Книга - The Gates of Rome

The Gates of Rome
Conn Iggulden


The astonishing life of Julius Caesar is recreated in a magnificent novel that brilliantly interweaves history and adventure.Emperor: The Gates of Rome is an epic tale of ambition and rivalry, bravery and betrayal, from an outstanding voice in historical fiction.From the spectacle of gladiatorial combat to the intrigue of the Senate, from the foreign wars that created an empire to the betrayals that almost tore it apart, the Emperor novels tell the remarkable story of the man who would become the greatest Roman of them all: Julius Caesar.Brilliantly interweaving history and adventure, The Gates of Rome introduces an ambitious young man facing his first great test. In the city of Rome, a titanic power struggle is about to shake the Republic to its core. Citizen will fight citizen in a bloody conflict – and Julius Caesar will be in the thick of the action.










EMPEROR THE GATES OF ROME










CONN IGGULDEN










Copyright (#ulink_5c1eca14-c751-534f-911f-730c0777f1cc)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2003

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007437122

Ebook Edition © December 2013 ISBN: 9780007321759

Version: 2017-05-20


To my son Cameron and to my brother Hal,the other member of the Black Cat Club


Contents

Cover (#ua9fb1f63-4042-5b3e-8261-3e5d1abbf9ea)

Title Page (#u3632ba9d-ec74-5277-930b-7746edb0eae8)

Copyright (#u52598c64-5f67-507b-9476-f894a74aac89)

Dedication (#ud103440e-ffb8-5ea0-baa8-2b70890f867d)

Chapter One (#u14dcf38c-7102-5aad-b0d3-cbf0c94bb1b2)

Chapter Two (#uca92fae6-71a8-5317-b6fb-d3a60ba4b722)

Chapter Three (#u15648b4e-6ad6-59be-af06-75cb2909524d)

Chapter Four (#ud303f33e-4414-5347-b26a-b90a50d94ffd)

Chapter Five (#ub28d69dd-f3bc-5596-b5a5-f1764593a217)

Chapter Six (#uf953eaad-b70b-508e-81ef-5c8916f3d63f)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Conn Iggulden (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_9bf73f03-03fe-51c9-9a0d-b868243abd8f)







The track in the woods was a wide causeway to the two boys strolling down it. Both were so dirty with thick, black mud as to be almost unrecognisable as human. The taller of the two had blue eyes that seemed unnaturally bright against the cracking, itching mud that plastered him.

‘We’re going to be killed for this, Marcus,’ he said, grinning. In his hand, a sling spun lazily, held taut with the weight of a smooth river pebble.

‘Your fault, Gaius, for pushing me in. I told you the river bed wasn’t dry all the way.’

As he spoke, the shorter boy laughed and shoved his friend into the bushes that lined the path. He whooped and ran as Gaius scrambled out and set off in pursuit, sling whirring in a disc.

‘Battle!’ he shouted in his high, unbroken voice.

The beating they would get at home for ruining their tunics was far away and both boys knew every trick to get out of trouble – all that mattered was charging through the woodland paths at high speed, scaring birds. Both boys were barefoot, already with calluses developing, despite not having seen more than eight summers.

‘This time, I’ll catch him,’ Gaius panted to himself as he ran. It was a mystery to him how Marcus, who had the same number of legs and arms, could yet somehow make them move faster than he could. In fact, as he was shorter, his stride should have been a little less, surely?

The leaves whipped by him, stinging his bare arms. He could hear Marcus taunting him up ahead, close. Gaius showed his teeth as his lungs began to hurt.

Without warning, he broke into a clearing at full pelt and skidded to a sudden, shocked stop. Marcus was lying on the ground, trying to sit up and holding his head in his right hand. Three men – no, older boys – were standing there, carrying walking staffs.

Gaius groaned as he took in his surroundings. The chase had carried the two boys off his father’s small estate and into their neighbours’ part of the woods. He should have recognised the track that marked the boundary, but he’d been too caught up in catching Marcus for once.

‘What do we have here? A couple of little mudfish, crawled up out of the river!’

It was Suetonius who spoke, the eldest son of the neighbouring estate. He was fourteen and killing time before he went into the army. He had the sort of trained muscles the two younger boys hadn’t begun to develop. He had a mop of blond hair over a face speckled with white-headed eruptions that covered his cheeks and forehead, with a sprinkling of angry-looking red ones disappearing under his praetexta tunic. He also had a long straight stick, friends to impress and an afternoon to while away.

