Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

The horns snapped him out of his stillness and he lunged before the sound had fully registered with the other man. The northerner’s footwork had brought him to the finals, and before the blade could cut, he had shifted out of range. Domitius could hear his breathing and focused on it as the man counterattacked. The northerner used his breath to increase the force of the blow, grunting with each strike. Domitius let him relax into a rhythm, backing up a dozen steps against the rush, watching for further weaknesses.

On the last step, Domitius felt a spike of pain as his weight came on his right leg, as if a needle had been jammed into his kneecap. It buckled, destroying his balance, and he was hard-pressed as the northerner sensed the weakness. Domitius tried to put it out of his mind, but dared not trust the leg. He pressed forward in shuffling steps until their sweat mingled as it spattered. The northerner backed away and then further as he tried to gain space, but Domitius stayed with him, breaking the rhythm of blows with a short punch as their blades locked.

The northerner swayed away from the blow and they broke apart, beginning to circle each other.

Domitius listened to his breath and waited for the tiny sip of air that came before each attack. He dared not look at his knee, but every step brought a fresh protest.

The northerner tried to wear him down with a flurry of strikes, but Domitius blocked them, reading his man’s breath and waiting for the right moment. The sun was high above them and the sweat poured into their eyes, stinging. The northerner drew in a gasp and Domitius lunged. Even before the touch, he knew the stroke was perfect, slicing open a flap of skin on the man’s skull. A sliver of ear fell to the ground as blood poured out, and the northerner roared, cutting wildly back as Domitius tried to pull away.

Domitius’s knee buckled, shooting agony up into his groin. The northerner hesitated, his eyes clearing as he felt the growing pain of his wound. Blood poured from him. Domitius watched him closely, trying to ignore the pain in his knee.

The northerner touched the hot wetness on his neck, staring at his bloody fingers. Grim resignation came into his face then and he nodded to Domitius, both men walking back to their marks.

“You should bind that knee of yours, my friend. The others will have noted it,” the northerner said softly, gesturing to where the rest of the finalists watched from the shadowed awnings of their enclosure.

Domitius shrugged. He tested the joint and winced, stifling a cry.

Understanding, the northerner shook his head as they saluted the crowd and the consuls. Domitius tried not to show the sudden fear that had come to him. The joint felt strange and he prayed it was only a sprain or a partial dislocation that could be shoved back into place. The alternative was unbearable for a man who had nothing else in his life but his sword and the Tenth. As the two men walked back across the baking sand, Domitius struggled not to limp, gritting his teeth against the pain. Another pair in silver armor came out into the sun for the next bout, and Domitius could feel their confidence as they looked at him and smiled.

Julius watched his friend disappear into the shade and winced in sympathy.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I would like to go down and see their wounds are well treated,” he said.

Pompey clapped him on the back in response, too hoarse from shouting to reply. Crassus called for cooling drinks for all of them and the mood was infectiously light as they settled back in their seats for the next contest. Food would be brought to them in their seats as they watched, and each man there felt the thrill of blood and talent. Suetonius was demonstrating a feint to his father, and the older man smiled with him, joining in the excitement.

Renius stood as Julius reached his seat at the edge of the box. He fell in behind and they walked from the heat into the cool of the path under the seating without exchanging a word.

It was a different world below the crowds, the roaring muted and somehow distant. The sunlight came through chinks in the great timbers and lay on the ground in mottled bars, shifting as people moved above.

The ground there was the soft earth of the Campus Martius, without the layer of sand that had been brought from the coast.

“Will he fight again?” Julius asked.

Renius shrugged. “Cabera will help him. The old man has power.”

Julius did not reply, remembering how Cabera had touched his hands to Tubruk as he lay, his body pierced over and over in the attack on the estate that had killed Cornelia. Cabera refused to talk about his healing, but Julius remembered that he had once told him it was a matter of paths. If the path was ended, there was nothing he could do, but with some, like Renius, he had stolen back a little time.

Julius cast a sideways glance at the old gladiator. As the years passed, the brief energy of youth was giving way to age. The face was again showing the craggy, bitter features of an old man, and Julius still didn’t know why he had been saved from death. Cabera believed the gods watched them all with jealous love, and Julius envied him his conviction. When he prayed, it was like shouting into a void with no response, until he despaired.

Above, the crowd stood to cheer a blow, changing the pattern of light on the dusty ground. Julius passed between the last two pillars of wood into the open area beyond and gasped at the heated air that seemed too thick to breathe.

He looked out onto the sand, squinting against the glare to see two figures rushing at each other as if it were a dance. Their swords caught the light in bright flashes and the crowd stayed on their feet stamping in time. Julius blinked as a trickle of dust touched his skin from above. He glanced up at the heavy bolts that held the seating, feeling the tremble in the wood as he pressed his hand against it. He hoped it would hold.

Cabera was wrapping a thin cloth around Domitius’s knee, and Brutus was kneeling by them with Octavian, oblivious to the fight on the sand. They looked up as Julius joined them, and Domitius waved a hand, smiling feebly.

“I can feel the rest of them watching me. Vultures, every one of them,” he said, gasping as Cabera pulled the cloth tighter.

“How bad is it?” Julius asked.

Domitius didn’t answer, but there was a fear in his eyes that shook them all.

“I don’t know,” Cabera snapped at the silent pressure. “The kneecap is cracked and I don’t know how it held him this long. He should not have been able to walk and the joint may be… who knows. I will do my best.”

“He needs it, Cabera,” Julius said softly.

The old healer snorted under his breath. “What does it matter if he fights once more out there. It is not-”

“No, not for that. He’s one of us. He has a path to follow,” Julius said more urgently. If he had to, he would beg the old man.

Cabera stiffened and sat back on his heels. “You don’t know what you are asking, my friend. Whatever I have is not to be used on every scrape or broken bone.” He looked up at Julius and seemed to slump with weariness. “Would you have me lose it for a whim? The trance is… agony, I cannot tell you. And each time, I do not know if the pain is wasted or whether there are gods who move my hands.”

They were all silent as Julius held his gaze, willing him to try. Another of the Thirty-twos cleared his throat as he approached them, and Julius turned to the man, recognizing him as one of those he had noted for skill. His face was the color of old teak and, of all of them, he did not wear the armor he had been given, preferring the freedom of a simple robe. The man bowed.

“My name is Salomin,” he said, pausing as if the name might be recognized. When it was not, he shrugged. “You fought well,” he said. “Are you able to continue?”