Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

She spoke slowly, as if to one lacking in wits. “Now get out.”

As the door closed behind him, she rubbed angrily at her eyes and stood to search the corners of the room for the pearl. When her fingers closed over it, she held it up to the lamplight and for a moment her expression softened. Despite its beauty, it was cold and hard in her hand, as she pretended to be.

Servilia stroked the pearl with the pads of her long fingers, thinking of him. He had not yet lived thirty years, and though he didn’t seem to think of it, he would want a wife to give him sons. Tears glittered on her eyelashes as she thought of her drying womb. No blood for three months and no life stirring within her.

For a while, she had dared to hope for a child, but when another period was missed, she knew she was past the last age of youth. There would be no son from her and it was better to send him away before his thoughts turned to children she could not give him. Better than waiting for him to cast her off. He wore his strength so easily and well that she knew he would never understand her fear. She took a deep breath to calm herself. He would recover; the young always did.

When Brutus and Sung emerged at midnight, the torches had been refilled with oil and the ring glowed in the darkness of the Campus. The betting slaves had been discreetly withdrawn and no more money was being taken. Many of the citizens had been drinking steadily through the afternoon in preparation for the climax, and Julius sent runners to summon more of the Tenth in case of a riot at the end. Despite the weariness that assailed his spirit, Julius felt the thrill of pride as he watched Brutus raise one of Cavallo’s swords for the last time. The gesture had a personal, painful meaning for all of them who understood it.

Without thinking, Julius reached out his hand to take Servilia’s and then let it drop.

Her mood would change if Brutus won, he was almost certain.

The moon had risen, a pale crescent that hung above the ring of torches. Though it was late, the news of the finalists had passed quickly across the city and all of Rome was awake and waiting for the result. If he won, Brutus would be famous, and the wry thought occurred to Julius that if his friend stood for consul, he would almost certainly win the seat.

As the cornicens blew their horns, Sung attacked without warning, trying for a win in the first instant.

His blade blurred as it whipped out at Brutus’s legs and the young Roman batted it aside with a ring of metal. He did not counter and for a moment Sung was left off balance. The sharp slits of his eyes remained impassive as Sung shrugged and moved in again, his long sword cutting a curve in the air.

Once again, Brutus knocked the blade away and the sound of metal was like a bell that rang out over the silent crowd. They watched in fascination at this last battle that was so different from those that had gone before.

Julius could see the mottle of anger still on Brutus’s face and neck and wondered whether he would kill Sung or be killed himself as his mind dwelled on the false win against Salomin.

The bout developed into a series of dashes and clangs, but Brutus had not moved a step from his mark.

Where Sung’s blade would reach him, it was blocked with a short jab of the gladius. Where the blow was a feint, Brutus ignored it, even when the metal passed close enough for him to hear it cut the air. Sung was breathing heavily as the crowd began to raise their voices with each of his attacks, falling silent for the blow and then letting out a hissing gasp that seemed like mockery. They thought Brutus was teaching the man a lesson about Rome.

As Julius watched, he knew Brutus was wrestling with himself alone. He wanted to win almost to desperation, but the shame of Salomin’s treatment ate at him and he merely held Sung while he thought it through. Julius realized he was witnessing the display of a perfect swordsman. It was a staggering truth, but the boy he had known had become a master, greater than Renius or any other.

Sung knew it, as sweat stung his eyes and still the Roman stood before him. Sung’s face filled with rage and frustration. He had begun to grunt with every blow, and without making a conscious choice, he was no longer striking to take first blood, but to kill.

Julius couldn’t bear to watch it. He leaned out over the railing and bellowed across the sand to his friend: “Win, Brutus! For us, win!”

His people roared as they heard him. Brutus turned Sung’s blade on his own, trapping it long enough to hammer his elbow into the man’s mouth. Blood spilled visibly over Sung’s pale skin and Sung stepped back, stunned. Julius saw Brutus raise his hand and speak to the man and then Sung shook his head and darted in again.

Brutus came alive then and it was like watching a cat startled into a leap. He let the long blade slide along his ribs to get inside the guard and rammed his gladius down into Sung’s neck with every ounce of his anger. The blade vanished under the silver armor and Brutus walked away across the sand without looking back.

Sung looked after him, his face twisted. His left hand plucked at the blade as he tried to shout, but his lungs were ribbons of flesh inside him and only a hoarse croaking could be heard in the deathly silence.

The crowd began to jeer and Julius felt ashamed of them. He stood and bellowed for quiet, enough to silence those who could hear. The rest followed into a tense stillness as the people of Rome waited for Sung to fall.

Sung spat angrily onto the sand, all color seeping out of his face. Even at a distance, they could hear each heaving breath torn out. Slowly, with infinite care, he unbuckled his armor and let it fall. The cloth underneath was drenched and black in the torchlight, and Sung looked at it in amazement, his dark gaze flickering up at the rows of Romans watching him.

“Come on, you bastard,” Renius whispered to himself. “Show them how to die.”

With the precision of agony, Sung sheathed his long sword, and then his legs betrayed him and he dropped to his knees. Still, he looked around at them all and the hard breaths were like screams, each one shorter than the last. Then he fell and the crowd released their breath, sitting like statues of gods in judgment.

Pompey mopped at his brow, shaking his head. “You must congratulate your man, Caesar. I have never seen better,” he said.

Julius turned cold eyes on him and Pompey nodded as if to himself, calling for his guards to escort him back to the city walls.

Bibilus glared in silence as Suetonius paced up and down the long room where he met visitors. Like every part of the house, it was decorated to Bibilus’s taste, and even as he watched Suetonius, he took comfort from the simple colors of the couches and gold-capped columns. Somehow, the stark cleanliness never failed to calm him, and on entering any room in the villa, he would know if anything was out of place at a glance. The black marble floor was so highly polished that every step Suetonius took was matched by a colored shadow under his feet, as if he walked on water. They were alone, with even the slaves dismissed. The fire had died long before and the air was cold enough to frost their breath. Bibilus would have liked to call for wine heated with a burning iron, or some food, but he dared not interrupt his friend.

He began to count the turns as Suetonius strode, the tension showing in his tight shoulders and the white-knuckled grip of his hands at his back. Bibilus bore the nightly use of his home with resentment, but Suetonius had a hold over him and he felt bound to listen, even as he grew to despise the man.

Suetonius’s hard voice snapped the silence without warning, as if the anger could no longer be held within. “I swear if I could reach him, I would have him killed, Bibi. By Jupiter’s head, I swear it!”