Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

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.

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.