Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

The soldiers had come for him that afternoon as he ate and rested at a modest rooming house near the outer wall of the city. He did not know why they had dragged him out into the street and held him to be whipped until their sticks broke. He had rubbed goose grease into each of the cuts and tried to remain supple, but whatever chance he may have had was gone and only his pride made him take his place. He mumbled a short prayer in the language of his own city and felt it calm him.

As the horns sounded, he reacted instinctively, trying to slide away. His back wrenched in agony and tears filled his eyes, making stars of the torches. He brought up his blade blindly and Brutus swayed away from it. Salomin cried out with pain and frustration as his rigid muscles tore. He tried another blow and missed cleanly. The sweat ran in great drops from his face as he stood, willing himself on.

Brutus stepped away, puzzled and frowning. He pointed to Salomin’s arm. For a moment, Salomin did not dare look, but when he felt the sting, his eyes darted to a shallow cut in his skin and he nodded in resignation.

“Not my worst cut today, my friend. I hope you were innocent of the others,” Salomin said softly.

Brutus looked blank as he raised his sword to the crowd, suddenly aware of the cramped way the usually lithe little man was standing. His face cleared in a flash of horrified understanding.

“Who was it?”

Salomin shrugged. “Who can tell one Roman from another? They were soldiers. It is done.”

Brutus paled in rage, his eyes snapping up in suspicion to where Julius was cheering him. He strode from the sand, deaf to the cheers in his name.

With a break of two hours before the final, the sand was raked clean while many of the citizens left to eat and wash, talking excitedly amongst themselves. The box emptied quickly and Julius noticed that Senator Prandus left before his son, who walked into the crowd with Bibilus, barely acknowledging his father as they passed.

Julius heard Brutus approach as the shifting crowd near the box recognized their champion and cheered with fresh enthusiasm. Though he shook with emotion, Brutus kept enough of his sense to sheathe his blade before approaching the guards around the box. Their duty would have forced them to challenge, regardless of his new status.

Julius and Servilia went quickly to him, and Julius’s congratulations died in his throat as he saw his friend’s expression. Brutus was white with rage.

“Did you have Salomin beaten?” He snapped as he came up. “He could barely stand. Did you do it?”

“I-” Julius began, appalled. He was interrupted by the sudden snap to attention of Pompey’s soldiers as the curtain was swept aside and the consul stepped out.

Trembling with suppressed emotion, Brutus saluted and stood stiffly to attention while Pompey looked him over.

“I gave that order. Whether you profited from it or not is of no interest to me. A foreigner who does not salute can expect no better and deserves worse. If he had not been amongst the last four, I would have had him swinging in the breeze by now.”

He returned their astonished gazes levelly.

“Even a foreigner can be taught respect, I believe. Now, Brutus, go and rest for the final.”

Dismissed, Brutus could do no more than shoot a glance of apology at his friend and mother.

“Perhaps it might have been better to wait until the tournament was over,” Julius said after Brutus had gone. Something about Pompey’s reptilian gaze made him careful in his choice of words. The man’s arrogance was greater than he had ever realized.

“Or just forget it altogether, perhaps?” Pompey replied. “A consul is Rome, Caesar. He must not be mocked or treated lightly. Perhaps you will understand that in time, if the citizens give you the chance to stand where I stand today.”

Julius opened his mouth to ask if Pompey had bet on Brutus and closed it just in time before he destroyed himself. He recalled that Pompey had not; his twisted sense of honor would have prevented taking a profit from his punishment.

Suddenly tired and sick of it all, Julius nodded as if he understood, holding the curtain open so that Servilia and Pompey could pass through it. She did not look at him even then, and he sighed bitterly to himself as he followed them. He knew she would expect him to come to her in private, and though it galled him, there was little choice. His hand strayed to the pearl’s bulge and he tapped it thoughtfully.

Still panting from his ride, Julius took a deep breath before knocking on the door. The tavern keeper had confirmed Servilia had come back to her room, and Julius could hear the splash of water inside as she bathed before the last bout. Despite his agitation, Julius could not help but feel the first silken touches of arousal as he heard footsteps approach, but the voice that called was that of the slave girl who filled the baths of customers.

“Julius,” he replied to the query. Perhaps his titles might have made the girl move a little faster, but there were ears along the little corridor and there was something faintly ludicrous in addressing a closed door like a lovesick boy. He cracked his knuckles as he waited. At least the tavern was close enough to the city walls for him to make it back in time. His horse was munching hay in the small stable, and he only needed a minute to give Servilia the pearl, bear her delighted embraces, and gallop back to the Campus with her for the last bout at midnight.

The slave girl opened the door at last, bowing to him. Julius could see amusement in her eyes as she edged past into the corridor, but he forgot her as soon as the door closed behind him.

Servilia was dressed in a simple white robe, with her hair tied into a coil on her neck. Part of him wondered how she had found time to apply paint and oils to her face, but he rushed forward to her.

“I do not care about the years between us. Did they matter in Spain?” he demanded. Before he could touch her, she held up a hand, her back stiff as a queen.

“You understand nothing, Julius, and that is the simple truth.”

He tried to protest, but she spoke loudly over him, her eyes flashing.

“I knew it was impossible in Spain, but everything was different there. I can’t explain… it was as if Rome was too far away and you were all that mattered. When I am here, I feel the years, the decades,

Julius. Decades between us. My forty-third birthday passed yesterday. When you are in your forties, I will be an old woman with gray hair. I have them now, but covered in the best dyes from Egypt. Let me go,

Julius. We can have no more time together.”

“I don’t care, Servilia!” Julius snapped. “You are still beautiful…”

Servilia laughed unpleasantly. “ Still beautiful, Julius? Yes, it is a wonder I have kept my looks, though you know nothing of the work it takes me to present a smooth face to the world.”

For a moment, her eyes crumpled and she struggled against tears. When she spoke again, her voice was filled with an infinite weariness.

“I will not let you watch me grow old, Julius. Not you. Go back to your friends, before I call the tavern guards to throw you out. Leave me to finish dressing.”

Julius opened his hand and showed her the pearl. He knew it was the wrong thing to do, but he had planned the gesture all the way from the Campus and now it was if his arm moved without conscious will.

She shook her head in disbelief at him.

“Should I throw myself into your arms now, Julius? Should I weep and say I’m sorry I ever thought you were a boy?”

With jerky spite, she snatched at the pearl and threw it straight at him, striking him in the forehead and making him flinch. He heard it roll into the recesses of the room, and the sound seemed to go on endlessly.