The Costavera Backsword
- Jun 25
- 3 min read
This skeletally-inspired backsword was created to celebrate our client's graduation with a PhD in anatomical sciences. The design takes the classic "ribbed" look of historic backswords such as the Jamestowne sword, and combines it with an anatomically-correct ribcage, with the clavicles curving out into protective loops.
The solid plates to each side of the symmetrical hilt feature hand-carved crests to represent the two schools that the wielder has studied with: the book and saltire of Edinburgh University, and the creeping cat of the Cat's Glove School of Defence.
The sword is designed not just as an heirloom piece, but as a functional fencing tool, with the basket sized to the wielder's hand, and space to accommodate her moulinet-heavy fencing style.
The sword is named for the Latin "costae verae" or "true ribs", which is the scientific name given to the first seven pairs of human rib bones. The name both describes the anatomical structure of the sword, and alludes to the quest for truth, in which a PhD is a mighty milestone!
Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Total length: 98.5cm
Blade length: 84cm from cross
Blade width at widest: 2.8cm
Grip length: 9.5cm
Grip and pommel: 13,5cm
Grip to guard space: 4.5cm
Quillon span: 11cm
Weight: 1105g
Point of Balance: 7.5cm from cross
Right-handed
Blunt edges & rounded tip
Fencing safe flex
∴ Notes ∴
The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are antiqued to a matte grey finish. The full basket is formed of solid plates to either side, joined at the front by barwork spaced and carved to resemble a human ribcage. The solid plates feature hand-engraved crests from Edinburgh University and the Cat's Glove School of Defence.
The oak grip is wrapped in steel and copper wire, with Tukr's head knots to the top and bottom. The half-ovoid pommel is fastened with a faceted faux peening block.
The straight, single-edged blade features a fuller to the spine, extending to 2/3 of the blade's length, and a secondary decorative fuller to the ricasso.
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Bone-Deep Feeling ∴
The skeleton grins in its customary way, suspended from its post in the corner of the room. You look away from the empty sockets of its eyes and peer instead at your notes, spread over the dark-wood writing desk.
No name accompanies the bones. Few ever do. The needs of natural philosophy are constant, and the grave does not always surrender its dead willingly. A scholar learns not to question the provenance of the remains he is told to examine.
The dead speak plainly to an attentive eye. You step toward the skeleton, callipers in hand, tutting and mumbling as you take your measurements. You note the teeth, some missing, others worn. Their owner was no youth when he died, nor yet in the decrepitude of age. The right forearm suffered a break at some point, repaired over years with a smooth knot of bone matter. A common injury for a swordsman or a brawler, though just as likely from a fall.
Two ribs of the left side bear similar evidence. You lean closer and trace your fingers over them: a slight thickening, better healed than the arm, but still with the offset that belies a bone broken and healed long before death.
You draw a slow breath and move your hand unconsciously to your own side.
For an instant, you are no longer in the thinly-lit chamber of the college, but standing upon damp, marshy ground beneath a grey Highland sky. You recall a quarrel, harsh words that could not be retracted, the first flash of hastily drawn steel. The backsword is as heavy in your memory as it once was in your hand.
A shout. A strike. A blow to your opponent's torso, not mortal, you'd hoped. Not that you'd waited to learn. In shame, you had run from the field and the man you had once called friend, who lay crumpled on the ground, a dark sticky redness blossoming through his shirt.
The memory fades, but the skeleton remains.
You dip your quill hurriedly and write a brief remark on the damaged ribs. The scratching of the pen seems to fill the quiet room. When you glance up, the empty eye sockets are fixed on you, accusingly.
The foolish fancy of a man too long at his studies! You should get some air. A small beer. The company of the living. Still, you can't help but wonder whose the bones had been before some grave digger or unscrupulous surgeon had sold them on.
You shake yourself free of such maudlin thoughts. Blot the page. Close the book. Turn away. The skeleton sways slightly in the fading light, stirred by some distant draught.
