Emperor: the field of swords E#3 (17 page)

    Julius watched his friend disappear into the shade and winced in sympathy.

    “Excuse me, gentlemen. I would like to go down and see their wounds are well treated,” he said.

    Pompey clapped him on the back in response, too hoarse from shouting to reply. Crassus called for cooling drinks for all of them and the mood was infectiously light as they settled back in their seats for the next contest. Food would be brought to them in their seats as they watched, and each man there felt the thrill of blood and talent. Suetonius was demonstrating a feint to his father, and the older man smiled with him, joining in the excitement.

    Renius stood as Julius reached his seat at the edge of the box. He fell in behind and they walked from the heat into the cool of the path under the seating without exchanging a word.

    It was a different world below the crowds, the roaring muted and somehow distant. The sunlight came through chinks in the great timbers and lay on the ground in mottled bars, shifting as people moved above. The ground there was the soft earth of the Campus Martius, without the layer of sand that had been brought from the coast.

    “Will he fight again?” Julius asked.

    Renius shrugged. “Cabera will help him. The old man has power.”

    Julius did not reply, remembering how Cabera had touched his hands to Tubruk as he lay, his body pierced over and over in the attack on the estate that had killed Cornelia. Cabera refused to talk about his healing, but Julius remembered that he had once told him it was a matter of paths. If the path was ended, there was nothing he could do, but with some, like Renius, he had stolen back a little time.

    Julius cast a sideways glance at the old gladiator. As the years passed, the brief energy of youth was giving way to age. The face was again showing the craggy, bitter features of an old man, and Julius still didn’t know why he had been saved from death. Cabera believed the gods watched them all with jealous love, and Julius envied him his conviction. When he prayed, it was like shouting into a void with no response, until he despaired.

    Above, the crowd stood to cheer a blow, changing the pattern of light on the dusty ground. Julius passed between the last two pillars of wood into the open area beyond and gasped at the heated air that seemed too thick to breathe.

    He looked out onto the sand, squinting against the glare to see two figures rushing at each other as if it were a dance. Their swords caught the light in bright flashes and the crowd stayed on their feet stamping in time. Julius blinked as a trickle of dust touched his skin from above. He glanced up at the heavy bolts that held the seating, feeling the tremble in the wood as he pressed his hand against it. He hoped it would hold.

    Cabera was wrapping a thin cloth around Domitius’s knee, and Brutus was kneeling by them with Octavian, oblivious to the fight on the sand. They looked up as Julius joined them, and Domitius waved a hand, smiling feebly.

    “I can feel the rest of them watching me. Vultures, every one of them,” he said, gasping as Cabera pulled the cloth tighter.

    “How bad is it?” Julius asked.

    Domitius didn’t answer, but there was a fear in his eyes that shook them all.

    “I don’t know,” Cabera snapped at the silent pressure. “The kneecap is cracked and I don’t know how it held him this long. He should not have been able to walk and the joint may be… who knows. I will do my best.”

    “He needs it, Cabera,” Julius said softly.

    The old healer snorted under his breath. “What does it matter if he fights once more out there. It is not-”

    “No, not for that. He’s one of us. He has a path to follow,” Julius said more urgently. If he had to, he would beg the old man.

    Cabera stiffened and sat back on his heels. “You don’t know what you are asking, my friend. Whatever I have is not to be used on every scrape or broken bone.” He looked up at Julius and seemed to slump with weariness. “Would you have me lose it for a whim? The trance is… agony, I cannot tell you. And each time, I do not know if the pain is wasted or whether there are gods who move my hands.”

    They were all silent as Julius held his gaze, willing him to try. Another of the Thirty-twos cleared his throat as he approached them, and Julius turned to the man, recognizing him as one of those he had noted for skill. His face was the color of old teak and, of all of them, he did not wear the armor he had been given, preferring the freedom of a simple robe. The man bowed.

    “My name is Salomin,” he said, pausing as if the name might be recognized. When it was not, he shrugged. “You fought well,” he said. “Are you able to continue?”

    Domitius forced a smile. “I will rest it for a while, then I’ll see.”

    “You must use cold cloths against the swelling, my friend. As cold as you can find in this heat. I hope you will be ready if we should be called together. I would not like to fight an injured man.”

    “I would,” Domitius replied.

    Salomin blinked in confusion as Brutus chuckled, wondering what joke was being made. He bowed to them and walked away and Domitius looked down at his knee stretched out in front of him.

    “I’m finished if I can’t march,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

    Cabera used his fingers to massage fluids away from the joint, his expression hard. The silence stretched interminably and a bead of sweat ran down from the old man’s hairline to the tip of his nose, where it shivered, ignored.

    None of them heard Brutus called the first time. The man who was to fight him strode past them out into the sun without a backward glance, but Salomin came close and nudged the Roman out of his concentration.

