***
They were thrown on their own company for the rest of the meal; she was bright, and flirtatious as she hadn't been since the sixth month of her last pregnancy, and Lucius fell in love with her again. He was beginning to think how long it would be till he could decently make his excuses and take her home, when she nudged him hard, and narrowed her eyes, and he realised he was being shouted at from the other side of the room.
“You! So-called Tarquinius!”
Marcus Robur was on his feet, yelling across the room. Two of his friends were trying to pull him back down, but without success; his face was reddened by wine. Lucius looked at the king; he was shaking his head, but made no move to stop his son.
“Stand up, arsehole. You fucking Etruscan goat-shagger.”
Lucius felt his face redden, but quite deliberately bent forward, and picked up his wine-cup. It took all his effort to keep his hand from trembling, but he held the cup still in front of him, and turned to Thanchvil. He could feel the tension in the air; everyone was waiting to see what he would do.
“I think an aulos player at this feast might be an improvement on the current entertainment,” he said into the silence that had fallen.
No one knew how to respond. Marcus Robur was struggling to break loose from his friends' grasp; everyone else was trying to make out whether this was merely a witticism, or an insult. Lucius was beginning to think he'd misjudged the mood of the banqueters when a raucous snort sounded, followed by a hoot of laughter. It was Ancus Marcius, thumping his couch with his great hands, his shoulders heaving. Then everyone was laughing, some with relief, others nervously, except Marcus Robur and Faustus.
Faustus turned to Lucius, glaring at him. “You might find it's dangerous, insulting the king's son.”
“As dangerous as giving your wife ideas?”
Faustus' jaw clamped tight. Lucius stared back at him, daring him to look away first. He could see Faustus hold his breath; then the Roman stood, and turned to Marcus Robur.
“You'll let him get away with that?”
Marcus let out a great shout of rage, shaking his friends off; free, he jumped over the table set in front of his couch, and kicked over the small table in front of Lucius, grabbing the Etruscan's robe at the shoulders.
“You insult Faustus, you insult me.” He pulled Lucius towards him. “You think my father will save you?” He spat in Lucius' face.
Lucius raised a hand to wipe the spit away, but Marcus Robur was already aiming a blow at him. He dodged, coming low under it, ready to punch Robur in the ribs on his way up, but was brought up short as Robur grabbed his hair. His head snapped back; he couldn't move without twisting his neck even further.
Robur put his face up close to Lucius'; his eyes were bulging, white all the way round the irises.
“Effeminate bastard. You've got your wife's hair. Can't tell you apart, except she's the one with the balls.”
Robur yanked on his hair. There was definitely an advantage to the Roman crop, Lucius thought sourly, feeling with his hands behind him to try and find any hold on Robur. Finally, he got his hands up to the back of his head, and found Robur's hands; grabbing one of Robur's thumbs, he yanked it back as hard as he could. It worked; Robur's hands slackened for a moment, and grabbing as much as he could of his own hair in one hand, Lucius twisted out of his grip, and stood up. Come and get what's coming to you, he thought.
And Robur did. He was a tough fighter, muscles gleaming like oiled leather, but not a smart one; Lucius already knew he was coming, by the way he pulled his body back to throw it into the blow. A frontal attack; the easiest of all to deal with, Lucius thought. As Robur came, he swivelled to his left, took the roman's arm and pinned it quickly behind his back, relishing the squeal of pain. Quickly, while Robur's feet scrambled for a purchase in the reeds on the floor, he twisted back again, throwing Robur across the couch and seeing him land awkwardly with one leg across it. Robur thrashed about to try to get up, managing to kick the woman who'd been sitting next to Lucius; his mother, he realised, feeling stupid for not having realised it earlier.
Lucius' breath was burning in his throat, his heart pounding; he wasn't used to this kind of exercise, and it was obvious, stupid through Robur was, he'd been training. He'd have to finish it now, before Robur could get his second wind; before his own strength began to fail. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his scalp, he leapt over the couch, aiming both feet at his opponent. If he'd connected, it would have put an end to the fight; but Robur rolled away, scrambling to his feet.
Lucius stepped towards him, aiming a low kick at his knees. But Robur was wise to that trick, jumping over the attack and coming up close, jabbing Lucius in the ribs. Desperately Lucius tried to grab Robur, but his hands slid off the hard muscles, and the stubble of the Roman's head gave him nothing to hold on to. When he managed to get a handful of tunic, the soft fabric tore, leaving him with a handful of wool. Another jab in the ribs. He could thank the gods that he'd put a bit of weight on there; it didn't hurt as much as it once would have.
