Emperor: the field of swords E#3 (18 page)

    Julius watched him go before grinning with pleasure. Five thousand! In a single bet, his campaign was solvent once again.

    “I love this city,” he said aloud.

    Suetonius stood with his father to leave and though courtesy forced the young man to mumble a platitude as he passed, there was no pleasure in his thin face. Bibilus rose with them, looking nervously at his friend as he too murmured his thanks and fell in behind.

    Servilia stayed, her eyes reflecting something of the same excitement she saw in Julius. The crowd was streaming away to find food and the soldiers of the Tenth were in full view as she kissed him hungrily.

    “If you had your men adjust the awning and stand back, we would have privacy to be as naughty as children, Julius.”

    “You are too old to be naughty, my beautiful lover,” Julius replied, opening his arms to embrace her. She stiffened then, a flush of anger making her cheeks glow.

    Her eyes flashed as she spoke and Julius was appalled at the sudden change in her.

    “Another time, then,” she snapped, sweeping past him.

    “Servilia!” he called after her, but she did not turn back and he was left alone in the empty box, furious with himself for the slip.

CHAPTER 17

    In the coolness of the evening, Julius paced the box waiting for Servilia to arrive. Pompey’s man had sent a trunk of coins to him only minutes before he left for the final bouts, and Julius had been forced to delay while he summoned enough of the Tenth to guard such a fortune. Even with men he trusted, he worried at the thought of so much wealth sitting openly.

    All the others had arrived long before him, and Pompey smiled mirthlessly at his worried expression as Julius came running up the steps to take his seat. Where was Servilia? She had not joined him at the campaign house, but surely she would not miss her son’s final contests? Julius could not remain seated for more than a moment, and paced up and down the edge of the box, fretting.

    The sand ring was lit with flickering torches and the evening had brought a gentle breeze to ease the heat of the day. The seats were packed with citizens and every member of the Senate was in attendance. There would be no work in the city until the tournament was over, and the tension seemed to have spilled into the meanest streets. The people gathered in a formless crowd on the Campus Martius, as they would again in the election to come.

    Servilia’s arrival coincided with the first blast from the cornicens, summoning the final four to the sand. Julius looked questioningly at her as they settled, but she did not meet his eyes and looked colder than he had ever seen her.

    “I’m sorry,” he whispered, bending his head toward her. She gave no sign she had heard and he sat back, irritated. He vowed he would not try again.

    The crowd stood to cheer their favorites and the betting slaves hovered. Pompey ignored them, Julius saw, taking a vicious pleasure in the change in attitude he had brought about. He glanced at Servilia to see if she had noticed, and his resolve vanished at the cold mask she turned to him. He leaned close again.

    “Do I mean so little to you?” he whispered too loudly, so that Bibilus and Adŕn jerked in their seats and then tried to pretend they hadn’t heard. She did not reply and Julius set his jaw in anger, staring out over the dark sand.

    The final competitors walked slowly out under the light of the torches. The crowd stood for them and the sound was crushing as they roared together, twenty thousand throats joined as one. Brutus walked at Domitius’s side, trying to speak over the noise. Salomin followed and behind him the final fighter trotted out, hardly acknowledged by the crowd. Somehow, Sung’s style and victories had not caught their imagination. He showed no emotion and his salutes were perfunctory. He was taller and more massive than Salomin and his flat face and shaved head gave him a forbidding aspect as he strode behind the others, almost as if he were stalking them. Sung carried the longest blade of the last four. Doubtless it gave him an advantage, though any of the competitors could have used a blade of similar dimensions if they chose. Julius knew Brutus had considered it, having some experience with the spatha sword, but in the end the familiarity of the gladius had won him.

    Julius watched the four men closely, looking for stiffness or a favored limb. Salomin particularly seemed to be suffering and he walked with his head down close to his chest. They all carried bruises and the exhaustion of the days before. To some extent, the final winner might be decided not by skill, but stamina. He wondered how the pairs would be split and hoped Brutus would fight Domitius, to force a Roman into the final. The political part of him was well aware that the crowd would lose interest if the last bout saw Salomin and Sung alone on the sand. It would be a terrific anticlimax to the week, and his heart sank as he heard the pairs called: Brutus would fight Salomin; Domitius, Sung. The bets began to fly again in a cacophony of calls and nervous laughter. The tension hung over them and Julius felt sweat break out again in his armpits, despite the breeze that crossed the sand.

