Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

“Don’t say it,” Bibilus stammered, shocked. Even in his own house, some words should never be spoken.

Suetonius broke his stride as if he had been challenged, and Bibilus shrank back into his padded couch. Drops of white spittle had gathered at the corners of Suetonius’s mouth, and Bibilus stared at them, unable to look away.

“You don’t know him, Bibilus. You haven’t seen how he plays the part of a noble Roman, like his uncle before him. As if his family were anything more than merchants! He flatters those he needs, puffing them up in his wake like cock birds. Oh, I’ll give him that! He is a master at finding those to love him. All built on lies, Bibilus. I have seen it.” He glared at his friend as if waiting to be contradicted.

“His vanity shines out until I can’t believe I am the only one who notices, yet they fall into line for him and call him the young lion of Rome.”

Suetonius spat on the polished floor and Bibilus looked at the wet lump of phlegm with distress.

Suetonius sneered, his bitterness making an ugly mask of his features.

“It’s all a game to them-Pompey and Crassus. I saw it when we came back from Greece together. The city was poor, the slaves were on the edge of the greatest rebellion in our history, and they put Caesar up as a tribune. I should have known then I would never see justice. What had he done to deserve it, after all?

I was there when we fought Mithridates, Bibi. Caesar was no more the leader than I was, though he played at it. Mithridates practically gave us the victory, but I never saw Julius fight. Did I mention that? I never saw him even draw his sword to help us when the blood was flying.”

Bibilus sighed. He had heard it all before, too many times to count. The rage had seemed justified to him once, but every time he heard the tale of grievances, Caesar became more and more the villain Suetonius wanted him to be.

“And Spain? Oh, Bibi, I know all about Spain. He goes there with nothing and returns with enough gold to run for consul, but do they challenge him? Is he broken by the courts? I wrote to the man who took his place there, and questioned the figures he gave the Senate. I did their work for them, Bibi, those old fools.”

“What did he say?” Bibilus asked, looking up from his hands. This was a new part of the rant and it interested him. He watched as Suetonius searched for words, and hoped he would not spit again.

“Nothing! I wrote again and again and finally the man sent me a curt little note, a warning not to interfere with the government of Rome. A threat, Bibilus, a nasty little threat. I knew then that he was one of Caesar’s men. No doubt his hands are as dirty as the man before him. He covers himself well, does Julius, but I’ll trap him.”

Tired and hungry, Bibilus could not resist a little barb. “If he becomes consul, he will be immune from prosecution, Suetonius, even for capital crimes. You will not be able to touch him then.”

Suetonius sneered and hesitated before speaking. He remembered watching the dark men heading down to Caesar’s estate to murder Cornelia and her servants. Sometimes he thought that memory was all that prevented him from going insane. The gods had not protected Julius that day. Julius had been sent to Spain with rumors of disgrace, while his beautiful wife had her throat cut. Suetonius thought he had finally conquered his anger then. The death of Cornelia was like a boil bursting in him, with all the poison flowing away.

Suetonius sighed for the loss of that peace. Julius had abused his term in Spain, raping the country of gold. He should have been stoned in the streets, but he had come back and spoken his lies to the simple crowds and won them over. His tournament had spread his name over the city.

“Is there surprise when his friend wins the sword tournament, Bibi? No, they just cheer in their emptyheaded way, though anyone with eyes could see that Salomin could barely walk to his mark. That was the true Caesar, the one I know. Right there in front of thousands and they would not see it. Where was his precious honor then?” Suetonius began to pace again, every step clattering against his mirrored image. “He must not be consul, Bibilus. I will do what I have to, but he must not. You are not my only hope, my friend.

You may yet take enough of the century votes to break him, but I will find another way if that is not enough.”

“If you are caught doing something, I-” Bibilus began.

Suetonius waved him to silence.

“Do your own work, Bibilus, while I do mine. Wave to crowds, attend the courts, make your speeches.”

“And if that is not enough?” he asked, fearing the answer.

“Do not disappoint me, Bibilus. You will see it through to the end unless your withdrawal would help my father. Is that too much to ask of you? It is nothing.”

“But what if-”

“I am tired of your objections, my friend,” Suetonius said softly. “If you like, I can go to Pompey now and show him why you are not fit to stand for Rome. Would you like that, Bibi? Would you like him to know your secrets?”

“Don’t,” Bibilus said, tears pricking his eyes. At times like that, he felt nothing but hatred for the man before him. Suetonius made everything sound sordid.

Suetonius approached and cupped his hand under the flesh of his chin.

“Even small dogs can bite, can’t they, Bibilus? Would you betray me, I wonder? Yes, of course you would, if I gave you the chance. But you would fall with me, and harder. You know that, don’t you?”

Suetonius gripped a jowl between two fingers and twisted. Bibilus shivered with the pain.

“You really are a dirty bastard, Bibilus. I need you, though, and that binds us better than friendship, better than blood. Don’t forget it, Bibi. You could not stand torture and Pompey is known to be thorough.”

With a jerk, Bibilus pulled away, his soft white hands pressed against his bruised throat.

“Call your pretty children and have them light the fire again. It’s cold in here,” Suetonius said, his eyes glittering.

In the dining room of the campaign house, Brutus stood at the head of the table and held up his cup as he looked at his friends. They rose to honor him, and some of the bitterness he felt over Salomin eased in their company. Julius met his eyes and Brutus forced a smile, ashamed that he had ever believed his friend responsible for the beating.

“What shall we drink to?” Brutus said.

Alexandria cleared her throat and they looked to her.

“We will need more than one toast, but the first should be to Marcus Brutus, first sword in Rome.”

They smiled and echoed the words and Brutus could hear Renius’s bass voice growl above the rest. The old gladiator had spoken to him for a long time right after he’d won the tournament, and, as it was he,

Brutus had listened.

Brutus raised his cup as their eyes met, making it a private thanks. Renius grinned in response and Brutus felt his mood lighten.

“Then the next must be to my beautiful goldsmith,” he said, “who loves a good swordsman, in more ways than one.”

Alexandria blushed at the laughter that followed and Brutus leered into her cleavage.

“You are drunk, you lecher,” she replied, her eyes bright with amusement.

Julius called for the cups to be refilled.

“To those we love who are not here,” he said, and something in his tone made them all pause. Cabera lay upstairs with the best physicians in Rome at his side, not one of them with half his skill. Though he had healed Domitius, the old man had collapsed immediately afterward, and his illness cast a pall over the rest of them.

They echoed the toast, falling silent as they remembered those they had lost. As well as the old healer,