    “It is your turn,” Salomin said, his large eyes dark even against his skin.

    “I’ll finish this one quickly,” Brutus replied, unsheathing his sword and stalking out after his opponent.

    Salomin shook his head in amazement, shielding his eyes as he edged to the shadow line to watch the bout.

    Julius sensed Cabera would not be moved while he stood there staring at him, and took the opportunity to leave Domitius alone with him.

    “Give them room, Octavian,” he said, motioning to Renius to follow.

    Octavian took the hint, moving away, his face creased with worry. He too shaded his face to squint out to where Brutus was waiting impatiently for the horns to sound.

    Under the seats, Julius heard the sharp wail of the cornicens and broke into a run. Before he and Renius had moved more than a few paces, the crowd’s cheering was suddenly cut off into an eerie silence. Julius broke into a sprint, arriving panting back at the consular box.

    They too were frozen in surprise as Julius entered. Brutus was already walking stiffly back to the fighters’ area, leaving a figure sprawled on the sand behind him.

    “What happened?” Julius demanded.

    Pompey shook his head in amazement. “So fast, Julius. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

    Of all of them, only Crassus seemed unmoved. “Your man stood still and ducked away from two blows without moving his feet, then he knocked his opponent out with a punch and cut his leg while he lay on the ground. Is it a win, then? It doesn’t seem a fair blow.”

    Mindful of another large bet on Brutus, Pompey was quick to speak.

    “Brutus drew first blood, even if his man was unconscious. It will count.”

    The crowd’s silence had broken as the same question was asked all over the benches. Many of the faces looked to the consular box for guidance, and Julius sent a runner to the cornicens to confirm Brutus’s win.

    There were grumblings then from those who had bet against the young Roman, but the majority of the crowd seemed content with the decision. Julius saw them act out the blow to each other, laughing all the while. Two soldiers from the Tenth woke the fallen fighter with a slap on his cheeks and helped him from the sand. As his wits returned, he began to struggle in their grip, shouting angrily at the result. They were unmoved by his protests as they vanished from sight into the shadowed awnings.

    The afternoon wore on with the remaining battles of the thirty-two. Octavian made it through his bout with a cut to his opponent’s thigh as he stepped along the outside of a blow. The crowd suffered under the sun, unwilling to miss a moment.

    The sixteen victors were brought out once more in their armor for the crowd to show their appreciation. The torchlight session would begin at sunset to whittle them down for the final day, giving the victors a chance to heal and recover overnight. Coins littered the sand around their feet as they raised their swords, and flowers that had been hoarded since morning were thrown down in splashes of color. Julius watched closely as Domitius was called, and his heart lifted as he saw him walk as smoothly and surely as he had ever done. There was no need for words, but he saw Renius’s knuckles whiten on the railing as they looked over the sand and cheered as wildly as the crowd.

CHAPTER 16

    Servilia joined them in the box for the final day. She wore a loose-fitting sheath of white silk, open at the neck. Julius was amused at the way the other men seemed hypnotized by the deep cleavage that was revealed as she stood to cheer the men of the Tenth who had made it to the last sixteen.

    Octavian took a cut to his cheek in the last match of the Sixteens. He lost to Salomin, who went triumphantly on to the Eights with Domitius, Brutus, and five others Julius did not know except for his notes. When there were strangers in the ring, Julius dictated letters to Adŕn in quick succession, only falling silent when a fight reached a climax and the young Spaniard could not tear his eyes away from the men on the sand. Adŕn was fascinated by the spectacle and awed by the sheer numbers of people present. The increasing sums wagered by Pompey and Julius made him shake his head in silent amazement, though he did his best to seem as casual as the other occupants of the box.

    The first session of the day had been long and hot, with the pace of the battles slowing. Each man still in the lists was a master and there were no quick victories. The mood of the crowd had changed too, keeping up a constant discussion of technique and style as they watched and cheered the better strokes.

    Salomin was hard-pressed as he fought to reach the last four for the evening climax. Despite the pressure of work, Julius broke off his dictation to watch the man after Adŕn had twice lost the thread of the dictation. Choosing to fight without the silver armor marked Salomin apart, and he was already a favorite of the crowd. His style showed the wisdom of the choice. The little man fought like an acrobat, never still. He tumbled and rolled in a fluid series of strikes that made his opponents look clumsy.

    Yet the man Salomin fought for the Fours was no novice to be startled into overreaching himself. Renius nodded approval at footwork that was good enough to keep the spinning Salomin from finding a gap in his defense.

    “Salomin will exhaust himself, surely,” Crassus said.

    None of the others answered, entranced by the spectacle. Salomin’s sword was inches longer than the gladius the others used and had a frightening reach at the end of a lunge.

