‘Ha!’ he said, leaping back. ‘Killed you!’
Brinno let out a shout of frustration and flung his shield down. They were using wooden practice swords, but there was a bloody red graze on his side where the splintered tip of Castus’s weapon had jabbed into him. If it had been a real sword with some weight behind it, it would have stabbed deep into his bowels.
‘A filthy trick!’ Brinno said, grinning against the pain.
‘A Roman trick,’ Castus told him. He dropped his own battered wicker shield onto the packed dirt of the training courtyard, then flipped his wooden sword up and caught it by the blade. He gave a nod to the boy waiting in the portico, who ran over with a skin of water.
Both men were stripped to boots and breeches, and in the close summer heat their scarred bodies poured with sweat. Castus raised the waterskin, tipping back his head and filling his mouth with the cool liquid. He let the water pour over his shoulders and chest, then tossed the skin to Brinno.
The young Frank took two long swallows, then swilled his mouth and spat in the dust. ‘This time,’ he said, throwing the waterskin back to the slave boy, ‘we fight without shields, yes? And I think I will beat you!’
Castus rolled his shoulders, smiling, then the two men faced off, both dropping instinctively into a fighting crouch. They circled, their shadows pooled beneath them. Castus knew his disadvantage now: Brinno had grown up duelling like this, back in his own county, but the legions fought only with shield in hand. The younger man had a wiry agility too, and this sort of fighting suited him well. With the wooden sword held level, he kept his left hand low as he circled, curled into a fist against his thigh, as if he were still gripping a shield. Brinno’s left arm was up and reaching wide, a counterbalance to the wild swinging attacks he favoured.
Slowly they shuffled, scuffing dust, each waiting for the moment to strike. Over Brinno’s shoulder, Castus saw a figure watching him from in the shade at the end of the wooden portico. Silver winked from the figure’s throat, and Castus recognised the eunuch, Serapion. A flicker of apprehension crossed his mind.
Brinno leaped, swinging a fast overarm strike, and Castus blocked it at the last moment. The clash of the wooden swords was loud, and for a few heartbeats the two men were locked together, pushing against each other, the wooden blades grating in their fists. Brinno tried to reach out with his free hand and grab Castus by the neck, and Castus punched his arm away and then spun on his heel to break the contact. Brinno’s lashing blow clipped his shoulder as he turned, but then he was circling again. Pain bloomed up his arm; both of them would wear bruises tomorrow.
Sparring with Brinno was often a dangerous activity; the young Frank was keen to win, and tended to work himself into a fighting frenzy heedless of restraint. Now he made another wild cut, which Castus only just parried before it cracked his skull. He swiped his blade down, catching another blow before it met his shin, and managed a lunging stab that sent Brinno dancing back out of his reach. Breath hammered at the back of his throat.
But along with his ferocity, the young barbarian was also very easy to read. There was no economy to his movement, and after a few moments Castus found he could judge the direction of his next blow quite easily. Brinno’s narrow face contorted, his eyes bulged, and he let out high shouts and grunts. Castus kept to his fighting stance, stayed silent and moved only when necessary.
Two more blows, then Castus cut high and his blade clipped Brinno’s shoulder. Enraged, the Frank leaped forward behind a swinging overhand strike; Castus blocked him, then punched his left arm up and under Brinno’s reaching right. With his cupped hand he grasped the bunched muscle of the young warrior’s neck, shoving him backwards. A sweeping kick, and he knocked Brinno’s legs from under him. The Frank went down hard on his back, and Castus dropped to one knee, straddling his body, sword angled at his throat.
‘Roman bastard!’ Brinno yelled. ‘You fight like some common gladiator!’ But he was laughing again as he scrambled to his feet. ‘In my father’s country, these tricks would not be allowed!’
‘Then I’m glad we’re in a civilised part of the world,’ Castus said, breathing hard. With his wooden sword under his arm, he walked heavily to the wooden railing of the portico. Stooping, he dashed his face and torso with water from the trough.
‘We fight again?’ Brinno said, stalking up and down swinging his sword.
‘That’s enough for today,’ Castus said. He grabbed a rough tunic from the railing and used it to swab his face. ‘I’m for the baths. I need a cold plunge and rub down.’
‘You just know I’d win in the end, old man!’ Brinno declared as he tossed his sword to the slave boy. ‘Youth beats age, every time.’
‘You don’t have the stamina for it,’ Castus growled. He threw the tunic aside and walked along the portico. Serapion was still there, apparently waiting for him.
‘You play hard in the Protectores,’ the eunuch said.
‘It’s no game,’ Castus told him. ‘You can lose your edge, standing around in a palace all day.’ He extended the wooden sword, hilt first, towards Serapion. ‘You want to try?’
‘Hmm, thank you, but I think not,’ the eunuch said with a tense smile.
‘Let me know if you change your mind. I’ve trained softer-looking men than you.’
Castus put the sword down, placed his hands on the portico railing and leaned forward, feeling the burn in his bunched shoulder muscles. The ache of combat lingered these days as it never had in his youth. Brinno’s jibes about his age had not been far off the mark.
‘In fact,’ Serapion said, ‘I’m here with a request.’
Castus straightened up. He waited for the eunuch to go on. From the corner of his eye he could see Brinno still pacing in the courtyard, pretending not to notice the conversation at the portico railing.
‘The request comes from the domina Valeria Domitia Sabina,’ Serapion said. ‘She wishes to make an… excursion tonight, a rather particular excursion, and has asked that you accompany her.’
‘A what?’ Castus said. He wiped a forearm across his brow.
‘I… cannot say anything more now,’ the eunuch went on. He was clearly embarrassed, or nervous. ‘But the domina Sabina asks that you meet her outside the stable gate of the palace, at the beginning of the second watch tonight. Dress plainly, she said, and come alone.’
Castus stared at him for a few moments, feeling the doubt massing in his mind. The promise too, and the impossibility. ‘Why don’t you go with her?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid it’s nothing that would suit me,’ Serapion replied, looking far from comfortable. ‘Besides… the domina rather suggested that she might need… protecting?’
Castus grunted, then rubbed a knuckle across his scalp. ‘How do I know this isn’t some ruse of yours?’
Serapion widened his eyes. ‘I assure you it’s not,’ he said. ‘But the domina told me, if you asked, that I was to give you this.’ He reached into the sleeve of his tunic and drew out a slip of white muslin, passing it to Castus.
Even as he took the cloth, Castus could smell her scent upon it. Rich and dark: he recognised it at once. Quickly he balled the cloth into his fist and thrust it under his belt.
‘You may return it to her tonight,’ Serapion said, then turned and walked swiftly back into the shadows of the building behind him.