The Field Of Swords

CHAPTER 15

The sight of twenty thousand citizens of Rome standing in their seats was a memory to cherish,

Julius thought, his gaze sweeping over them. Every place had been filled for each day of the sword tournament, and the clay tokens that gave entrance to the Thirty-twos were still changing hands for larger and larger sums each morning. Julius had been surprised at first to see callers on the four gates of the circus ring, offering to buy the tokens from the crowd as they streamed in. There were few takers once the early rounds were over.

The consular box was cool in the shade from a cream linen awning suspended between slender columns. It commanded the best view of the ring, and not one of the men Julius had invited had refused the offer. All the candidates had arrived with their families, and Julius had been amused to see the conflict in Suetonius and his father as they accepted his generosity.

The heat had built all morning and by noon the sand would be baked enough to sting bare flesh. Many of the crowd had brought water and wine with them, but still Julius thought he would have a fair return on the drinks and food his clients were selling for him. Cushions cost only a few coppers to hire for the day, and the stocks vanished quickly.

Pompey had responded to the invitation with grace, and as he and Crassus took their seats the crowd had stood out of respect until the blaring horns announced the first bouts.

Renius too was there and Julius had posted runners near him in case there was trouble at the barracks. He didn’t have it in him to deny the old gladiator his place, but with Brutus still in the last thirty-two with Octavian and Domitius, he hoped his mercenary recruits would behave themselves. With that in mind, he had been forced to deny most of the Tenth the chance to see the combats, though he changed the guards three times a day to share the experience among as many as possible. As an exercise of his new authority, Brutus had added ten of the most promising of the new men to the muster of guards.

Julius thought it was too early, but he had not imposed his will, knowing how important it was for them to see their general excel. Though the men looked uncomfortable in their legionary kit, they seemed docile enough.

The betting was as fierce as always. His people loved to gamble and Julius guessed fortunes would be won and lost before the final bouts were played out. Even Crassus had placed a handful of silver on Brutus at Julius’s word. As far as Julius knew, Brutus himself had bet everything he owned on winning the final.

If he won, he would be less dependent on Julius and creditors for supplies. His friend had reached the Thirty-twos without upset, but the standard was high and bad luck could spoil the best chance.

Below the consular box, the last fighters stepped from their barracks onto the roasting sand. The silver armor glowed almost white and the crowd gasped at the sight of them, already cheering for their favorites.

Alexandria had excelled herself with the high sheen of the metal they wore. Julius was sure the quality of the finalists was in part due to the promise that they would be allowed to keep the armor after the bouts were over. In sheer weight, each set would buy a man a small farm if he sold it, and with the fame of the contest spread far, they could bring more than that. Julius tried not to think how much they had cost him.

The whole of Rome had talked about his generosity, and they did look fine in the sun.

A few of the fighters showed bruises from the early rounds. It had been a civilized few days, with only four men dead and those from accidental strikes in the heat of a contest. First blood ended each bout, with no other limit except exhaustion. The longest before the finals had lasted the best part of an hour, and both men had barely been able to stand when it was settled with a clumsy cut across the back of a leg. The crowd had cheered the loser as loudly as the man who went on to the finals.

The first rounds had been a riot of skill and strength, with more than a hundred pairs on the sand at the same time. In its way, seeing so many swords flashing was as exciting as the individual bouts of the last thirty-two, though the true connoisseurs preferred the single contests, where they could concentrate on styles and skill.

The range was staggering and Julius had made notes on a number of men to recruit for the new legion at the barracks. Already he had bought the services of three good swordsmen. Of necessity, he had been forced to hire those who fought in the Roman style, but it pained him to overlook some of the others. The call for fighters had spread much farther than his messengers, and there were men there from all over Roman lands and even farther. Africans mixed with men the color of mahogany from India and Egypt. One man, Sung, had the slanted eyes of races so far to the east they were almost mythical. Julius had been forced to assign guards to stop the crowds trying to touch him in the streets. The gods alone knew what he was doing so far from his home, but the long sword Sung carried was wielded with a skill that had brought him into the last rounds with the shortest bouts of all the men there. Julius watched him as he saluted the consuls with the others, and determined to make the man an offer if he reached the Eights, Roman style or not.

At this late stage, the names of the men on the sand were announced to the crowd, each stepping forward to be cheered by the people of Rome. Brutus and Octavian stood together with Domitius, their armor glowing in the sun. Julius smiled at the pleasure he saw in their expressions. No matter who won the victor’s sword, they would never forget the experience.

The three Romans raised their blades to the crowd and then to the consuls. The crowd roared, a wall of sound that was astonishing, almost painful. The day had begun. The announcer stepped up to the brass tubes that magnified his voice and bellowed the names of the first bout.

