“My son!” Servilia said suddenly, as Brutus came out onto the sand with Aulus, a slim fighter from the slopes of Vesuvius in the south.

Both men looked splendid in the silver armor and Julius smiled down at Brutus as he saluted the consuls’ box, winking at his mother before turning and jerking his sword up for the crowd. They bellowed their approval and the two men walked lightly to their marks in the center. Renius snorted softly under his breath, but Julius could see the tension in him as he leaned forward, drinking it in.

Julius hoped Brutus could bear a loss as easily as he bore his wins. Just reaching the last eight was an achievement with which to regale the grandchildren, but Brutus had said from the beginning that he would be in the final. Even he had stopped short of swearing he would win it, but his confidence was clear enough.

“Put everything on him, Pompey. I will take your bets myself,” Julius said, caught up in the excitement.

Pompey hesitated only a moment. “The betting men share your confidence, Julius. If you will give me decent odds, I may take you up on the offer.”

“One coin for your fifty on Brutus. Five coins to your one on Aulus,” Julius said quickly. Pompey smiled.

“You are so convinced Marcus Brutus will win? You tempt me to this Aulus with such a return. Five thousand gold against your man, at that rate. Will you take it?”

Julius looked out onto the sand, his good mood suddenly wavering. It was the last match of the Eights, and Salomin and Domitius had already gone through. Surely there could be no other fighter with skill enough to beat his oldest friend?

“I’ll take it, Pompey. My word on it,” he said, feeling fresh sweat break out on his skin. Adàn was clearly appalled and Julius did not look at him. He held a calm expression as he tried to remember how much his reserves had shrunk after the new armor for the mercenaries and the wages for his clients each week. If Brutus lost, twenty-five thousand in gold was enough to break him, but there was always the thought that as consul, his credit would be good. The moneylenders would queue for him then.

“This Aulus. Is he skillful?” Servilia asked to break the silence that had sprung up in the box.

Bibilus had changed his seat to be close to her, and he answered with what he thought was a winning smile.

“They all are at this stage, madam. Both have won seven battles to reach this point, though I am sure your son will prevail. He is the crowd’s favorite and they say that can lift a man wonderfully.”

“Thank you,” Servilia replied, resting her hand on his arm.

Bibilus blushed and wound his fingers into knots. Julius watched him with something less than affection, wondering whether the manner concealed a sharper mind, or if Bibilus was really the hopeless fool he seemed to be.

The horns sounded and the first clash of blades had them all against the rail, jostling for space without thought for rank. Servilia breathed quickly and her nervousness showed enough for Julius to touch her arm. She didn’t seem to feel it.

On the sand, the swords flickered, the two men moving around each other at a speed that mocked the heat. They circled quickly, breaking step to reverse with a skill that was beautiful to watch. Aulus had a similar build to Brutus’s taut frame, and the two men seemed well matched. Adàn counted the number of blows under his breath, almost unconsciously, clenching his fists with the excitement. His notes and letters were forgotten on the chair behind him.

Brutus struck armor three times in quick succession. Aulus allowed the blows through his defense to give him the chance to counter, and only Brutus’s footwork saved him each time after the ring of metal.

Both men poured with sweat, their hair black and sopping with it. They broke apart in a strained pause and Julius could hear Brutus’s voice over the sand. No one in the box could make out the words, but Julius knew they would be barbs to spoil Aulus with anger.

Aulus laughed at the attempt and they joined again, standing frighteningly close as their swords spun and flashed, the hilts and blades knocking and sliding in a flurry that was too fast for Adàn to count. The young Spaniard’s mouth opened in amazement at the level of skill, and the whole crowd fell silent. In the awful tension, many of them held their breath, waiting for the first splash of blood to spring from the battling pair.

“There!” Servilia cried at a stripe that had appeared on Aulus’s right thigh. “Do you see it? Look, there!”

She pointed wildly, even as the swordplay reached a manic intensity on the sand. Whether Brutus knew or not, it was clear that Aulus had no idea he had been wounded and Brutus could not disengage at such close range without risking a fatal cut. They remained locked in the rhythms while sweat spattered off them.

At Julius’s signal, the cornicens blew a warning note across the arena. It was dangerous to jar their concentration in such a fashion, but both men stepped back at once, panting in great heaves. Aulus touched a hand to his thigh and held up the reddened palm to Brutus. Neither could speak and Brutus pressed his hands onto his knees to suck in great lungfuls over the pounding of his heart that seemed to throb at every part of him. He spat out a sinewy mouthful of saliva and had to spit again to clear the long strand that reached down to the ground. As their pulses ceased hammering, the two men could hear the crowd cheering, and they embraced briefly before raising their blades once again in salute.

Servilia hugged herself, laughing aloud with the thrill of it. “He has made the last four, then? My darling son. He was astonishing, was he not?”

“He has a chance to win it now and bring honor to Rome,” Pompey replied with a sour glance at Julius.

“Two Romans in the last two pairs. The gods alone know where the other two come from. That Salomin is as dark as a pit, and the other with the slanted eyes, who knows? Let us hope it is enough to have a Roman take that sword of yours, Julius. It would be a shame to see a pagan win it after all this.”

Julius shrugged. “In the hands of the gods.”

He waited for the consul to bring up the bet that stood between them, and Pompey sensed his thoughts, frowning.

“I will have a man bring it to you, Julius. No need to stand there like a pregnant hen.”

Julius nodded instantly. Despite the friendly appearances, every scrap of conversation in the box was like a bloodless duel as they maneuvered for advantage. He looked forward to the final session that evening, if only to see the end of it.

“Of course, Consul. I will be at the house on Esquiline until the last bouts tonight.”

Pompey frowned. He had not expected to have to produce such a large sum so quickly, but now the occupants of the box were watching him closely and Crassus had a nasty little smile ghosting around his lips. Pompey seethed inwardly. He would have to collect his winnings to pay it, all his earlier success wiped out. Only Crassus would have that sort of gold to hand. No doubt the vulture was thinking smugly of the solitary coin he had won on Brutus.

“Excellent,” Pompey said, unwilling to give a definite commitment. Even with his winnings, it would leave him short, but he would see Rome burn before turning to Crassus for another loan.

“Until then, gentlemen, Servilia,” Pompey said, smiling tightly. He signaled his guards and left the box stiff-backed.

Julius watched him go before grinning with pleasure. Five thousand! In a single bet, his campaign was solvent once again.

“I love this city,” he said aloud.

Suetonius stood with his father to leave and though courtesy forced the young man to mumble a platitude as he passed, there was no pleasure in his thin face. Bibilus rose with them, looking nervously at his friend as he too murmured his thanks and fell in behind.