Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

Julius looked away until it was finished. As he did so, he saw Crassus turn his head, but ignored the gaze. The crowd cheered each head as it was held up to them, and Julius watched them curiously. He wondered if the events Crassus paid for gripped them half as much as this day’s entertainment.

They were his people, this crowd stretching darkly over the wet ground of the Campus Martius. The nominal masters of the city, sated with vicarious terror and cleansed by it. As it ended, he saw the faces ease as if some great weight had been lifted. Husbands and wives joked together, relaxing, and he knew there would be little work in the city that day. They would pass through the great gates and head for wineshops and inns to discuss what they had seen. The problems of their own lives would become less important for a few hours. The city would slip into the evening with none of the usual rush and hurry of the streets. They would sleep well and wake refreshed.

The lines of Pompey’s men opened to let the Senate through. Julius rose with the others and made his way back to the gates, watching as the seals were cracked and a bar of light appeared between them. He had two cases to prepare for the forum court and his sword tournament was only days away, but like the crowd of citizens, he felt strangely at peace when he thought of the work to come. There could be no striving on such a day, and the damp air tasted clean and fresh in his lungs.

That evening, Julius stood and rapped his knuckles on the long table in the campaign house. The noise fell as quickly as good red wine would allow, and he waited, looking around at those who had come with him in the race for consul. Every person at the table had risked a great deal in their public support of him.

If he lost, they would all be made to suffer in some way. Alexandria could find her clients disappearing with a single word from Pompey, her business ruined. If Julius was allowed to take the Tenth to some distant post, those who went with him would be giving up their careers, forgotten men who would be lucky to see the city again before retirement.

As they fell silent, Julius looked down at Octavian, the only one at the table bound to him by blood.

Seeing the hero-worship in the young man was painful when Julius thought of all the gray years that would follow his failure and banishment. Would Octavian look back on the campaign with bitterness then?

“We have come so very far,” he said to them. “Some of you have been with me almost from the beginning. I can’t even remember a time when Renius wasn’t there, or Cabera. My father would be proud to see his boy with such friends.”

“Will he mention me, do you think?” Brutus said to Alexandria.

Julius smiled gently. He had been going to raise a simple toast to those who had entered the sword tournament, but the executions that morning had stayed with him through the day, casting a gray spell over his mood.

“I wish there were others at this table,” Julius said. “Marius for one. When I look back, the good memories are lost in the rest, but I have known great men.” He felt his heart thumping in his chest as the words came.

“I have never known a straight path in my life. I stood at Marius’s side as we rode through Rome throwing coins to the crowds. The air was full of petals and cheering and I heard the slave whose task it was whisper in his ear, ‘Remember you are mortal.’ ” Julius sighed as he saw again the colors and excitement of that day.

“I have been so close to death that even Cabera gave me up. I’ve lost friends and lost hope and I’ve seen kings fall and Cato cut his own throat in the forum. I have been so drenched in death I thought I would never laugh or care for anyone again.”

They stared at him over the dishes that littered the long table, but his gaze was far away and he did not see the effect of his words.

“I saw Tubruk die and Cornelia’s body so white she did not look real until I touched her.” His voice faded to a whisper and Brutus glanced at his mother. She had paled, pressing a hand against her mouth as Julius spoke.

“I tell you, I would not wish what I have seen on anyone,” Julius murmured. He seemed to come back to them, aware of the chill in the room.

“I am here, though, still. I honor the dead, but I will use my time. Rome has only seen the beginning of my struggle. I have known despair and it holds no fear for me now. This is my city, my summer. I have given my youth to her and I would throw the years at her again if I had the chance.”

He raised his cup to the stunned table.

“When I look at you all, I cannot imagine a force in the world that can stop us,” he said. “Drink to friendship and love, for the rest is just tin.”

They stood slowly, raised their cups and drank the blood-red wine.

The sight of twenty thousand citizens of Rome standing in their seats was a memory to cherish,

Julius thought, his gaze sweeping over them. Every place had been filled for each day of the sword tournament, and the clay tokens that gave entrance to the Thirty-twos were still changing hands for larger and larger sums each morning. Julius had been surprised at first to see callers on the four gates of the circus ring, offering to buy the tokens from the crowd as they streamed in. There were few takers once the early rounds were over.

The consular box was cool in the shade from a cream linen awning suspended between slender columns. It commanded the best view of the ring, and not one of the men Julius had invited had refused the offer. All the candidates had arrived with their families, and Julius had been amused to see the conflict in Suetonius and his father as they accepted his generosity.

The heat had built all morning and by noon the sand would be baked enough to sting bare flesh. Many of the crowd had brought water and wine with them, but still Julius thought he would have a fair return on the drinks and food his clients were selling for him. Cushions cost only a few coppers to hire for the day, and the stocks vanished quickly.

Pompey had responded to the invitation with grace, and as he and Crassus took their seats the crowd had stood out of respect until the blaring horns announced the first bouts.

Renius too was there and Julius had posted runners near him in case there was trouble at the barracks. He didn’t have it in him to deny the old gladiator his place, but with Brutus still in the last thirty-two with Octavian and Domitius, he hoped his mercenary recruits would behave themselves. With that in mind, he had been forced to deny most of the Tenth the chance to see the combats, though he changed the guards three times a day to share the experience among as many as possible. As an exercise of his new authority, Brutus had added ten of the most promising of the new men to the muster of guards.

Julius thought it was too early, but he had not imposed his will, knowing how important it was for them to see their general excel. Though the men looked uncomfortable in their legionary kit, they seemed docile enough.

The betting was as fierce as always. His people loved to gamble and Julius guessed fortunes would be won and lost before the final bouts were played out. Even Crassus had placed a handful of silver on Brutus at Julius’s word. As far as Julius knew, Brutus himself had bet everything he owned on winning the final.

If he won, he would be less dependent on Julius and creditors for supplies. His friend had reached the Thirty-twos without upset, but the standard was high and bad luck could spoil the best chance.

Below the consular box, the last fighters stepped from their barracks onto the roasting sand. The silver armor glowed almost white and the crowd gasped at the sight of them, already cheering for their favorites.