The tribune whooped and put up his sword. His friends applauded mockingly. Titus bent to pick up the guard’s fallen cloak, and by the time he straightened the tribune had been disarmed.

Titus blinked, brows shooting up.

“That wasn’t fair,” the tribune protested.

The guard—Vix, Sabina had called him—crooked a finger in invitation, and his smile gleamed like a knife’s edge. “Come again, then.”

“This is not a proper display for a dinner party,” Empress Plotina was complaining. No one listened to her.

Titus managed to follow the fight that time, what there was of it. Pass, counterpass, feint—and the blade was on the ground again.

“Who else?” The guard named Vix turned a circle, spreading his arms. “I’m just getting warm.” He was tall, confident, swaggering, barely breathing hard; the lamplight cut shadows over his bare muscled arms. “‘I sing of arms and a man at war,’” Titus quoted Virgil to himself, and looked down at his scrawny unimpressive self. No one was ever going to sing of his feats, that was for certain.

Three more tribunes came clamoring forward to try Vix. The first had a sword stroke or two Titus vaguely remembered from the advanced class of swordsmanship but still found himself disarmed on a backhand pass; the second was drunk and stood empty-handed in under a minute; the third made a duel of it. Guests clapped across the circle, calling encouragement as the two battled back and forth across a section of raked garden path. Titus thought he saw a place or two where Vix could have ended the fight, but the russet-haired guard didn’t bother. He moved loose and lazy across the ground, the sword an extension of his arm, and he was grinning ear to ear as he finally whipped the gladius about and clipped the blade from his opponent’s hand.

The tribunes and their friends were all grumbling, not too pleased to be humiliated by a household guard, but Titus burst into applause and the rest of the guests followed suit, ready to be entertained by anything. Vix gave a grand flourish of a bow, and Titus saw him drop a wink at Sabina. Titus wondered how many years of his life he’d give to be able to swagger and preen for a girl like that. Ten seemed excessive, but five…

“Didn’t I tell you, Caesar?” Sabina’s amused voice. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

“Very.” The Emperor’s eyes rested on Vix, friendly and speculative. “You’re gladiator trained, I’ll wager.”

“How’d you know, Caesar?”

“All that slash-slash-slash, boy! You look like you’re making hay. Legion-trained, you’d be keeping your arms in close behind the shield and jabbing in short strokes.” Trajan demonstrated. “Keep in close formation behind the shields and use the point. The point always beats the edge.”