But the fact remains that two men do not battle each other, for hours, without rest. Not even if they were fighting half-naked, with bare hands—much less encumbered by heavy armor and wielding swords. Single combat between champions, other than a glancing encounter in the midst of battle, is by nature a formal affair. And, like most formalities, has a practical core at the center of its rituals.
After the first five minutes, Sanga and Valentinian broke off, gasping for breath. By then, the area was surrounded by Rajputs. Sanga’s cavalrymen were still astride their mounts, holding their weapons. One of them, seeing the first open space between the two combatants, began edging his horse toward Valentinian. The man’s lance was half-raised.
Sanga bellowed inarticulate fury. The Rajput shied away.
Sanga planted his sword tip in the ground—carefully, making sure there were no stones to dull the blade—and leaned upon it. After gasping a few more breaths, he pointed at Valentinian.
“Give the man water,” he commanded. “Wine, if he prefers.” The Rajput king studied his opponent, for a few seconds. Valentinian was still breathing deeply, and leaning on his own sword, but Sanga saw that he was no longer gasping.
“And bring us food and cushions,” added Sanga. He smiled, quite cheerfully. “I think we’re going to need them.”
For the next few minutes, while Sanga and Valentinian rested, the Rajputs organized the necessities. A dozen Rajputs clustered around Sanga. Four began moving toward Valentinian, after lowering their weapons. One of them carried a winesack; another, a skin full of water; the third, a rolled-up blanket to serve Valentinian as a cushion whenever he rested; the fourth, some dry bread and cheese.
Sanga nodded toward them, while keeping his eyes on Valentinian. “They will assist you,” he called out to the Roman. “Anything you need.”
Sanga straightened. “You may surrender, of course. At any time.”
For a moment, Valentinian almost gave his natural response—fuck you, asshole!—but restrained the impulse. He simply shook his head. A gesture which, at the end, turned into a little bow. Even Valentinian, hardbitten and cynical as he was, could sense the gathering glory.
* * *
In the hours which followed, as a lowborn Roman cataphract fought his way into India’s legends, the man’s mind wondered at his actions.
Why are you doing this, you damned fool?
All his life, Valentinian had been feared by other men. Feared for his astonishing quickness, his reflexes, his uncanny eye—most of all, for his instant capacity to murder. Precious few men, in truth, can kill at the drop of a hat. Valentinian, since the age of ten, could do it before the hat was touched.
And so men feared him. And found, in his whipcord shape and narrow face, the human image of a vicious predator.
Because I’m tired of being called a weasel, came the soul’s reply.
* * *
The end came suddenly, awkwardly, unexpectedly—almost casually. As it usually does, in the real world. The bards and poets, of course, would have centuries to clean it up.
Sanga’s foot slipped, skidding on a loose pebble. For a moment, catching his balance, his shield swung aside. Valentinian, seeing his opening, swung for the Rajput’s exposed leg. No Herculean stroke, just Valentinian’s usual economic slice. The quick blade cut deeply into Sanga’s thigh.
The Rajput fell to one knee, crying out in pain. Pain—and despair. His leg was already covered with blood. It was not the bright, crimson spurting of arterial blood, true, but it was enough. That wound would slay him within half an hour, from blood loss alone. Sooner, really. Within minutes, pain and weakness would cripple him enough for his enemy to make the kill.
Then—
All other men, watching or hearing of that battle in years to come, would always assume that Valentinian made his only mistake.
But the truth was quite otherwise. For hours, Valentinian had avoided matching strength with Sanga. He had countered the king’s astonishing power with speed, instead. Speed, cunning, and experience. He could have—should have—ended the battle so. Circling the Rajput, probing, slashing, bleeding him further, staying away from that incredible strength, until his opponent was so weak that the quick death thrust could be driven home. Killing a king, like a wolf brings down a crippled bull. Like a weasel kills.