"Iggulden, Conn - Emperor 3 - The Field of Swords" - читать интересную книгу автора (Iggulden Conn)

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.

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 Adрn 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. Adрn 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 Adрn 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.