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.
CHAPTER 16
Servilia joined them in the box for the final day. She wore a loose-fitting sheath of white silk, open at the neck. Julius was amused at the way the other men seemed hypnotized by the deep cleavage that was revealed as she stood to cheer the men of the Tenth who had made it to the last sixteen.
Octavian took a cut to his cheek in the last match of the Sixteens. He lost to Salomin, who went triumphantly on to the Eights with Domitius, Brutus, and five others Julius did not know except for his notes. When there were strangers in the ring, Julius dictated letters to Adàn in quick succession, only falling silent when a fight reached a climax and the young Spaniard could not tear his eyes away from the men on the sand. Adàn was fascinated by the spectacle and awed by the sheer numbers of people present.
The increasing sums wagered by Pompey and Julius made him shake his head in silent amazement, though he did his best to seem as casual as the other occupants of the box.
The first session of the day had been long and hot, with the pace of the battles slowing. Each man still in the lists was a master and there were no quick victories. The mood of the crowd had changed too, keeping up a constant discussion of technique and style as they watched and cheered the better strokes.
Salomin was hard-pressed as he fought to reach the last four for the evening climax. Despite the pressure of work, Julius broke off his dictation to watch the man after Adàn had twice lost the thread of the dictation. Choosing to fight without the silver armor marked Salomin apart, and he was already a favorite of the crowd. His style showed the wisdom of the choice. The little man fought like an acrobat, never still. He tumbled and rolled in a fluid series of strikes that made his opponents look clumsy.
Yet the man Salomin fought for the Fours was no novice to be startled into overreaching himself.
Renius nodded approval at footwork that was good enough to keep the spinning Salomin from finding a gap in his defense.
“Salomin will exhaust himself, surely,” Crassus said.
None of the others answered, entranced by the spectacle. Salomin’s sword was inches longer than the gladius the others used and had a frightening reach at the end of a lunge.
It was the extra length that tipped the contest, after the sun had moved a half-span across the sky in the afternoon heat. Both men poured with sweat and Salomin was a little off in a straight blow that he had disguised with his body. The other man never saw it as it entered his throat, and he collapsed, pumping blood onto the sand.
As close as they were, Julius could see Salomin had not intended a mortal stroke. The little man stood appalled, his hands trembling as he stood over his fallen opponent. He knelt by the body and bowed his head.
The crowd came onto their feet to shout for him, and after a long time their noise seemed to reach through his reverie. Salomin looked angrily at the baying citizens. Without raising his sword in the customary salute, the small man ran a finger and thumb down his blade to clean it and stalked back to the shaded enclosure.
“Not one of us,” Pompey pronounced with amusement. He had won another of the large bets and nothing could shake his good humor, though a few of the crowd began to jeer as they realized there would be no salute to the consuls. The body was dragged away and another battle was called quickly before the crowd could become restless.
“He’s earned his place in the Fours, though,” Julius said.
Domitius had struggled through the Eights, but he too would be one of the last two pairs to fight in the contest. There was only one place still to be decided and Brutus would fight for it. By then, the crowd had watched them all for days and the whole of Rome followed their progress, runners taking news out to those who could not get seats. With the election less than a month away, Julius was already being treated as if he had gained a seat as consul. Pompey had mellowed noticeably toward him and Julius had refused meetings with both men to discuss the future. He did not want to tempt fate until his people had voted, though in quiet moments he daydreamed of addressing the Senate as one of the leaders of Rome.
Bibilus had attended the last day and Julius glanced at the young man, wondering at his motivation for staying in the race for consul. Many of the initial candidates had dropped out as the election neared, having gained a temporary status over their colleagues. Bibilus, it seemed, was there to stay. Despite his apparent tenacity, Bibilus spoke poorly and an attempt to defend a man charged with theft had ended in farce. Still, his clients roamed the city with his name on their lips, and the young of Rome seemed to have adopted him as a mascot. The old money in Rome might well prefer one of their own against Julius, and he could not be ruled out.
Julius fretted at the costs of the campaign as he waited for Brutus to be called for his bout. More than a thousand men collected their pay from the house at the bottom of the Esquiline hill each morning. What good they could actually achieve in a secret ballot, Julius wasn’t sure, but he had accepted Servilia’s argument that he must be seen to have supporters. It was a dangerous game, as too much support might mean many of Rome staying at home for the vote, content in the knowledge that their candidate could not lose. It was a fault of the system that had the free men of Rome voting in centuries. If only a few of the named group were present, they could carry the vote for all of them. Bibilus could benefit from such misplaced confidence, or Senator Prandus, who seemed to have as many men in his employ as Julius.
Still, his part in defeating Catiline was becoming well known, and even his enemies must concede that the sword tourney was a success. In addition, Julius had won enough on his men to clear a few of the campaign debts. Adàn kept the accounts and each day the Spanish gold dwindled, forcing him to run lines of credit. At times, the figures owed worried him, but if he was made consul, none of it would matter.