Gaius was frightened, knowing he was out of his depth. He and Marcus were trespassing – the best they could expect was a few blows, the worst was a beating with broken bones. He glanced at Marcus and saw him try to stagger to his feet. He’d obviously been belted with something as he ran into the older boys.

‘Let us go, Tonius, we’re expected back.’

‘Speaking mudfish! We’ll make our fortune, boys! Grab hold of them, I have a roll of twine for tying up pigs that will do just as well for mudfish.’

Gaius didn’t consider running, with Marcus unable to get away. This wasn’t a game – the cruelty of the boys could be managed if they were treated carefully, talked to like scorpions, ready to strike without warning.

The two other boys approached with their staffs held ready. They were both strangers to Gaius. One dragged Marcus to his feet and the other, a hefty, stupid-looking boy, rammed his stick into Gaius’ stomach. He doubled up in agony, unable to speak. He could hear the boy laughing as he cramped and groaned, trying to curl into the pain.

‘There’s a branch that will do. Tie their legs together and string them up to swing. We can see who’s the best shot with javelins and stones.’

‘Your father knows my father,’ Gaius spat out, as the pain in his stomach lessened.

‘True – doesn’t like him though. My father is a proper patrician, not like yours. Your whole family could be his servants if he wanted. I’d make that mad mother of yours scrub the tiles.’

At least he was talking. The thug with the horsehair twine was intent on tying knots at Gaius’ feet, ready to hoist him into the air. What could he say to bargain? His father had no real power in the city. His mother’s family had produced a couple of consuls – that was it. Uncle Marius was a powerful man, so his mother said.

‘We are nobilitas – my Uncle Marius is not a man to cross …’

There was a sudden high-pitched yelp as the string over the branch went tight and Marcus was swung into the air upside down.

‘Tie the end to that stump. This fish next,’ Tonius said, laughing gleefully.

Gaius noted that the two friends followed his orders without question. It would be pointless trying to appeal to one of them.

‘Let us down, you spot-covered pus-bag!’ Marcus shouted as his face darkened with the rush of blood.

Gaius groaned. Now they would be killed, he was sure.

‘You idiot, Marcus. Don’t mention his spots; you can see he must be sensitive about them.’

Suetonius raised an eyebrow and his mouth opened in astonishment. The heavy-set boy paused as he threw the twine over the same branch as Marcus.

‘Oh, you have made a mistake, little fish. Finish stringing that one up, Decius, I’m going to make him bleed a little.’

Suddenly, the world tilted sickeningly and Gaius could hear the twine creak and a low whistle in his ears as his head filled with blood. He rotated slowly and came round to see Marcus in a similar predicament. His nose was a little bloody from being knocked down the first time.

‘I think you’ve stopped my nosebleed, Tonius. Thanks.’ Marcus’ voice trembled slightly and Gaius smiled at his bravery.

When he’d first come to live with them, the little boy had been naturally nervous and a little small for his age. Gaius had shown him around the estate and they’d ended up in the hay barn, right at the top of the stacked sheaves. They had looked down at the loose pile far below and Gaius had seen Marcus’ hands tremble.

‘I’ll go first and show you how it’s done,’ Gaius had said cheerfully, launching himself feet first and whooping.

Below, he’d looked up at the edge for a few seconds, waiting to see Marcus appear. Just as he’d thought it would never happen, a small figure shot into the air, leaping high. Gaius had scrambled out of the way as Marcus crashed into the hay, winded and gasping.

‘I thought you were too scared to do it,’ Gaius said to the prone figure, blinking in the dust.

‘I was,’ Marcus had replied quietly, ‘but I won’t be afraid. I just won’t.’

The hard voice of Suetonius broke into Gaius’ spinning thoughts: ‘Gentlemen, meat must be tenderised with mallets. Take your stations and begin the technique, like so.’

He swung his stick at Gaius’ head, catching him over the ear. The world went white, then black and when he next opened his eyes everything was spinning as the string twisted. For a while, he could feel the blows as Suetonius called out, ‘One-two-three, one-two-three …’

He thought he could hear Marcus crying and then he passed out to the accompaniment of jeers and laughter.

He woke and went back under a couple of times in the daylight, but it was dusk when he was finally able to stay conscious. His right eye was a heavy mass of blood and his face felt swollen and caked in stickiness. They were still upside down and swinging gently as the evening breeze came in from the hills.