    The four men watched closely as a steward tossed a coin into the air. Sung nodded at the result and Domitius made some aside to him that could not be heard over the noise of the crowd. There was a professional respect between the four men that was clear in every movement. They had seen each other win over and over and labored under no illusions as to the harshness of the struggle to come.

    Calling encouragement over his shoulder to Domitius, Brutus walked with Salomin back to the enclosure. He noted the new stiffness in Salomin’s movements and wondered if he had torn a muscle. Such a little thing could mean the difference between reaching the final and walking away with nothing. Brutus studied him closely, wondering if the little man was acting for his benefit. It wouldn’t have surprised him. At that stage, they were all willing to try anything for the slightest advantage.

    The crowd fell silent so quickly that it was spoiled by nervous laughter. The cornicens were ready in their places, glancing upward to see if Julius was still in his seat.

    Julius waited patiently as Domitius began his stretching exercises. Sung ignored the Roman he was to fight, instead staring at the crowd until some of them noticed it and began to point and glare in return. It was all part of the excitement of the last night, and Julius could see hundreds of young children by their parents, thrilled to be kept from their beds.

    Domitius ended his slow movements with a lunge onto his right knee, and Julius saw a smile crease the dark face as it held without pain. He thanked the gods for Cabera, though he felt guilt for having asked him. The old healer had fallen to the ground after the healing and was as gray and ill looking as Julius had ever known him. When it was over, Julius swore to himself, he would give the old man whatever reward he wanted. The thought of being without him was something on which he did not dare dwell for long, but who knew how old Cabera was?

    Julius brought down his hand and the horns blew. It was clear from the first moment that Sung intended to make use of the advantage his long sword gave him. His wrists must have been like iron to hold it so far from his body and take the weight of Domitius’s blade, Julius realized. Yet his powerful legs seemed anchored in the sand, and the long silver length of metal kept Domitius away as they feinted and struck. Each man knew the style of the other almost as well as his own after so much study, and the result was stalemate. Domitius did not dare to step inside the long reach of Sung’s blade, yet when he was pressed, there was no gap in his defense.

    Renius thumped his fist onto the railing at a good stroke, cheering in hacking barks as Domitius forced Sung onto his back foot for a moment, spoiling his balance. The long blade whipped round and Domitius ducked under it, darting in at last. His lunge was perfect, but Sung moved smoothly to one side, letting it slide past his armored chest, then bringing his hilt down into Domitius’s cheek.

    It was a glancing blow, but much of the crowd winced to see it. Julius shook his head in wonderment at the level of skill, though to the untrained eye, it could have seemed a messy fight. There were none of the perfect attacks and counters they had seen when better men fought novices in the early rounds. Here, each sudden parry and riposte was spoiled almost as soon as it had begun, and the result was a flurry of ugly blows with not a drop of blood spilled between them.

    Domitius pulled away first. His cheekbone was swollen from where the hilt had caught him, and he raised his palm to it. Sung waited patiently with his blade ready while Domitius showed him the unmarked hand. The skin had not split and they leapt in again with greater ferocity.

    Only the pounding of his pulse made Julius realize he was holding his breath. They could not hold such a pace for long, he was certain, and at any moment he expected one of them to cut.

    They broke apart again and circled almost at a run, setting up and breaking rhythms as fast as the other man saw them. Twice Domitius almost lured Sung into a false step as he changed direction, and the second time led to a blow that should have cut Sung’s arm from his body if he had not flung it back and taken the impact on his armor.

    The exhaustion of the previous days was beginning to show in both men, perhaps more so in Domitius, who was panting visibly. Julius knew the battle he watched was fought as much in their minds as with their blades and could not guess whether it was another ruse, or whether Domitius was really suffering. His strength seemed to come in spurts and the speed of his arm varied as it grew heavy.

    Sung too was unsure and twice let opportunities go by where he might have taken advantage of a late parry. He tilted his head to one side as if in judgment, and again he held the Roman away with a dazzling series of sweeps with the point.

