Uptown Local and Other Interventions by Diane Duane Read Free Book Online Page B

white-crested opponent, then cut, but Hilarus dodged the sword and merely lost some shoulder-padding before he was out of reach. “Not like that!” Velantinus bawled from beside Lucius. “Watch his left, get in and—” The crowd yelled at the miss, while from their ringside boxes knights and senators shouted new bets to their nearest bookies.
    “Go on,” Lucius shouted, “go on, don’t let him—” Cestinius was already sliding forward, jabbing at Hilarus’s poised shield, hoping he’d try to smash the extended sword from his opponent’s hand. The shield flickered up and around, the move that Lucius had seen in his dream and since they came through that gate had been praying wouldn’t happen. “No!” Lucius yelled as Cestinius thrust. Not past the shield, but over it, at Hilarus’s left eye—
    Hilarus ducked, just enough, and the blade screeched off his helmet. White plumes went flying. He overbalanced, staggered backwards as the crowd shrieked with excitement, then recovered and crabbed sideways. There was a look in his eye that Lucius hadn’t seen before: not the manic rage that he’d seen often enough when the fight heated up, but a chilly calculation that wasn’t entirely human. Yet it was also an amused look… and Lucius didn’t understand it at all. At least it’s not the dream…! But that raised other possibilities.
    Like Cestinius getting killed.
    Another flurry of blows began, faster than Lucius could follow. Hilarus was at the top of his form—graceful, fast-moving, laying down a ferocious battery of blows; but Cestinius seemed faster, more agile, and somehow less afraid of what was happening, dancing lithely in and out of the blows, parrying, striking in turn. Like lion fighting leopard, they circled and struck, sword against sword, against shield, again and again, from above, from below—
    Then Lucius, Velantinus and Cestinius all saw the same opening—but Hilarus missed it.
    “No!”
    “ There!! ”
    Cestinius said nothing. But his sword flicked towards Hilarus’s left knee, and suddenly the Thracian was collapsing over a leg that wouldn’t hold his weight. Velantinus was on his man in a moment, fist up, two fingers raised. The umpire signaled too, and medics sprinted forward while Velantinus, swearing steadily, yanked the tall greave aside to get better access to the wound.
    “You okay?” Lucius said to Cestinius. He nodded, watching the umpire contacting somebody in the Imperial box with the complex hand-signs that arena staff used to work though crowd noise. Lots of spectators were waving upwards, the “Let ‘im walk!” gesture. But some who’d lost bets were savagely doing the thumb-to-neck “Stick it to him!” gesture for the kill...
    Lucius swallowed. There were so many...
    Then the umpire nodded, took Cestinius’s arm and raised it high.
    “Knights, Vestals, conscript fathers and citizens of Rome,” shouted the repeaters, “by umpire’s recommendation and the Emperor’s confirmation, on points, Hilarus walks! Winner… The murmillo Cestinius, tyro, first victory with crown for technical merit… and the editor’s purse for the best new fighter of the Games!”
    The crowd roared again as the payoff crew came out of the gates with the murmillo ’s winnings heaped up on a tray. It was just bags of coin at first, but as the victory lap progressed the tray began to fill with jewels, rings and other gifts from the stands…along with one gold-crusted, rose-red veil that draped itself with surprising accuracy over one of the bearers’ heads.
    Lucius grinned, watching his winnings get closer and closer. He glowed with pride. It had finally happened. Finally. He reached out—
    And clutched a whole fistful, denarii , and golden aureae such as he’d never dreamed of. This is real. I’m rich. There’s enough here to buy my freedom.
    But not to buy what’s really important.
    He turned to Cestinius and pushed the coins into his hands. “Here—”
    “But this is