    It was the extra length that tipped the contest, after the sun had moved a half-span across the sky in the afternoon heat. Both men poured with sweat and Salomin was a little off in a straight blow that he had disguised with his body. The other man never saw it as it entered his throat, and he collapsed, pumping blood onto the sand.

    As close as they were, Julius could see Salomin had not intended a mortal stroke. The little man stood appalled, his hands trembling as he stood over his fallen opponent. He knelt by the body and bowed his head.

    The crowd came onto their feet to shout for him, and after a long time their noise seemed to reach through his reverie. Salomin looked angrily at the baying citizens. Without raising his sword in the customary salute, the small man ran a finger and thumb down his blade to clean it and stalked back to the shaded enclosure.

    “
Not
one of us,” Pompey pronounced with amusement. He had won another of the large bets and nothing could shake his good humor, though a few of the crowd began to jeer as they realized there would be no salute to the consuls. The body was dragged away and another battle was called quickly before the crowd could become restless.

    “He’s earned his place in the Fours, though,” Julius said.

    Domitius had struggled through the Eights, but he too would be one of the last two pairs to fight in the contest. There was only one place still to be decided and Brutus would fight for it. By then, the crowd had watched them all for days and the whole of Rome followed their progress, runners taking news out to those who could not get seats. With the election less than a month away, Julius was already being treated as if he had gained a seat as consul. Pompey had mellowed noticeably toward him and Julius had refused meetings with both men to discuss the future. He did not want to tempt fate until his people had voted, though in quiet moments he daydreamed of addressing the Senate as one of the leaders of Rome.

    Bibilus had attended the last day and Julius glanced at the young man, wondering at his motivation for staying in the race for consul. Many of the initial candidates had dropped out as the election neared, having gained a temporary status over their colleagues. Bibilus, it seemed, was there to stay. Despite his apparent tenacity, Bibilus spoke poorly and an attempt to defend a man charged with theft had ended in farce. Still, his clients roamed the city with his name on their lips, and the young of Rome seemed to have adopted him as a mascot. The old money in Rome might well prefer one of their own against Julius, and he could not be ruled out.

    Julius fretted at the costs of the campaign as he waited for Brutus to be called for his bout. More than a thousand men collected their pay from the house at the bottom of the Esquiline hill each morning. What good they could actually achieve in a secret ballot, Julius wasn’t sure, but he had accepted Servilia’s argument that he must be seen to have supporters. It was a dangerous game, as too much support might mean many of Rome staying at home for the vote, content in the knowledge that their candidate could not lose. It was a fault of the system that had the free men of Rome voting in centuries. If only a few of the named group were present, they could carry the vote for all of them. Bibilus could benefit from such misplaced confidence, or Senator Prandus, who seemed to have as many men in his employ as Julius.

    Still, his part in defeating Catiline was becoming well known, and even his enemies must concede that the sword tourney was a success. In addition, Julius had won enough on his men to clear a few of the campaign debts. Adŕn kept the accounts and each day the Spanish gold dwindled, forcing him to run lines of credit. At times, the figures owed worried him, but if he was made consul, none of it would matter.

    “My son!” Servilia said suddenly, as Brutus came out onto the sand with Aulus, a slim fighter from the slopes of Vesuvius in the south.

    Both men looked splendid in the silver armor and Julius smiled down at Brutus as he saluted the consuls’ box, winking at his mother before turning and jerking his sword up for the crowd. They bellowed their approval and the two men walked lightly to their marks in the center. Renius snorted softly under his breath, but Julius could see the tension in him as he leaned forward, drinking it in.

    Julius hoped Brutus could bear a loss as easily as he bore his wins. Just reaching the last eight was an achievement with which to regale the grandchildren, but Brutus had said from the beginning that he would be in the final. Even he had stopped short of swearing he would win it, but his confidence was clear enough.

    “Put everything on him, Pompey. I will take your bets myself,” Julius said, caught up in the excitement.

    Pompey hesitated only a moment. “The betting men share your confidence, Julius. If you will give me decent odds, I may take you up on the offer.”

    “One coin for your fifty on Brutus. Five coins to your one on Aulus,” Julius said quickly. Pompey smiled.

    “You are so convinced Marcus Brutus will win? You tempt me to this Aulus with such a return. Five thousand gold against your man, at that rate. Will you take it?”

    Julius looked out onto the sand, his good mood suddenly wavering. It was the last match of the Eights, and Salomin and Domitius had already gone through. Surely there could be no other fighter with skill enough to beat his oldest friend?

    “I’ll take it, Pompey. My word on it,” he said, feeling fresh sweat break out on his skin. Adŕn was clearly appalled and Julius did not look at him. He held a calm expression as he tried to remember how much his reserves had shrunk after the new armor for the mercenaries and the wages for his clients each week. If Brutus lost, twenty-five thousand in gold was enough to break him, but there was always the thought that as consul, his credit would be good. The moneylenders would queue for him then.