    A blisteringly fast reverse almost won the match, as Domitius slapped his hand into the flat of his blade and changed direction so quickly that Sung threw himself flat on his back. Renius cried out in excitement. There were few with the knowledge to see the collapse was deliberate and controlled. There was no faster way of avoiding a stroke, but the crowd cheered as if their favorite had won, and howled as they saw Sung skitter like a crab away from Domitius’s stabs until, miraculously, he was on his feet again.

    Perhaps it was the frustration of coming so close, but Domitius checked his rush a fraction too late and Sung’s point whipped up, biting into flesh at the bottom edge of Domitius’s armor. Both men froze then and those with keen eyes in the crowd wailed in frustration, even as their neighbors craned to see who had won.

    Blood dribbled down Domitius’s leg and Julius could see him mouthing a torrent of curses before he gathered his control and returned to the first mark. Sung’s face never changed, but when both men faced each other, he bowed for the first time in the contest. To the pleasure of the crowd, Domitius returned the gesture and grinned openly through his exhaustion as they saluted the crowd together.

    Renius turned to Julius, his eyes bright. “With your permission, sir. If I had Domitius, my training of the new men would go much better. He is a thinking fighter and they would respond to him.”

    Julius could feel every ear in the box pricking up at this mention of his ragged new legion.

    “If he and Brutus agree, I will send him to you. I promised my best centurions and optios for the task. He shall go with them.”

    “We need smiths and tanners as much-” Renius began, halting as Julius shook his head.

    Servilia stood as Brutus and Salomin walked out onto the sand. She shuddered unconsciously as she watched her son, tightening her hand into a fist. There was something terribly forbidding about the torch-lit ring.

    Julius wanted to reach out to her, but controlled the impulse, aware of every aspect of her movement close by his shoulder. He could smell her scent in the night air and it tormented him. His anger and confusion almost spoiled the moment when he put his signet ring against a bet of five thousand gold on Brutus. Pompey’s expression was a delight and he felt his mood lift, despite Servilia’s stiffness. Adŕn too stifled a look of horror and Julius winked at him. They had gone over the reserves together and the simple fact was that the Spanish gold he had brought back was very nearly gone. If he lost the five thousand, they would be forced to rely on credit until the campaign was over. Julius chose not to tell the young Spaniard about the black pearl he had bought for Servilia. He felt the weight of it in a pouch against his chest, and was so pleased with it that he wanted to hand it over regardless of her mood. The price made him shrink slightly as he considered the armor and supplies he could have bought in its stead. Sixty thousand gold coins. He had been mad. Certainly, it was far too extravagant to put in his accounts. The merchant had sworn on his mother’s blood not to reveal the sum, which meant it might be at least a few days before the huge sale was known to every inn and whorehouse in Rome. Julius could feel the weight of it pull at his toga, and occasionally he would reach almost unconsciously to feel the curve of the pearl under the cloth.

    Salomin too had watched every battle fought by Brutus, including the one where he had knocked a man senseless, then taken first blood with an almost contemptuous slice of the leg. If he had been at his best, he would still have preferred to be drawn against Domitius, or the lazy Chinese, Sung. He had watched the young Roman fight without the slightest pause for thought or tactics, as if his body and muscles were trained to act without conscious direction. As he faced him over the sand, Salomin swallowed dryly, willing himself to focus. Despair filled him as he loosened his shoulder muscles and felt the scabs break open on his back. Sweat poured from his brow as he stood waiting for the horns to sound.

    The soldiers had come for him that afternoon as he ate and rested at a modest rooming house near the outer wall of the city. He did not know why they had dragged him out into the street and held him to be whipped until their sticks broke. He had rubbed goose grease into each of the cuts and tried to remain supple, but whatever chance he may have had was gone and only his pride made him take his place. He mumbled a short prayer in the language of his own city and felt it calm him.

    As the horns sounded, he reacted instinctively, trying to slide away. His back wrenched in agony and tears filled his eyes, making stars of the torches. He brought up his blade blindly and Brutus swayed away from it. Salomin cried out with pain and frustration as his rigid muscles tore. He tried another blow and missed cleanly. The sweat ran in great drops from his face as he stood, willing himself on.