelous and gigantic Murmillius, I fought.

Steel rang on steel and then we stood back to back, cutting and jabbing. Foe upon foe fell from those two fierce blades.

And then there stood another with us, in the garb of an arena fighter.

"Ho-Sorl!" I cried.

"You were long in coming," commented Murmillius, meeting steel upon steel, dropping a foe.

Ho-Sorl laughed, lunging here and there, kicking back a Taurentian. "Cernus had planned that I, too, wear the blind helmet," said he. "But Ho-Tu, of his house, did not care for the plan."

Another stood beside us, and we four fought.

"Relius!" I exclaimed.

"I, too," said he, blade flashing, "was destined for the sport of the blind helmet. Fortunately I too encountered Ho-Tu."

"And," grunted Murmillius, laughing, turning back an attack, "I wager the girls of the Street of Pots."

"If it must be known," granted Relius, driving his blade between the ribs of a Taurentian.

Murmillius, with a marvelous thrust, as though weary of sustaining the attack of his man, dropped him. "A likely lot of wenches they are," said he.

"Perhaps," said Ho-Sorl, "any Taurentians that are left over we can give to the girls of the Street of Pots."

I turned a blade from my breast, as another four or five Taurentians pressed in upon me.

"Excellent idea," said Murmillius.

"If," qualified Ho-Sorl, "any are left over."

Another dozen Taurentians pressed forward.

I noted that one Taurentian after another, in a line, approaching, slipped in the sand.

Ho-Tu, his hook knife dripping, a buckler on his left arm now stood beside us.

I parried a blade from his heart.

"I think you will find," said Murmillius, "a sword is more useful here than your small knife."

Ho-Tu drew his blade and acquitted himself sturdily.

"Kill them!" I heard Philemon scream.

More Taurentians, perhaps a hundred, leaped over the wall into the arena and rushed forward.

We moved through those weary, bloody, felling bodies about us, to their amazement cutting out way to our new foes.

I heard Relius cry to Ho-Sorl. "I have slain seventeen!"

"I lost count long ago," responded Ho-Sorl.

Relius laughed with exasperation and added another to his list.

"It must be some two or three hundred by now!" surmised Ho-Sorl, breathing heavily.

Fortunately only a few Taurentians could approach us at one time.

"Boastful sleen!" cried Relius. Then he shouted, "Nineteen!"

Ho-Sorl dropped a man. "Four hundred and six!" he cried, lunging at another.

"Silence!" roared Murmillius and, obediently, we fought in silence, save for the crying of men, our breathing, the sparkling ring of blades tempered by wine and fire.

"There are too many!" I cried.

Murmillius did not respond. But he fought.

I turned in an instant's respite from the attack. I could not see the features of the magnificent fighter who stood beside me.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am Murmillius," he laughed.

"Why does Murmillius fight at the side of Tarl Cabot?" I asked.

"Let it be said as truly," said he, "that Tarl Cabot fights at the side of Murmillius."

"I do not understand," I said.

"Murmillius," said, proudly, "is at war."

"I, too," said I, "am at war." Again Taurentians pressed inward and again we met them. "But," said I, "my war is not that of Murmillius."