Domitius was to face a northerner who had traveled home with his legion commander’s permission to attend the tournament. He was a big man with powerful forearms and a narrow, supple waist. As the others left the sand, he eyed Domitius warily, watching as Domitius began his stretching exercises. Even from a distance, Julius could see no sign of tension on Domitius’s face. He felt his heart beat faster with growing excitement, and the others in the box sensed it too. Pompey stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Should I bet on your man, Julius? Will he make the Sixteens?”

Julius turned and saw the glint in the consul’s eyes. A line of shining perspiration had appeared on Pompey’s forehead, and his eyes were bright with anticipation. Julius nodded.

“Domitius is the second-best swordsman I have ever seen. Summon the betting slaves and we will throw a fortune on him,” he said. They grinned like boys together and it was difficult to remember this man was not a friend.

The slave came in at their call, ready for them. Pompey raised his eyes in exasperation as Crassus counted out three silver coins to hand to the boy.

“Just once, Crassus. Just once, I would like to see you bet enough for it to hurt you. There is no joy in small coins. It must sting a little.”

Crassus frowned, glancing at Julius. A dark flush spread into his cheeks as he put his coins away.

“Very well. Boy, give me your betting slate.”

The slave produced a wooden square covered in a thin skin of wax, and Crassus pressed his ring into it, writing his name and figures without showing them to the others. As he passed it back, Pompey reached out and twitched it away, whistling softly to himself. The slave waited patiently.

“A fortune indeed, Crassus. You amaze me. One gold piece is more than I have ever seen you bet on anything.”

Crassus snorted and looked away at the two fighters, watching them walk to their positions and wait for the horn to be blown.

“I’ll put a hundred on your man, Julius. Will you match me?” Pompey asked.

“A thousand for me. I know my man,” Julius replied.

Pompey’s face hardened at the challenge. “Then I shall match you, Julius.”

The two men wrote the sums and their names on the wax square.

Renius cleared his throat. “Five gold on Domitius for me,” he said gruffly.

Of all of them, he was the only one to actually produce the coins, holding them out stiffly until the slave took them from his hands. The old gladiator watched until the gleam disappeared into a cloth bag, then sat back, sweating. Suetonius had been about to hand over his own bet, but returned to his father for funds after seeing that. Ten gold pieces were produced from them and the slate was passed around one more time, with even Bibilus risking a few silvers from his purse.

The slave scurried back to his master and Julius stood to signal the cornicens. The crowd became quiet as they saw him stand, and he wondered how many of them would remember his name at the elections. He savored the stillness for an instant, then brought his hand chopping down. The sharp wail of the horns rang out over the sand.

Domitius had watched as many of the early bouts as he could when he was not fighting himself. He had made notes on those he thought would win through to the later rounds, and of the last thirty-two only half of them were truly dangerous. The northerner he faced was skilled enough to have reached this stage, but he panicked when he was crowded and Domitius intended to crowd him from the very first moment.

He felt the man’s eyes on him as Domitius stretched his back and legs, and kept his face as peaceful and unhurried as he possibly could. He had fought in enough tournaments to know that many bouts were won not with the sword but in the moments before it. His old trainer had had a habit of sitting with his legs split and flat on the ground in utter stillness before his opponents. While they lunged and jumped to loosen their muscles, that man had been like a rock and nothing unnerved them as much as that. When finally he had risen like smoke to face them, the battle was already half won. Domitius had understood the lesson and he allowed none of his tiredness to show in his movements. In truth, his right knee felt stiff and painful where it had been jolted in an earlier bout, but he did not wince, moving slowly and fluidly through his exercises, mesmerizing in their smoothness. He felt a great calm descend on him and offered up a silent prayer for his old teacher.

Holding his sword low and away from his body, Domitius came to his mark and stood motionless. His opponent rolled his shoulders in a nervous action, flicking his head from side to side. When their eyes met, the northerner glared at him, unwilling to be the first to look away. Domitius stood like a statue, the sharply defined muscles of his shoulders shining with sweat. The silver armor protected the chests of the fighters, but Domitius could shave a lock of hair from a man running past him and he felt strong.

The horns snapped him out of his stillness and he lunged before the sound had fully registered with the other man. The northerner’s footwork had brought him to the finals, and before the blade could cut, he had shifted out of range. Domitius could hear his breathing and focused on it as the man counterattacked. The northerner used his breath to increase the force of the blow, grunting with each strike. Domitius let him relax into a rhythm, backing up a dozen steps against the rush, watching for further weaknesses.