‘Wake up, Marcus – Marcus!’

His friend didn’t stir. He looked terrible, like some sort of demon. The crust of crumbling river mud had been broken away and there was now only a grey dust, streaked with red and purple. His jaw was swollen, and a lump stood out on his temple. His left hand was fat and had a blueish tinge in the failing light. Gaius tried to move his own hands, held by the twine. Though painfully stiff, they both worked and he set about wriggling them free. His young frame was supple and the burst of fresh pain was ignored in the wave of worry he felt for his friend. He had to be all right, he had to be. First though, Gaius had to get down.

One hand came free and he reached down to the ground, scrabbling in the dust and dead leaves with his fingertips. Nothing. The other hand came free and he widened his area of search, making his body swing in a slow circle. Yes, a small stone with a sharp edge. Now for the difficult part.

‘Marcus! Can you hear me? I’m going to get us down, don’t you worry. Then I’m going to kill Suetonius and his fat friends.’

Marcus swung gently in silence, his mouth open and slack. Gaius took a deep breath and readied himself for the pain. Under normal circumstances, reaching up to cut through a piece of heavy twine with only a sharp stone would have been difficult, but with his abdomen a mass of bruises, it felt like an impossible task.

Go.

He heaved himself up, crying out with the pain from his stomach. He jackknifed up to the branch and gripped it with both hands, lungs heaving with the effort. He felt weak and his vision blurred. He thought he would vomit and could do no more than just hold on for a few moments. Then, inch by inch, he released the hand with the stone and leaned back, giving himself enough room to reach the twine and saw at it, trying not to catch his skin where it had bitten into the flesh.

The stone was depressingly blunt and he couldn’t hold on for long. Gaius tried to let go before his hands slipped so he could control the fall back, but it was too hard.

‘Still got the stone,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Try again, before Suetonius comes back.’

Another thought struck him. His father could have returned from Rome. He was due back any day now. It was growing dark and he would be worried. Already, he could be out looking for the two boys, coming nearer to this spot, calling their names. He must not find them like this. It would be too humiliating.

‘Marcus? We’ll tell everyone we fell. I don’t want my father to know about this.’

Marcus creaked round in a circle, oblivious.

Five times more, Gaius spasmed up and sawed at the twine before it parted. He hit the ground almost flat and sobbed as his torn and tortured muscles twitched and jumped.

He tried to ease Marcus to the ground, but the weight was too much for him and the thump made him wince.

As Marcus landed, he opened his eyes at the fresh pain.

‘My hand,’ he whispered, his voice cracking.

‘Broken, I’d say. Don’t move it. We have to get out of here in case Suetonius comes back or my father tries to find us. It’s nearly dark. Can you stand?’

‘I can, I think, though my legs feel weak. That Tonius is a bastard,’ Marcus muttered. He did not try to open his swollen jaw, but spoke through fat and broken lips.

Gaius nodded grimly. ‘True – we have a score to settle there, I think.’

Marcus smiled and winced at the sting of opening cuts. ‘Not until we’ve healed a bit though, eh? I’m not up to taking him on at the moment.’

Propping each other up, the two boys staggered home in the darkness, walking a mile over the cornfields, past the slave quarters for the field workers and up to the main buildings. As expected, the oil lamps were still lit, lining the walls of the main house.

‘Tubruk will be waiting for us; he never sleeps,’ Gaius muttered as they passed under the pillars of the outer gate.

A voice from the shadows made them both jump.

‘A good thing too. I would have hated to miss this spectacle. You are lucky your father is not here, he’d have taken the skin off your backs for returning to the villa looking like this. What was it this time?’

Tubruk stepped into the yellow light of the lamps and leaned forward. He was a powerfully built ex-gladiator, who’d bought the position of overseer to the small estate outside Rome and never looked back. Gaius’ father said he was one in a thousand for organising talent. The slaves worked well under him, some from fear and some from liking. He sniffed at the two young boys.

‘Fall in the river, did we? Smells like it.’

They nodded happily at this explanation.

‘Mind you, you didn’t pick up those stick marks from a river bottom, did you? Suetonius, was it? I should have kicked his backside for him years ago, when he was young enough for it to make a difference. Well?’

‘No, Tubruk, we had an argument and fought each other. No one else was involved and even if there had been, we would want to handle it ourselves, you see?’

