The Field of Swords by Conn Iggulden
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.
CHAPTER 18
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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!”
“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 empty-headed 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, Julius thought of Servilia, and his gaze strayed to the empty chair set aside for her. He rubbed his forehead in memory of where the pearl had struck him.
“Are we going to stand all night?” Domitius asked. “Octavian should be in bed by now.”
Octavian tilted his cup back, emptying it. “I was told I could stay up late if I’m good,” he replied cheerfully.
Julius looked affectionately at his young relative as they sat. He was growing into a fine man, though his manners were a little rough. Even Brutus had remarked on the number of times Octavian had been seen at Servilia’s house, and apparently he was becoming something of a favorite with the girls there. Julius watched as Octavian laughed at something Renius had said, and hoped the extraordinary confidence of his youth would not be too harshly taken from him. Yet if the young man was never truly tested, he would be a shell. There were many things Julius would change from his own past, but without them, he knew he would still be the angry, proud little boy that Renius had trained. It was a terrible thing to consider, but he hoped that Octavian would know at least some pain, to take him into manhood. It was the only way he knew, and while Julius could forget his triumphs, his failures had shaped him.
The food came on Julius’s own silver plates, fashioned in Spain. They were all hungry and for a long time no one spoke to interrupt the soft sound of chewing mouths.
Brutus leaned back in his chair and covered a belch with his hand.
“So, are you going to be consul, Julius?” he asked.
“If they vote in sufficient numbers,” Julius replied.
“Alexandria is making you a consul’s clasp for your cloak. It’s very fine,” Brutus continued.
Alexandria rested her head on a hand. “A surprise, remember, Brutus? I said it was to be a surprise. What did that mean to you, exactly?”
Brutus reached out and squeezed her hand. “Sorry. It is fine, though, Julius.”
“I hope I have the chance to wear it. Thank you, Alexandria,” Julius replied. “I just wish I could be as sure of victory as Brutus.”
“Why wouldn’t you be? You lost one case in the forum that no one could have won. You won three that you should have lost. Your clients are out every night for you, and the reports are good.”
Julius nodded, thinking of the debts he had amassed to achieve it. The gold he had won from Pompey had vanished over a few short days of the campaign. Despite the extravagant reputation he had earned, he regretted some of the wilder expenses, the pearl particularly. Even worse was the way the moneylenders assumed a familiarity with him as the debts increased. It was as if they felt they owned a part of him, and he longed for the day when he would be free of their grasping hands.
Flushed with the wine, Brutus stood once more. “We should have another toast,” he said. “To victory, but victory with honor.”
They all came to their feet and raised their cups. Julius wished his father could see them.
CHAPTER 19
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There was a great solemnity about the vast crowd that had come out of the city to vote. Julius watched with pride as they divided into the election centuries and took the wax tablets to the diribitores to be stored in baskets for the count. The city loomed on the horizon, while to the west, the distant flag on the Janiculum hill was held high to signal the city was safe and sealed while the vote went on.
Sleep had been impossible the night before. When the augurs were ready to go out and consecrate the ground, Julius was there with them at the gate, nervous and strangely light-headed as he watched them prepare their knives and lead a great white bullock away from the city. Its slumped body lay near where he stood in silence, trying to gauge the mood of the crowd. Many of them nodded and smiled to him as they passed their votes into the wicker baskets, but Julius took little pleasure in it. Only the votes of their centuries would count, and with the richer classes voting first, Prandus had already secured seven against four for Bibilus. Not a single one of the first eleven centuries had declared for Julius, and he felt sweat running from his armpits under the toga as the day’s heat began to mount.
He had always known the richest freemen would be the hardest votes to gain, but seeing the reality of each missed vote was a bitter experience. The consuls and candidates stood at his side in a dignified group, but Pompey could not hide his amusement and chatted with a slave at his elbow as he held out his cup for a cool drink.
Julius tried hard to keep a pleasant expression on his face. Even after all his preparation, the early votes might influence the later centuries and the result could be a landslide, with no room for him. For the first time since returning to the city, he wondered what he would do if he lost.
If he stayed in a city run by Bibilus and Prandus, it would be the end of him, he was sure. Pompey would find a way to destroy him, if Suetonius did not. Just to survive the year, he would be forced to beg for a posting in some dismal hole on the edges of Roman influence. Julius shook his head unconsciously, his thoughts touching on worse and worse possibilities as the votes were called out. Supporters of Prandus and Bibilus cheered each succes
He told himself there was nothing he could do and found a momentary calm in that. The men of Rome voted in small wooden cubicles and passed their tablets to the diribitores facedown to hide the marks they had made. There could be no coercion at this stage, and all the bribes and games came to nothing as the citizens stood alone and pressed the wax twice against the names they favored. Even so, the waiting crowd heard each result and soon they would vote with the mass of men before them. In many elections, Julius had seen the poorer classes sent back to Rome as soon as a majority was called. He prayed that would not be the case this day.
“. . . Caesar,” the magistrate cried, and Julius jerked his head up to hear. It was the end of the first class and he had taken a vote from the tail. Now those with less property and wealth would have their turn. Even as he smiled, he fretted to himself, trying not to show it. He had most of his support among the poorest, who saw him as a man who had dragged himself up to the position; yet without more votes from the wealthy, his people wouldn’t even have the chance to mark the wax in his name.
The results of the second class were more even, and Julius stood a little straighter as he heard his tally rise with the others. Prandus had seventeen to Bibilus’s fourteen, and five more centuries had declared for Julius, raising his hopes. He was not the only one to suffer, he saw. Suetonius’s father had gone pale with the extraordinary tension, and Julius guessed he wanted the seat as badly as he did himself. Bibilus too was nervous, his eyes sliding over to Suetonius at intervals, almost as if he were pleading.
Over the next hour, the lead changed three times, and at the end, the total for Suetonius’s father had him third and falling further behind. Julius watched as Suetonius strode to Bibilus’s side. The fat Roman shrank away, but Suetonius grabbed his arm and whispered harshly into his ear. His anger made it perfectly audible to all of them, and Bibilus blushed crimson.