As they fell silent, Julius looked down at Octavian, the only one at the table bound to him by blood.

Seeing the hero-worship in the young man was painful when Julius thought of all the gray years that would follow his failure and banishment. Would Octavian look back on the campaign with bitterness then?

“We have come so very far,” he said to them. “Some of you have been with me almost from the beginning. I can’t even remember a time when Renius wasn’t there, or Cabera. My father would be proud to see his boy with such friends.”

“Will he mention me, do you think?” Brutus said to Alexandria.

Julius smiled gently. He had been going to raise a simple toast to those who had entered the sword tournament, but the executions that morning had stayed with him through the day, casting a gray spell over his mood.

“I wish there were others at this table,” Julius said. “Marius for one. When I look back, the good memories are lost in the rest, but I have known great men.” He felt his heart thumping in his chest as the words came.

“I have never known a straight path in my life. I stood at Marius’s side as we rode through Rome throwing coins to the crowds. The air was full of petals and cheering and I heard the slave whose task it was whisper in his ear, ‘Remember you are mortal.’ ” Julius sighed as he saw again the colors and excitement of that day.

“I have been so close to death that even Cabera gave me up. I’ve lost friends and lost hope and I’ve seen kings fall and Cato cut his own throat in the forum. I have been so drenched in death I thought I would never laugh or care for anyone again.”

They stared at him over the dishes that littered the long table, but his gaze was far away and he did not see the effect of his words.

“I saw Tubruk die and Cornelia’s body so white she did not look real until I touched her.” His voice faded to a whisper and Brutus glanced at his mother. She had paled, pressing a hand against her mouth as Julius spoke.

“I tell you, I would not wish what I have seen on anyone,” Julius murmured. He seemed to come back to them, aware of the chill in the room.

“I am here, though, still. I honor the dead, but I will use my time. Rome has only seen the beginning of my struggle. I have known despair and it holds no fear for me now. This is my city, my summer. I have given my youth to her and I would throw the years at her again if I had the chance.”

He raised his cup to the stunned table.

“When I look at you all, I cannot imagine a force in the world that can stop us,” he said. “Drink to friendship and love, for the rest is just tin.”

They stood slowly, raised their cups and drank the blood-red wine.

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.