Renius thumped his fist onto the railing at a good stroke, cheering in hacking barks as Domitius forced Sung onto his back foot for a moment, spoiling his balance. The long blade whipped round and Domitius ducked under it, darting in at last. His lunge was perfect, but Sung moved smoothly to one side, letting it slide past his armored chest, then bringing his hilt down into Domitius’s cheek.
It was a glancing blow, but much of the crowd winced to see it. Julius shook his head in wonderment at the level of skill, though to the untrained eye, it could have seemed a messy fight. There were none of the perfect attacks and counters they had seen when better men fought novices in the early rounds. Here, each sudden parry and riposte was spoiled almost as soon as it had begun, and the result was a flurry of ugly blows with not a drop of blood spilled between them.
Domitius pulled away first. His cheekbone was swollen from where the hilt had caught him, and he raised his palm to it. Sung waited patiently with his blade ready while Domitius showed him the unmarked hand. The skin had not split and they leapt in again with greater ferocity.
Only the pounding of his pulse made Julius realize he was holding his breath. They could not hold such a pace for long, he was certain, and at any moment he expected one of them to cut.
They broke apart again and circled almost at a run, setting up and breaking rhythms as fast as the other man saw them. Twice Domitius almost lured Sung into a false step as he changed direction, and the second time led to a blow that should have cut Sung’s arm from his body if he had not flung it back and taken the impact on his armor.
The exhaustion of the previous days was beginning to show in both men, perhaps more so in Domitius, who was panting visibly. Julius knew the battle he watched was fought as much in their minds as with their blades and could not guess whether it was another ruse, or whether Domitius was really suffering. His strength seemed to come in spurts and the speed of his arm varied as it grew heavy.
Sung too was unsure and twice let opportunities go by where he might have taken advantage of a late parry. He tilted his head to one side as if in judgment, and again he held the Roman away with a dazzling series of sweeps with the point.
A blisteringly fast reverse almost won the match, as Domitius slapped his hand into the flat of his blade and changed direction so quickly that Sung threw himself flat on his back. Renius cried out in excitement. There were few with the knowledge to see the collapse was deliberate and controlled. There was no faster way of avoiding a stroke, but the crowd cheered as if their favorite had won, and howled as they saw Sung skitter like a crab away from Domitius’s stabs until, miraculously, he was on his feet again.
Perhaps it was the frustration of coming so close, but Domitius checked his rush a fraction too late and Sung’s point whipped up, biting into flesh at the bottom edge of Domitius’s armor. Both men froze then and those with keen eyes in the crowd wailed in frustration, even as their neighbors craned to see who had won.
Blood dribbled down Domitius’s leg and Julius could see him mouthing a torrent of curses before he gathered his control and returned to the first mark. Sung’s face never changed, but when both men faced each other, he bowed for the first time in the contest. To the pleasure of the crowd, Domitius returned the gesture and grinned openly through his exhaustion as they saluted the crowd together.
Renius turned to Julius, his eyes bright. “With your permission, sir. If I had Domitius, my training of the new men would go much better. He is a thinking fighter and they would respond to him.”
Julius could feel every ear in the box pricking up at this mention of his ragged new legion.
“If he and Brutus agree, I will send him to you. I promised my best centurions and optios for the task. He shall go with them.”
“We need smiths and tanners as much—” Renius began, halting as Julius shook his head.
Servilia stood as Brutus and Salomin walked out onto the sand. She shuddered unconsciously as she watched her son, tightening her hand into a fist. There was something terribly forbidding about the torch-lit ring.
Julius wanted to reach out to her, but controlled the impulse, aware of every aspect of her movement close by his shoulder. He could smell her scent in the night air and it tormented him. His anger and confusion almost spoiled the moment when he put his signet ring against a bet of five thousand gold on Brutus. Pompey’s expression was a delight and he felt his mood lift, despite Servilia’s stiffness. Adàn too stifled a look of horror and Julius winked at him. They had gone over the reserves together and the simple fact was that the Spanish gold he had brought back was very nearly gone. If he lost the five thousand, they would be forced to rely on credit until the campaign was over. Julius chose not to tell the young Spaniard about the black pearl he had bought for Servilia. He felt the weight of it in a pouch against his chest, and was so pleased with it that he wanted to hand it over regardless of her mood. The price made him shrink slightly as he considered the armor and supplies he could have bought in its stead. Sixty thousand gold coins. He had been mad. Certainly, it was far too extravagant to put in his accounts. The merchant had sworn on his mother’s blood not to reveal the sum, which meant it might be at least a few days before the huge sale was known to every inn and whorehouse in Rome. Julius could feel the weight of it pull at his toga, and occasionally he would reach almost unconsciously to feel the curve of the pearl under the cloth.
Salomin too had watched every battle fought by Brutus, including the one where he had knocked a man senseless, then taken first blood with an almost contemptuous slice of the leg. If he had been at his best, he would still have preferred to be drawn against Domitius, or the lazy Chinese, Sung. He had watched the young Roman fight without the slightest pause for thought or tactics, as if his body and muscles were trained to act without conscious direction. As he faced him over the sand, Salomin swallowed dryly, willing himself to focus. Despair filled him as he loosened his shoulder muscles and felt the scabs break open on his back. Sweat poured from his brow as he stood waiting for the horns to sound.
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 appro
ach 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.
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. H
e 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!”