Giving up grappling as a bad job, Lucius aimed a knee at Robur's balls; he missed, but connected with his thigh. It was clear from the reaction he'd dead-legged the Roman, and he followed up his advantage with an elbow to the face, and a push in the chest; Robur staggered backwards, nearly falling, stumbling into one of the low tables before he righted himself again. Lucius was dimly aware of guests scrambling to get out of the way, but he was entirely focused on his opponent now. Marcius' son had been beginning to get the upper hand, but now, he felt, he was gaining an advantage, and he needed to keep it.
Putting his head down, he rammed Robur in the gut; he felt Robur's arms flailing, got back out of range before his opponent could grab his hair again, then it was in again on light feet, to aim a punch at Robur's face. He felt it connect, saw the blood spray out from a split lip, was stepping back before Robur could react, giving himself space, giving himself time.
“Stop dancing, Etruscan poof. Stand and bloody fight.” That sounded like Faustus; a few jeers showed he wasn't the only one there on Robur's side.
There was blood on his knuckles. Some of it was Robur's. Some of it wasn't. Suddenly he felt tired, and stood, swaying a little with fatigue, watching Robur, trying hard not to feel he'd won, to see what Robur was going to do next. He ought to admit he was beaten, to come and grasp Lucius' arm, and give in gracefully; but then he was a Roman, and Romans never did.
Maybe Robur was smart enough to have learned by the failure of his earlier attack; maybe Lucius was getting so tired he'd missed the signal. Suddenly, with a great roar, Robur was on him, punching savagely. Lucius' arms felt heavy, flabby; he put up his fists late, felt a punch connect on the side of his head, and tasted blood; he'd bitten his cheek.
His eyes dazzled by the blow, he aimed where he thought Robur had been, but he'd missed him. He felt movement behind him, and kicked out wildly, hopefully; but he'd missed again, and though he spun quickly around, he was too late; Robur had got his hair again, and this time he'd pulled Lucius' head into his armpit, where Lucius couldn't get his fingers round to break his hold. Instead, he threw his weight upwards, hoping to throw the younger man off balance; but Robur laughed, and pushed back. Lucius hadn't expected that, and as he scrambled for a foothold, Robur started to pull him by the hair, making him run desperately after him, bent nearly double. Some of the guests started to laugh; at first hesitantly, then louder as they realised Ancus Marcius wasn't going to spoil their fun by stepping in. And it must have looked pretty funny, Lucius thought bitterly, a man being swung around by his long hair.
Lucius was in trouble now, and he knew it. When Robur stopped, he ran on a few paces before his hair yanked him back, and then Robur had his arms pinned, and was wrestling him down to the ground. With his face to the ground, Lucius couldn't see what was happening; he expected a blow in the ribs, or a kick to the head, any moment, but Robur was savouring his victory, not quite ready to end it.
Then at the same time as he heard a high screech of rage above the shouting, he realised Robur had let go of his arms. Quickly, before Robur could get back his hold, he rolled away, tucking his head and knees inwards to guard against a wild blow.
He wasn't prepared for what he saw when he managed to get up. Tanaquil seemed to be dancing, her legs and arms a blur of motion, her hair flying. Only when he looked more closely could he see Robur, being driven back by Tanaquil's scratching talons.
“Enough!”
At last, Ancus Marcius had stood up; everything fell silent. Even Tanaquil ended her pursuit of Robur, and stood, her sides heaving, her arms dropped, watching the king on the high couch.
“I've seen enough. Robur, you will go. Now!” The king turned to Lucius.
“I'm sorry. You did insult him, you know. I couldn't stop it. But you fought well. And your wife...” Marcius' voice sounded wistful. “Your wife is splendid.”
Two of the servants came forward to help them to their couch; one brought warm water in a bronze bowl, and cloths, to clean Lucius' wounds. He wanted only to be gone; but they had to sit through the speeches, and a ceremonious libation. He knew people were staring at him; he wanted to put his hand to the back of his head, and feel how much of his hair Robur had managed to pull out, but he was disinclined to show his pain in front of this hostile audience.
“Ponce. Lets his wife do the fighting,” a voice said. Though it was instantly hissed down, he knew that was an accusation he'd have to live with. He felt Tanaquil squeeze his hand. She knew what she'd risked coming to his help. But she'd been right; he'd been beaten. There was no way he could have got out of that last armlock.
He squeezed her hand back, and sat a little straighter as he did so, looking around the hall. He noticed how people's eyes slid away; no one was prepared to meet his gaze.
And it was interesting how Faustus, suddenly, was nowhere to be seen.