Emperor: the field of swords E#3 (19 page)

    Brutus stepped away, puzzled and frowning. He pointed to Salomin’s arm. For a moment, Salomin did not dare look, but when he felt the sting, his eyes darted to a shallow cut in his skin and he nodded in resignation.

    “Not my worst cut today, my friend. I hope you were innocent of the others,” Salomin said softly.

    Brutus looked blank as he raised his sword to the crowd, suddenly aware of the cramped way the usually lithe little man was standing. His face cleared in a flash of horrified understanding.

    “Who was it?”

    Salomin shrugged. “Who can tell one Roman from another? They were soldiers. It is done.”

    Brutus paled in rage, his eyes snapping up in suspicion to where Julius was cheering him. He strode from the sand, deaf to the cheers in his name.

    With a break of two hours before the final, the sand was raked clean while many of the citizens left to eat and wash, talking excitedly amongst themselves. The box emptied quickly and Julius noticed that Senator Prandus left before his son, who walked into the crowd with Bibilus, barely acknowledging his father as they passed.

    Julius heard Brutus approach as the shifting crowd near the box recognized their champion and cheered with fresh enthusiasm. Though he shook with emotion, Brutus kept enough of his sense to sheathe his blade before approaching the guards around the box. Their duty would have forced them to challenge, regardless of his new status.

    Julius and Servilia went quickly to him, and Julius’s congratulations died in his throat as he saw his friend’s expression. Brutus was white with rage.

    “Did you have Salomin beaten?” He snapped as he came up. “He could barely stand. Did you do it?”

    “I-” Julius began, appalled. He was interrupted by the sudden snap to attention of Pompey’s soldiers as the curtain was swept aside and the consul stepped out.

    Trembling with suppressed emotion, Brutus saluted and stood stiffly to attention while Pompey looked him over.

    “I gave that order. Whether you profited from it or not is of no interest to me. A foreigner who does not salute can expect no better and deserves worse. If he had not been amongst the last four, I would have had him swinging in the breeze by now.”

    He returned their astonished gazes levelly.

    “Even a foreigner can be taught respect, I believe. Now, Brutus, go and rest for the final.”

    Dismissed, Brutus could do no more than shoot a glance of apology at his friend and mother.

    “Perhaps it might have been better to wait until the tournament was over,” Julius said after Brutus had gone. Something about Pompey’s reptilian gaze made him careful in his choice of words. The man’s arrogance was greater than he had ever realized.

    “Or just forget it altogether, perhaps?” Pompey replied. “A consul
is
Rome, Caesar. He must not be mocked or treated lightly. Perhaps you will understand that in time, if the citizens give you the chance to stand where I stand today.”

    Julius opened his mouth to ask if Pompey had bet on Brutus and closed it just in time before he destroyed himself. He recalled that Pompey had not; his twisted sense of honor would have prevented taking a profit from his punishment.

    Suddenly tired and sick of it all, Julius nodded as if he understood, holding the curtain open so that Servilia and Pompey could pass through it. She did not look at him even then, and he sighed bitterly to himself as he followed them. He knew she would expect him to come to her in private, and though it galled him, there was little choice. His hand strayed to the pearl’s bulge and he tapped it thoughtfully.

    Still panting from his ride, Julius took a deep breath before knocking on the door. The tavern keeper had confirmed Servilia had come back to her room, and Julius could hear the splash of water inside as she bathed before the last bout. Despite his agitation, Julius could not help but feel the first silken touches of arousal as he heard footsteps approach, but the voice that called was that of the slave girl who filled the baths of customers.

    “Julius,” he replied to the query. Perhaps his titles might have made the girl move a little faster, but there were ears along the little corridor and there was something faintly ludicrous in addressing a closed door like a lovesick boy. He cracked his knuckles as he waited. At least the tavern was close enough to the city walls for him to make it back in time. His horse was munching hay in the small stable, and he only needed a minute to give Servilia the pearl, bear her delighted embraces, and gallop back to the Campus with her for the last bout at midnight.

    The slave girl opened the door at last, bowing to him. Julius could see amusement in her eyes as she edged past into the corridor, but he forgot her as soon as the door closed behind him.

    Servilia was dressed in a simple white robe, with her hair tied into a coil on her neck. Part of him wondered how she had found time to apply paint and oils to her face, but he rushed forward to her.

    “I do not care about the years between us. Did they matter in Spain?” he demanded. Before he could touch her, she held up a hand, her back stiff as a queen.

    “You understand nothing, Julius, and that is the simple truth.”

    He tried to protest, but she spoke loudly over him, her eyes flashing.

    “I knew it was impossible in Spain, but everything was different there. I can’t explain… it was as if Rome was too far away and you were all that mattered. When I am here, I feel the years, the decades, Julius.
Decades
between us. My forty-third birthday passed yesterday. When you are in your forties, I will be an old woman with gray hair. I have them now, but covered in the best dyes from Egypt. Let me go, Julius. We can have no more time together.”

    “I don’t care, Servilia!” Julius snapped. “You are still beautiful…”

    Servilia laughed unpleasantly. “
Still
beautiful, Julius? Yes, it is a wonder I have kept my looks, though you know nothing of the work it takes me to present a smooth face to the world.”

    For a moment, her eyes crumpled and she struggled against tears. When she spoke again, her voice was filled with an infinite weariness.

    “I will not let you watch me grow old, Julius. Not
you.
Go back to your friends, before I call the tavern guards to throw you out. Leave me to finish dressing.”

    Julius opened his hand and showed her the pearl. He knew it was the wrong thing to do, but he had planned the gesture all the way from the Campus and now it was if his arm moved without conscious will. She shook her head in disbelief at him.

