Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

“You're going to die for that, you little Thurin bastard. I've been wondering where you went to. Been stealing swords now, have you?”

As the boy growled at him, Octavian could see the others edging to block his retreat. In a few moments he was surrounded and the bustling crowd moved around them without noticing the scene, or too afraid of violence to interfere.

Octavian held the sword in first position, as Tubruk had taught him. He couldn't run, so he vowed to get a good cut in before they rushed him.

The butcher's boy laughed, closing the space. “Not so cocky now, are you, rat?”

He looked enormous to Octavian and the sword suddenly felt useless in his hands. The butcher's boy approached with his hand held out to knock away any sudden attack, his face lit with feral excitement.

“Give it to me and I'll let you live,” he said, grinning.

Octavian gripped the hilt even tighter against this threat, trying to think what Tubruk would do in his position. It came to him as the apprentice stepped inside the range of the wavering sword.

Octavian yelled and attacked, swiping the edge across the outstretched hand. If it had been sharp, the boy could have been crippled. As it was, he yelped and danced backward out of range, swearing and gripping the hurt hand in the other.

“Leave me alone!” Octavian shouted, looking for a gap to run through.

There wasn't one and the butcher's boy inspected his cut hand before his face twisted evilly. Reaching behind himself, the apprentice took a heavy knife from his belt and showed it to Octavian. It was rusty with the blood of his trade, and Octavian could hardly tear his eyes from it.

“I'm going to cut you, rat. I'm going to put your eyes out and leave you blinded,” the older boy snarled at him.

Octavian tried to flee but, instead of holding him, the other apprentices laughed and pushed him back toward the butcher's boy. He raised the sword again and then a shadow loomed over the apprentices and a heavy hand connected solidly with the butcher boy's head, knocking him flat.

Tubruk reached down and picked up the knife from where it had fallen on the stones of the street. The butcher's boy began to rise and Tubruk closed his fist and punched him down into the filth of the street, where he scrabbled, dazed.

“Never thought I'd see the day when I was fighting with children,” Tubruk muttered. “Are you all right?” Octavian watched him with openmouthed astonishment. “I've been looking for you for hours.”

“I was… taking the sword to Tabbic. I didn't steal it,” Octavian replied, tears threatening again.

“I know, lad. Clodia guessed you were heading that way. Looks like a good thing I came to find you, doesn't it?” The old gladiator glanced at the ring of apprentices who stood nervously around, unsure whether to run or not.

“If I were you, lads, I'd get away before I lose my temper,” he said. His expression made the consequences quite clear and they wasted no time disappearing.

“I'll send the sword to Tabbic myself, all right? Now, are you coming back to the estate or not?”

Octavian nodded. Tubruk turned to make his way back through the crowds to the gate. It would be close to dawn before they reached the estate, but he knew he wouldn't have slept with Octavian lost anyway. For all his faults, he liked the boy.

“Wait, Tubruk. Just a moment,” Octavian said.

Tubruk turned with a frown. “What is it now?”

Octavian stepped over to the battered apprentice and kicked him as hard as he could in the crotch. Tubruk winced in sympathy.

“Gods, you have a lot to learn. That isn't sporting when a man is down.”

“Maybe not, but I owed it to him.”

Tubruk blew air out of his cheeks as Octavian fell in with him.

“Maybe you did, lad.”

Brutus couldn't believe what was happening to him. The man was inhuman. He had no breath for banter and he'd almost lost the bout in the first few seconds as Domitius had struck with a speed he'd never seen before. His anger had fired his reflexes to match the attack, and the crack of blocked strikes was relentless for longer than he would have believed possible. The man didn't seem to stop for breath. The blows came constantly, from all angles, and twice Brutus had almost lost his sword when he was caught on the arm. With real weapons, that might have been enough to finish it, but in the practice bouts it had to be a clearly fatal blow, especially when there was money riding on the result.

Brutus had regained some ground when he shifted into the fluid style he'd learned from a tribal warrior in Greece. As he'd hoped, the different rhythms had broken Domitius's attack and he caught the man's forearm with a rap that would have taken his hand off at the wrist if there were an edge on the blade.

Domitius had stepped away then, looking surprised, and Brutus had used the moment to force his anger into a calm to match his opponent's. Domitius was hardly breathing heavily and he seemed completely relaxed.

In case it muffled the sound of an enemy attack, the watching soldiers were forbidden to cheer or shout by camp order. Instead, they hissed or gasped as the fight moved around the circle, waving clenched fists and baring their teeth in repressed excitement.

Brutus had a chance to punch as the swords were trapped together, but that too was forbidden, in case the soldiers injured each other too badly to fight or march the following day.

“I… could have had you then,” he grated.

Domitius nodded. “I had the chance myself earlier. Of course, I have a longer reach than you.”

The attack came again and Brutus blocked twice before the third broke through his guard and he looked down at the wooden point pressing painfully into his chest under the ribs.

“A win, I think,” Domitius said. “You really are very good. You nearly won with that style you used halfway through. You'll have to show it to me sometime.” He saw Brutus's crestfallen expression and chuckled.

“Son, I have been legion champion five times since I was your age. You're still too young to have your full speed, and skill takes even longer. Try me again in a year or two and there might be a different result. You did well enough and I should know.”

Domitius walked away into a crowd of soldiers, who clapped him on the back and shoulders in congratulation. Cabera approached Brutus, looking sour.

“He was very good,” Brutus muttered. “Better than Renius or anyone.”

“Could you beat him if you fought again?”

Brutus thought about it, rubbing his chin and mouth. “Possibly, if I learned from this time.”

“Good, because I collected the winnings from the quartermaster before the fight started.”

“What? I told you to let it ride!” Brutus said with an amazed grin. “Ha! How much did we make?”

“Twenty aurei, which is the original silver doubled for the seven bouts you won. I had to leave a few on you against Domitius, out of politeness, but the rest is clear.”

Brutus laughed out loud, then winced as he began to feel the bruises he'd taken.

“He only challenged me to let his friends win back their money. It looks like I'll get another chance after all.”

“I can set it up for tomorrow, if you like. The odds will be wonderful. If you win, there won't be a coin in camp.”

“Do it. I'd like another crack at Domitius. You clever old man! How did you know I was going to lose?”

Cabera sighed, leaning close as if to impart a secret. “I knew because you are an idiot. No one beats a legion champion after three other bouts.”

Brutus snorted. “Next time, I'll let Renius put the bets on,” he retorted.

“In that case, I'll take my share out before you start.”