Tubruk grinned at this from such a small boy. He was forty-five years of age, with hair that had gone grey in his thirties. He had been a legionary in Africa in the Third Cyrenaica legion, and had fought nearly a hundred battles as a gladiator, collecting a mass of scars on his body. He put out his great spade of a hand and rubbed his square fingers through Gaius’ hair.

‘I do see, little wolf. You are your father’s son. You cannot handle everything yet though, you are just a little lad and Suetonius – or whoever – is shaping into a fine young warrior so I hear. Mind yourselves, his father is too powerful to be an enemy in the Senate.’

Gaius drew himself up to his full height and spoke as formally as he knew how, trying to assert his position.

‘It is luck then, that this Suetonius is in no way attached to ourselves,’ he replied.

Tubruk nodded as if he had accepted the point, trying not to grin.

Gaius continued more confidently: ‘Send Lucius to me to look at our wounds. My nose is broken and almost certainly Marcus’ hand is the same.’

Tubruk watched them totter into the main house and resumed his post in the darkness, guarding the gate on first watch, as he did each night. It would be full summer soon and the days would be almost too hot to bear. It was good to be alive with the sky so clear and honest work ahead.

The following morning was an agony of protest from muscles, cuts and joints; the two days after that were worse. Marcus had succumbed to a fever that the physician said entered his head through the broken bone of his hand, which swelled to astonishing proportions as it was strapped and splinted. For days he was hot and had to be kept in darkness, while Gaius fretted on the steps outside.

Almost exactly one week after the attack in the woods, Marcus was lying asleep, still weak, but recovering. Gaius could still feel pain as he stretched his muscles and his face was a pretty collection of yellow and purple patches, shiny and tight in places as they healed. It was time, though: time to find Suetonius.

As he walked through the woods of the family estate, his mind was full of thoughts of fear and pain. What if Suetonius didn’t show up? There was no reason to suppose that he made regular trips into the woods. What if the older boy was with his friends again? They would kill him, no doubt about it. Gaius had brought a bow with him this time, and practised drawing it as he walked. It was a man’s bow and too large for him, but he found he could plant the end in the ground and pull an arrow back enough to frighten Suetonius, if the boy refused to back down.

‘Suetonius, you are a pus-filled bag of dung. If I catch you on my father’s land, I will put an arrow through your head.’

He spoke aloud as he went along. It was a beautiful day to walk in the woods and he might have enjoyed it if it wasn’t for his serious purpose in being there. This time, too, he had his brown hair oiled tight against his head and clean, simple clothes that allowed him easy movements and an unrestricted draw.

He was still on his side of the estate border, so Gaius was surprised when he heard footsteps up ahead and saw Suetonius and a giggling girl appear suddenly on the wide track. The older boy didn’t notice him for a moment, so intent was he on grappling with the girl.

‘You’re trespassing,’ Gaius snapped, pleased to hear his voice come out steady, even if it was high. ‘You’re on my father’s estate.’

Suetonius jumped and swore in shock. As he saw Gaius plant one end of the bow in the path and understood the threat, he began to laugh.

‘A little wolf now! A creature of many forms, it seems. Didn’t you get enough of a beating last time, little wolf?’

The girl seemed very pretty to Gaius, but he wished she would go away and lose herself. He had not imagined a female present for this encounter and felt a new level of danger from Suetonius.

Suetonius put a melodramatic arm around the girl.

‘Careful, my dear. He is a dangerous fighter. He is especially dangerous when upside down, then he is unstoppable!’ He laughed at his own joke and the girl joined in.

‘Is he that one you mentioned, Tonius? Look at his angry little face!’

‘If I see you here again, I’ll put an arrow through you,’ Gaius said quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. He pulled the shaft back a few inches. ‘Leave now or I will strike you down.’

Suetonius had stopped smiling as he weighed up his chances.

‘All right then, parvus lupus, I’ll give you what you seem to want.’

Without warning, he rushed at him and Gaius released the arrow too quickly. It struck the tunic of the older boy, but fell away without piercing. Suetonius yelled in triumph and stepped forward with his hands outstretched and his eyes cruel. Gaius whipped the bow up in panic, hitting the older boy on the nose. Blood spurted and Tonius roared in rage and pain, his eyes filling with tears. As Gaius raised the bow again, Tonius seized it with one hand and Gaius’ throat with the other, carrying him back six or seven paces with the sheer fury of his charge.

