Emperor: The Blood of Gods. Conn Iggulden

      As the sun rose the following morning, Maecenas was silent and in pain, though he forced himself out of his bed to join Agrippa in the courtyard. The Greek house they had rented for the period of leave was small, though it came with a house slave to look after them. With one eye closed against the sun, Maecenas squinted at the other man, watching him limber up.

      ‘Where is Octavian?’ he asked. ‘Still sleeping?’

      ‘Here,’ Octavian said, coming out. His hair was slick with cold water and he looked pale and ill, but he raised a hand in greeting to his two friends. ‘I don’t even remember coming back. Gods, my head is cracked, I’m sure of it. Did I fall?’

      ‘Into a jug, perhaps. Otherwise, no,’ Agrippa replied cheerfully. Of the three, he seemed best able to shrug off vast quantities of alcohol and he enjoyed watching the other two suffer.

      ‘What plans for our last days of leave, Octavian?’ Maecenas asked. ‘I’m sure you are tempted to spend them educating the local children, or perhaps helping the farmers in their fields. However, I heard of a private boxing match this evening. I’m waiting for an address still, but it should be worth watching.’

      Octavian shook his head.

      ‘The last one turned into a riot, which is no surprise as they almost always do. The same goes for the cockfights. And don’t mock; you know I was right. Those men needed killing.’

      Maecenas looked away rather than argue.

      ‘We have two more days of leave, gentlemen,’ Agrippa said. ‘It might be a better idea to spend those days running and training. I don’t want to go back to my ship with the wind of an old man.’

      ‘You see, that is just a lack of imagination, Agrippa,’ Maecenas said. ‘First of all, you are already an old man …’

      ‘Two years older than you, at twenty-two, but go on,’ Agrippa interrupted.

      ‘… and you carry too much weight on your bones, like a bullock. Those of us who have not wasted years lifting heavy weights do not lose fitness so easily. We are racehorses, you see, if the metaphor is not immediately clear.’

      ‘Shall we test your speed against my strength?’ Agrippa asked, smiling unpleasantly.

      Maecenas eyed the heavy training sword Agrippa was swishing through the air.

      ‘You battered me near senseless last time, which was not sporting. In a real duel, I would cut you up, my friend, but these wooden swords filled with lead? They are clubs for peasants and you swing yours with abandon. The idea is not appealing.’ His closed eye opened and he squinted against the sunlight. ‘Still, I have been giving it some thought, since your last instruction.’

      ‘I meant you to learn a lesson, so I am pleased,’ Agrippa replied.

      There was a growing tension on the sandy yard. Maecenas did not enjoy being bested in anything and Octavian knew it had rankled with him to be knocked around like a child. For one of Agrippa’s bulk and strength, the wooden swords could be almost ignored, allowing him to land a punch or a blow that sent Maecenas reeling. He opened his mouth to distract them, but Maecenas had spotted a rack of throwing spears along a wall, long Roman weapons with iron tips and a wooden shaft. His face lit up.

      ‘A different weapon might allow me to demonstrate a few points to you, perhaps,’ Maecenas said.

      Agrippa snorted. ‘So I should let you have three feet of reach over me?’ His eyes glinted, though whether it was anger or amusement, it was impossible to tell.

      ‘If you are afraid, I will understand,’ Maecenas said. ‘No? Excellent.’ He walked to the rack and removed one of the long weapons, feeling the heft of it.

      Agrippa brought his wooden sword up across his body. He wore only leggings, sandals and a loose tunic and did not enjoy Maecenas gesturing with a throwing spear near him.

      ‘Come, Maecenas,’ Octavian said uncomfortably. ‘We will find something good to do today.’

      ‘I have already found something good to do,’ Maecenas replied. He closed the distance quickly, jerking his arm back to make Agrippa flinch. The big man shook his head.

      ‘Are you sure? That is a weapon for soldiers, not noblemen.’

      ‘It will do, I think,’ Maecenas replied. As he spoke, he jabbed the point at Agrippa’s broad chest, then back and again at his groin. ‘Oh yes, it will do very well indeed. Defend yourself, ape.’

      Agrippa watched Maecenas closely, reading his footwork and stance as well as his eyes. They had sparred many times before and both men knew the other’s style. Octavian found himself a bench and sat down, knowing from experience that he would not be able to drag them away until they’d finished. Though they were friends, both men were used to winning and could not resist challenging each other. Octavian settled himself.

      At first, Agrippa merely stepped back from the jabbing point that struck out at him. He frowned as it came close to his eyes, but slid away from it, raising his training gladius to block. Maecenas was enjoying having the big man on the defensive and began to show off a little, his feet quick on the sandy ground.

      The end, when it came, was so sudden that Octavian almost missed it. Maecenas lunged fast and hard enough to score a wound. Agrippa blocked with the edge of his sword, then turned from the hip and smacked his left forearm into the spear. It snapped cleanly and Maecenas gaped at it. Agrippa laid his sword along Maecenas’ throat and grunted a laugh.

      ‘A victory,’ Agrippa said.

      Without a word, Maecenas pushed the wooden sword away and reached down, picking up the broken half of his spear. It had been sawn almost through, the cut hidden with brown wax. His eyes widened and he strode back to the row of spears. He cursed as he examined the rest, snapping them one by one over his thigh. Agrippa began to laugh at his thunderous expression.

      ‘You did this?’ Maecenas demanded. ‘How long did it take you to prepare every spear? What sort of a man goes to such lengths? Gods, how did you even know I would choose one of them? You are a madman, Agrippa.’

      ‘I am a strategist, is what I am,’ Agrippa said, wiping tears from his right eye. ‘Oh, your face. I wish you could have seen it.’

      ‘This is not honourable behaviour,’ Maecenas muttered. To his irritation, Agrippa just laughed again.

      ‘I would rather be a peasant and win than be noble and lose. It is as simple as that, my friend.’

      Octavian had risen to see the broken spears. With care, he kept any sign of amusement from his face, knowing that Maecenas would already be insufferable all day and he could only make it worse.

      ‘I heard there will be fresh oranges in the market this morning, packed in ice the whole way. Cold juice would help my head, I think. Can you shake hands and be friends for the day? It would please me.’

      ‘I am willing,’ Agrippa said. He held out his spade of a right hand. Maecenas allowed his to be enveloped.

      The house slave came trotting into the yard as the two men shook with mock earnestness. Fidolus had always worked hard not to intrude on the guests and Octavian did not know him well, beyond finding him courteous and quiet.

      ‘Master, there is a messenger at the gate. He says he has letters from Rome for you.’

      Octavian groaned. ‘I can feel them calling me back. Caesar is wondering where his favourite relative has gone, no doubt.’

      Maecenas and Agrippa were looking at him, their expressions innocent. Octavian waved a hand.

      ‘He will wait a while longer.