    “This Aulus. Is he skillful?” Servilia asked to break the silence that had sprung up in the box.

    Bibilus had changed his seat to be close to her, and he answered with what he thought was a winning smile.

    “They all are at this stage, madam. Both have won seven battles to reach this point, though I am sure your son will prevail. He is the crowd’s favorite and they say that can lift a man wonderfully.”

    “Thank you,” Servilia replied, resting her hand on his arm.

    Bibilus blushed and wound his fingers into knots. Julius watched him with something less than affection, wondering whether the manner concealed a sharper mind, or if Bibilus was really the hopeless fool he seemed to be.

    The horns sounded and the first clash of blades had them all against the rail, jostling for space without thought for rank. Servilia breathed quickly and her nervousness showed enough for Julius to touch her arm. She didn’t seem to feel it.

    On the sand, the swords flickered, the two men moving around each other at a speed that mocked the heat. They circled quickly, breaking step to reverse with a skill that was beautiful to watch. Aulus had a similar build to Brutus’s taut frame, and the two men seemed well matched. Adŕn counted the number of blows under his breath, almost unconsciously, clenching his fists with the excitement. His notes and letters were forgotten on the chair behind him.

    Brutus struck armor three times in quick succession. Aulus allowed the blows through his defense to give him the chance to counter, and only Brutus’s footwork saved him each time after the ring of metal. Both men poured with sweat, their hair black and sopping with it. They broke apart in a strained pause and Julius could hear Brutus’s voice over the sand. No one in the box could make out the words, but Julius knew they would be barbs to spoil Aulus with anger.

    Aulus laughed at the attempt and they joined again, standing frighteningly close as their swords spun and flashed, the hilts and blades knocking and sliding in a flurry that was too fast for Adŕn to count. The young Spaniard’s mouth opened in amazement at the level of skill, and the whole crowd fell silent. In the awful tension, many of them held their breath, waiting for the first splash of blood to spring from the battling pair.

    “There!” Servilia cried at a stripe that had appeared on Aulus’s right thigh. “Do you see it? Look, there!” She pointed wildly, even as the swordplay reached a manic intensity on the sand. Whether Brutus knew or not, it was clear that Aulus had no idea he had been wounded and Brutus could not disengage at such close range without risking a fatal cut. They remained locked in the rhythms while sweat spattered off them.

    At Julius’s signal, the cornicens blew a warning note across the arena. It was dangerous to jar their concentration in such a fashion, but both men stepped back at once, panting in great heaves. Aulus touched a hand to his thigh and held up the reddened palm to Brutus. Neither could speak and Brutus pressed his hands onto his knees to suck in great lungfuls over the pounding of his heart that seemed to throb at every part of him. He spat out a sinewy mouthful of saliva and had to spit again to clear the long strand that reached down to the ground. As their pulses ceased hammering, the two men could hear the crowd cheering, and they embraced briefly before raising their blades once again in salute.

    Servilia hugged herself, laughing aloud with the thrill of it. “He has made the last four, then? My darling son. He was astonishing, was he not?”

    “He has a chance to win it now and bring honor to Rome,” Pompey replied with a sour glance at Julius. “Two Romans in the last two pairs. The gods alone know where the other two come from. That Salomin is as dark as a pit, and the other with the slanted eyes, who knows? Let us hope it is enough to have a Roman take that sword of yours, Julius. It would be a shame to see a pagan win it after all this.”

    Julius shrugged. “In the hands of the gods.”

    He waited for the consul to bring up the bet that stood between them, and Pompey sensed his thoughts, frowning.

    “I will have a man bring it to you, Julius. No need to stand there like a pregnant hen.”

    Julius nodded instantly. Despite the friendly appearances, every scrap of conversation in the box was like a bloodless duel as they maneuvered for advantage. He looked forward to the final session that evening, if only to see the end of it.

    “Of course, Consul. I will be at the house on Esquiline until the last bouts tonight.”

    Pompey frowned. He had not expected to have to produce such a large sum so quickly, but now the occupants of the box were watching him closely and Crassus had a nasty little smile ghosting around his lips. Pompey seethed inwardly. He would have to collect his winnings to pay it, all his earlier success wiped out. Only Crassus would have that sort of gold to hand. No doubt the vulture was thinking smugly of the solitary coin
he
had won on Brutus.

    “Excellent,” Pompey said, unwilling to give a definite commitment. Even with his winnings, it would leave him short, but he would see Rome burn before turning to Crassus for another loan.

    “Until then, gentlemen, Servilia,” Pompey said, smiling tightly. He signaled his guards and left the box stiff-backed.