    “Should I throw myself into your arms now, Julius? Should I weep and say I’m sorry I ever thought you were a boy?”

    With jerky spite, she snatched at the pearl and threw it straight at him, striking him in the forehead and making him flinch. He heard it roll into the recesses of the room, and the sound seemed to go on endlessly.

    She spoke slowly, as if to one lacking in wits. “Now get out.”

    As the door closed behind him, she rubbed angrily at her eyes and stood to search the corners of the room for the pearl. When her fingers closed over it, she held it up to the lamplight and for a moment her expression softened. Despite its beauty, it was cold and hard in her hand, as she pretended to be.

    Servilia stroked the pearl with the pads of her long fingers, thinking of him. He had not yet lived thirty years, and though he didn’t seem to think of it, he would want a wife to give him sons. Tears glittered on her eyelashes as she thought of her drying womb. No blood for three months and no life stirring within her. For a while, she had dared to hope for a child, but when another period was missed, she knew she was past the last age of youth. There would be no son from her and it was better to send him away before his thoughts turned to children she could not give him. Better than waiting for him to cast her off. He wore his strength so easily and well that she knew he would never understand her fear. She took a deep breath to calm herself. He would recover; the young always did.

    When Brutus and Sung emerged at midnight, the torches had been refilled with oil and the ring glowed in the darkness of the Campus. The betting slaves had been discreetly withdrawn and no more money was being taken. Many of the citizens had been drinking steadily through the afternoon in preparation for the climax, and Julius sent runners to summon more of the Tenth in case of a riot at the end. Despite the weariness that assailed his spirit, Julius felt the thrill of pride as he watched Brutus raise one of Cavallo’s swords for the last time. The gesture had a personal, painful meaning for all of them who understood it.

    Without thinking, Julius reached out his hand to take Servilia’s and then let it drop.

    Her mood would change if Brutus won, he was almost certain.

    The moon had risen, a pale crescent that hung above the ring of torches. Though it was late, the news of the finalists had passed quickly across the city and all of Rome was awake and waiting for the result. If he won, Brutus would be famous, and the wry thought occurred to Julius that if his friend stood for consul, he would almost certainly win the seat.

    As the cornicens blew their horns, Sung attacked without warning, trying for a win in the first instant. His blade blurred as it whipped out at Brutus’s legs and the young Roman batted it aside with a ring of metal. He did not counter and for a moment Sung was left off balance. The sharp slits of his eyes remained impassive as Sung shrugged and moved in again, his long sword cutting a curve in the air.

    Once again, Brutus knocked the blade away and the sound of metal was like a bell that rang out over the silent crowd. They watched in fascination at this last battle that was so different from those that had gone before.

    Julius could see the mottle of anger still on Brutus’s face and neck and wondered whether he would kill Sung or be killed himself as his mind dwelled on the false win against Salomin.

    The bout developed into a series of dashes and clangs, but Brutus had not moved a step from his mark. Where Sung’s blade would reach him, it was blocked with a short jab of the gladius. Where the blow was a feint, Brutus ignored it, even when the metal passed close enough for him to hear it cut the air. Sung was breathing heavily as the crowd began to raise their voices with each of his attacks, falling silent for the blow and then letting out a hissing gasp that seemed like mockery. They thought Brutus was teaching the man a lesson about Rome.

    As Julius watched, he knew Brutus was wrestling with himself alone. He wanted to win almost to desperation, but the shame of Salomin’s treatment ate at him and he merely held Sung while he thought it through. Julius realized he was witnessing the display of a perfect swordsman. It was a staggering truth, but the boy he had known had become a master, greater than Renius or any other.

    Sung knew it, as sweat stung his eyes and still the Roman stood before him. Sung’s face filled with rage and frustration. He had begun to grunt with every blow, and without making a conscious choice, he was no longer striking to take first blood, but to kill.

    Julius couldn’t bear to watch it. He leaned out over the railing and bellowed across the sand to his friend: “Win, Brutus! For us, win!”

    His people roared as they heard him. Brutus turned Sung’s blade on his own, trapping it long enough to hammer his elbow into the man’s mouth. Blood spilled visibly over Sung’s pale skin and Sung stepped back, stunned. Julius saw Brutus raise his hand and speak to the man and then Sung shook his head and darted in again.

    Brutus came alive then and it was like watching a cat startled into a leap. He let the long blade slide along his ribs to get inside the guard and rammed his gladius down into Sung’s neck with every ounce of his anger. The blade vanished under the silver armor and Brutus walked away across the sand without looking back.

    Sung looked after him, his face twisted. His left hand plucked at the blade as he tried to shout, but his lungs were ribbons of flesh inside him and only a hoarse croaking could be heard in the deathly silence.

    The crowd began to jeer and Julius felt ashamed of them. He stood and bellowed for quiet, enough to silence those who could hear. The rest followed into a tense stillness as the people of Rome waited for Sung to fall.

    Sung spat angrily onto the sand, all color seeping out of his face. Even at a distance, they could hear each heaving breath torn out. Slowly, with infinite care, he unbuckled his armor and let it fall. The cloth underneath was drenched and black in the torchlight, and Sung looked at it in amazement, his dark gaze flickering up at the rows of Romans watching him.

    “Come on, you bastard,” Renius whispered to himself. “Show them how to die.”

    With the precision of agony, Sung sheathed his long sword, and then his legs betrayed him and he dropped to his knees. Still, he looked around at them all and the hard breaths were like screams, each one shorter than the last. Then he fell and the crowd released their breath, sitting like statues of gods in judgment.

    Pompey mopped at his brow, shaking his head. “You must congratulate your man, Caesar. I have never seen better,” he said.