On the last step, Domitius felt a spike of pain as his weight came on his right leg, as if a needle had been jammed into his kneecap. It buckled, destroying his balance, and he was hard-pressed as the northerner sensed the weakness. Domitius tried to put it out of his mind, but dared not trust the leg. He pressed forward in shuffling steps until their sweat mingled as it spattered. The northerner backed away and then further as he tried to gain space, but Domitius stayed with him, breaking the rhythm of blows with a short punch as their blades locked.

The northerner swayed away from the blow and they broke apart, beginning to circle each other.

Domitius listened to his breath and waited for the tiny sip of air that came before each attack. He dared not look at his knee, but every step brought a fresh protest.

The northerner tried to wear him down with a flurry of strikes, but Domitius blocked them, reading his man’s breath and waiting for the right moment. The sun was high above them and the sweat poured into their eyes, stinging. The northerner drew in a gasp and Domitius lunged. Even before the touch, he knew the stroke was perfect, slicing open a flap of skin on the man’s skull. A sliver of ear fell to the ground as blood poured out, and the northerner roared, cutting wildly back as Domitius tried to pull away.

Domitius’s knee buckled, shooting agony up into his groin. The northerner hesitated, his eyes clearing as he felt the growing pain of his wound. Blood poured from him. Domitius watched him closely, trying to ignore the pain in his knee.

The northerner touched the hot wetness on his neck, staring at his bloody fingers. Grim resignation came into his face then and he nodded to Domitius, both men walking back to their marks.

“You should bind that knee of yours, my friend. The others will have noted it,” the northerner said softly, gesturing to where the rest of the finalists watched from the shadowed awnings of their enclosure.

Domitius shrugged. He tested the joint and winced, stifling a cry.

Understanding, the northerner shook his head as they saluted the crowd and the consuls. Domitius tried not to show the sudden fear that had come to him. The joint felt strange and he prayed it was only a sprain or a partial dislocation that could be shoved back into place. The alternative was unbearable for a man who had nothing else in his life but his sword and the Tenth. As the two men walked back across the baking sand, Domitius struggled not to limp, gritting his teeth against the pain. Another pair in silver armor came out into the sun for the next bout, and Domitius could feel their confidence as they looked at him and smiled.

Julius watched his friend disappear into the shade and winced in sympathy.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I would like to go down and see their wounds are well treated,” he said.

Pompey clapped him on the back in response, too hoarse from shouting to reply. Crassus called for cooling drinks for all of them and the mood was infectiously light as they settled back in their seats for the next contest. Food would be brought to them in their seats as they watched, and each man there felt the thrill of blood and talent. Suetonius was demonstrating a feint to his father, and the older man smiled with him, joining in the excitement.

Renius stood as Julius reached his seat at the edge of the box. He fell in behind and they walked from the heat into the cool of the path under the seating without exchanging a word.

It was a different world below the crowds, the roaring muted and somehow distant. The sunlight came through chinks in the great timbers and lay on the ground in mottled bars, shifting as people moved above.

The ground there was the soft earth of the Campus Martius, without the layer of sand that had been brought from the coast.

“Will he fight again?” Julius asked.

Renius shrugged. “Cabera will help him. The old man has power.”

Julius did not reply, remembering how Cabera had touched his hands to Tubruk as he lay, his body pierced over and over in the attack on the estate that had killed Cornelia. Cabera refused to talk about his healing, but Julius remembered that he had once told him it was a matter of paths. If the path was ended, there was nothing he could do, but with some, like Renius, he had stolen back a little time.

Julius cast a sideways glance at the old gladiator. As the years passed, the brief energy of youth was giving way to age. The face was again showing the craggy, bitter features of an old man, and Julius still didn’t know why he had been saved from death. Cabera believed the gods watched them all with jealous love, and Julius envied him his conviction. When he prayed, it was like shouting into a void with no response, until he despaired.

Above, the crowd stood to cheer a blow, changing the pattern of light on the dusty ground. Julius passed between the last two pillars of wood into the open area beyond and gasped at the heated air that seemed too thick to breathe.

He looked out onto the sand, squinting against the glare to see two figures rushing at each other as if it were a dance. Their swords caught the light in bright flashes and the crowd stayed on their feet stamping in time. Julius blinked as a trickle of dust touched his skin from above. He glanced up at the heavy bolts that held the seating, feeling the tremble in the wood as he pressed his hand against it. He hoped it would hold.

Cabera was wrapping a thin cloth around Domitius’s knee, and Brutus was kneeling by them with Octavian, oblivious to the fight on the sand. They looked up as Julius joined them, and Domitius waved a hand, smiling feebly.

“I can feel the rest of them watching me. Vultures, every one of them,” he said, gasping as Cabera pulled the cloth tighter.

“How bad is it?” Julius asked.

Domitius didn’t answer, but there was a fear in his eyes that shook them all.

