Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

“You're too ugly to be a good swordsman,” Brutus said cheerfully as he moved lightly on the balls of his feet around the angry legionary. As the light faded, the men had gathered in the center of the camp as they had for the previous three nights to watch the bouts Brutus had started.

“You need a certain skill, it's true, but being handsome is also important,” Brutus continued, watching the man with a close scrutiny belied by the banter. The legionary turned to face him, gripping his practice sword a little too tightly with tension. Although the wooden weapons were hardly lethal, a solid blow could break a finger or put out an eye. The wood was hollow all along the thick blade and had been filled with lead, making it heavier than a gladius. When the soldiers took up their real swords, they felt almost miraculously light in their hands.

Brutus turned in place to avoid a lunge, letting the blade pass only inches from him. He'd started the bouts at the end of the sixth evening, when he realized he wasn't anywhere near as tired as he'd expected. They had quickly become the main item of entertainment for the bored soldiers, attracted by Brutus's cocky assurance that there wasn't one of them who could beat him. He often fought three or four legionaries in a row, and even the gambling games had ceased in the camp after the second night, with all the money placed in bets on or against Brutus. If he could keep winning, he would end the march with a small fortune.

“People like handsome heroes, you see. You hardly qualify,” Brutus announced, turning a sudden attack with a grunt as he finished. “It's not something obvious like a nose or a peculiar mouth…” He launched a spinning combination that was fended off desperately, and Brutus stepped back to let the man recover. The legionary had been just as cocky in the beginning, but now sweat spattered from his hair as he dodged and attacked. Brutus squinted at his face, as if judging his features.

“No, it's accumulated ugliness, as if nothing sits right at all,” he said.

The soldier snarled and aimed a blow with enough force to split Brutus's skull if it landed. It sailed past and as the soldier followed it, Brutus tapped his own sword at the base of the man's neck, just enough to force him to overbalance. He went flat and scrambled up with his chest heaving as he spoke.

“Tomorrow? I think I could beat you if I had another chance, ugly or not.”

Brutus shrugged and pointed to the line of waiting soldiers. “There's a few ahead of you, but I'll try to have Cabera put you at the front tomorrow evening, if you're willing. You're still holding on too tightly, you know.”

The soldier examined his grip and nodded.

“Work on your wrists,” Brutus continued seriously. “If you can trust their strength, you'll be able to loosen up a little.”

The man retired to the crowd, moving the wooden sword slowly in concentration. Cabera brought up the next, ushering him forward like a favorite child.

“This one says he's good. He was champion of his century a few years back. The quartermaster wants to know if you're going to let the bet ride again. I think you've got him worried.” Cabera grinned at Brutus, well pleased that he had eased himself into the Primigenia ranks after the first dull evening near the back.

Brutus looked the latest opponent up and down, noting the powerful shoulders and slim waist. The man ignored the inspection, spending the time stretching his muscles.

“What's your name?” Brutus asked him.

“Domitius. Centurion,” the man replied.

There was something about him that caused Brutus to narrow his eyes in suspicion.

“Century champion, were you? How many years ago?”

“Three. Legion champion last year,” Domitius replied, carrying on with the exercises without looking at the younger man.

Brutus exchanged a quick glance with Cabera and took in the fact that the crowd around them had grown to the point where everyone except the sentries must have been there. Renius had joined them and Brutus frowned at the sight of him. It was difficult to relax while the man who had taught you was shaking his head in apparent disbelief. He gathered his confidence.

“The thing is, Domitius, I'm sure you are competent enough, but in every generation, there has to be someone who is better than everyone else. It's a law of nature.”

Domitius slowly stretched the muscles of his legs. He appeared to think it over.

“You're probably right,” he replied.

“I am right. Someone has to be the best of his generation and I'm almost embarrassed to say that person is me.” Brutus watched Domitius for a reaction.

“Almost embarrassed?” the man murmured as he loosened the muscles in his back.

Brutus felt irritated by the legionary's calm. Something about the almost hypnotic stretching nettled him.

“Right. Cabera? Go to the quartermaster and tell him I'll let the bet ride for one more bout with Domitius here.”

“I don't think…” Cabera began, looking doubtfully toward the newcomer. Domitius was almost a head taller than Brutus and moved with control and an ease of balance that was rare.

“Just tell him. One more and I'm coming to collect.”

Cabera grimaced and trotted away.

Domitius rose as if he were uncoiling and smiled at Brutus. “That's what I was waiting for,” he said. “My friends have lost a lot of money betting against you.”

“And that didn't tell you something? Let's get on with it, then,” Brutus said curtly.

Domitius sighed. “You short men are always so impatient,” he said, shaking his head.

Octavian wiped his nose along his arm, leaving a silvery trail on the skin. At first the city had seemed a different place. It had been easy enough to slip past the gate guards, using a cart as cover, but once inside, the noise and smells and sheer hurry of the crowds were disconcerting. He realized the months on the estate had made him forget the energy of the city, even at night.

He hoped Tubruk was worried about him. In a day or two, Octavian thought, he would be welcomed back with open arms. Especially if he could persuade Tabbic to grind the blade back to a good edge. All he had to do was stay out of trouble until morning, when the little shop opened. The blade was wrapped in a horse cloth and held under his arm. He wouldn't have got far with it otherwise, he was sure. Some public-spirited citizen was sure to stop him, or, worse, a thief could snatch it for the money it would bring at one of the cheaper shops than Tabbic's.

Almost unconsciously, Octavian let his footsteps take him in the direction of his mother's house. If only he could spend the night there, he would see Tabbic and be back in the estate in a day or two with Tubruk pleased with him again. He thought of her likely reaction at seeing him and winced. The sword would be discovered and she would think he had stolen it. For a mother, she was not very trusting, he admitted sadly to himself. She never believed him, even when he was telling the truth, which was always infuriating.

Perhaps he should try to signal Alexandria, get her out to see him without disturbing the rest of the house. She might understand better than his mother what he had to do.

He trotted through the night crowd, dodging around the street sellers and resisting the urge to grab at the hot food that filled the air with tantalizing smells. He was starving, but the empty feeling in his stomach took second place to his need to make things right with Tubruk. Getting himself caught by an angry stall-keeper would spoil things as badly as a conversation with his mother.

“It's the rat!”

The sudden exclamation jarred him from his miserable thoughts. He looked up into the surprised eyes of the butcher's apprentice, and panic flared in him. He jumped down into the street to avoid hands that clutched from behind. They were all there! Desperately, he threw open the blanket roll and got a hand on the hilt of Tubruk's gladius. He brought it up in front of him as the butcher's boy moved in on him, hands clutching in anticipation. A wild swipe nearly touched the outstretched fingers, and the apprentice swore in surprise.