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. Adàn 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. Adàn 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. Adàn 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 Adàn 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.
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
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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 Adàn 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.
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