“I don’t know,” Cabera snapped at the silent pressure. “The kneecap is cracked and I don’t know how it held him this long. He should not have been able to walk and the joint may be… who knows. I will do my best.”

“He needs it, Cabera,” Julius said softly.

The old healer snorted under his breath. “What does it matter if he fights once more out there. It is not-”

“No, not for that. He’s one of us. He has a path to follow,” Julius said more urgently. If he had to, he would beg the old man.

Cabera stiffened and sat back on his heels. “You don’t know what you are asking, my friend. Whatever I have is not to be used on every scrape or broken bone.” He looked up at Julius and seemed to slump with weariness. “Would you have me lose it for a whim? The trance is… agony, I cannot tell you. And each time, I do not know if the pain is wasted or whether there are gods who move my hands.”

They were all silent as Julius held his gaze, willing him to try. Another of the Thirty-twos cleared his throat as he approached them, and Julius turned to the man, recognizing him as one of those he had noted for skill. His face was the color of old teak and, of all of them, he did not wear the armor he had been given, preferring the freedom of a simple robe. The man bowed.

“My name is Salomin,” he said, pausing as if the name might be recognized. When it was not, he shrugged. “You fought well,” he said. “Are you able to continue?”

Domitius forced a smile. “I will rest it for a while, then I’ll see.”

“You must use cold cloths against the swelling, my friend. As cold as you can find in this heat. I hope you will be ready if we should be called together. I would not like to fight an injured man.”

“I would,” Domitius replied.

Salomin blinked in confusion as Brutus chuckled, wondering what joke was being made. He bowed to them and walked away and Domitius looked down at his knee stretched out in front of him.

“I’m finished if I can’t march,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Cabera used his fingers to massage fluids away from the joint, his expression hard. The silence stretched interminably and a bead of sweat ran down from the old man’s hairline to the tip of his nose, where it shivered, ignored.

None of them heard Brutus called the first time. The man who was to fight him strode past them out into the sun without a backward glance, but Salomin came close and nudged the Roman out of his concentration.

“It is your turn,” Salomin said, his large eyes dark even against his skin.

“I’ll finish this one quickly,” Brutus replied, unsheathing his sword and stalking out after his opponent.

Salomin shook his head in amazement, shielding his eyes as he edged to the shadow line to watch the bout.

Julius sensed Cabera would not be moved while he stood there staring at him, and took the opportunity to leave Domitius alone with him.

“Give them room, Octavian,” he said, motioning to Renius to follow.

Octavian took the hint, moving away, his face creased with worry. He too shaded his face to squint out to where Brutus was waiting impatiently for the horns to sound.

Under the seats, Julius heard the sharp wail of the cornicens and broke into a run. Before he and Renius had moved more than a few paces, the crowd’s cheering was suddenly cut off into an eerie silence.

Julius broke into a sprint, arriving panting back at the consular box.

They too were frozen in surprise as Julius entered. Brutus was already walking stiffly back to the fighters’ area, leaving a figure sprawled on the sand behind him.

“What happened?” Julius demanded.

Pompey shook his head in amazement. “So fast, Julius. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Of all of them, only Crassus seemed unmoved. “Your man stood still and ducked away from two blows without moving his feet, then he knocked his opponent out with a punch and cut his leg while he lay on the ground. Is it a win, then? It doesn’t seem a fair blow.”

Mindful of another large bet on Brutus, Pompey was quick to speak.

“Brutus drew first blood, even if his man was unconscious. It will count.”

The crowd’s silence had broken as the same question was asked all over the benches. Many of the faces looked to the consular box for guidance, and Julius sent a runner to the cornicens to confirm Brutus’s win.

There were grumblings then from those who had bet against the young Roman, but the majority of the crowd seemed content with the decision. Julius saw them act out the blow to each other, laughing all the while. Two soldiers from the Tenth woke the fallen fighter with a slap on his cheeks and helped him from the sand. As his wits returned, he began to struggle in their grip, shouting angrily at the result. They were unmoved by his protests as they vanished from sight into the shadowed awnings.

The afternoon wore on with the remaining battles of the thirty-two. Octavian made it through his bout with a cut to his opponent’s thigh as he stepped along the outside of a blow. The crowd suffered under the sun, unwilling to miss a moment.

The sixteen victors were brought out once more in their armor for the crowd to show their appreciation.

The torchlight session would begin at sunset to whittle them down for the final day, giving the victors a chance to heal and recover overnight. Coins littered the sand around their feet as they raised their swords, and flowers that had been hoarded since morning were thrown down in splashes of color. Julius watched closely as Domitius was called, and his heart lifted as he saw him walk as smoothly and surely as he had ever done. There was no need for words, but he saw Renius’s knuckles whiten on the railing as they looked over the sand and cheered as wildly as the crowd.