‘Any other threats?’ he growled as his grip tightened. Blood poured from his nose and stained his praetexta tunic. He wrenched the bow away from Gaius’ grasp and set about him with it, raining blows, but all the time keeping hold of his throat.

‘He’s going to kill me and pretend it was an accident,’ Gaius thought desperately. ‘I can see it in his eyes. I can’t breathe.’

He pummelled at the larger boy with his own fists, but his reach was not enough to do any real damage. His vision lost colour, becoming like a dream; his ears ceased to hear sound. He lost consciousness as Tonius threw him down onto the wet leaves.

Tubruk found Gaius on the path about an hour later and woke him by pouring water onto his bruised and battered head. Once again, his face was a crusted mess. His barely scabbed eye had filled with blood, so that his vision was dark on that side. His nose had been rebroken and everything else was a bruise.

‘Tubruk?’ he murmured, dazed. ‘I fell out of a tree.’

The big man’s laugh echoed in the closeness of the dense woods.

‘You know, lad, no one doubts your courage. It’s your ability to fight I’m not too sure about. It’s time you were properly trained before you get yourself killed. When your father is back from the city, I’ll raise it with him.’

‘You won’t tell him about … me falling from the tree? I hit a lot of branches on the way down.’ Gaius could taste blood in his mouth, leaking back from the broken nose.

‘Did you manage to hit the tree at all? Even once?’ Tubruk asked, looking at the scuffed leaves and reading the answers for himself.

‘The tree has a nose like mine, I’d say.’ Gaius tried to smile, but vomited into the bushes instead.

‘Hmmm. Is this the end of it, do you think? I can’t let you carry on and see you crippled or dead. When your father is away in the city, he expects you to begin to learn your responsibilities as his heir and a patrician, not an urchin involved in pointless brawls.’ Tubruk paused to pick up a battered bow from the undergrowth. The string had snapped and he tutted.

‘I should tan your backside for stealing this bow as well.’

Gaius nodded miserably.

‘No more fights, understand?’ Tubruk pulled him to his feet and wiped away some of the mud from the track.

‘No more fights. Thank you for coming to get me,’ Gaius replied.

The boy tottered and almost fell as he spoke and the old gladiator sighed. With a quick heave, he lifted the boy up to his shoulders and carried him down to the main house, shouting, ‘Duck!’ when they came to low branches.

Except for the splinted hand, Marcus was back to his usual self by the following week. He was shorter than Gaius by about two inches, brown-haired and strong-limbed. His arms were a little out of proportion, which he claimed would make him a great swordsman when he was older because of the extra reach. He could juggle four apples and would have tried with knives if the kitchen slaves hadn’t told Aurelia, Gaius’ mother. She had screamed at him until he promised never to try it. The memory still made him pause whenever he picked up a blade to eat.

When Tubruk had brought the barely conscious Gaius back to the villa, Marcus was out of bed, having crept down to the vast kitchen complex. He’d been in the middle of dipping his fingers into the fat-smeared iron pans when he heard the voices and trotted past the rows of heavy brick ovens to Lucius’ sickroom.

As always when they hurt themselves, Lucius, a physician slave, tended to the wounds. He looked after the estate slaves as well as the family, binding swellings, applying maggot poultices to infections, pulling teeth with his pliers and sewing up cuts. He was a quiet, patient man who always breathed through his nose as he concentrated. The soft whistle of air from the elderly physician’s lungs had come to mean peace and safety to the boys. Gaius knew that Lucius would be freed when his father died, as a reward for his silent care of Aurelia.

Marcus sat and munched on bread and black fat as Lucius set the broken nose yet again.

‘Suetonius beat you again then?’ he asked.

Gaius nodded, unable to speak or to see through watering eyes.

‘You should have waited for me, we could have taken him together.’

Gaius couldn’t even nod. Lucius finished probing the nasal cartilage and made a sharp pull, to set the loose piece in line. Fresh blood poured over the day’s clotted mixture.

‘By the bloody temples, Lucius, careful! You almost had my nose right off then!’

Lucius smiled and began to cut fresh linen into strips to bind around the head.

In the respite, Gaius turned to his friend. ‘You have a broken, splinted hand and bruised or cracked ribs. You cannot fight.’

Marcus looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps. Will you try again? He’ll kill you if you do, you know.’

Gaius gazed at him calmly over the bandages as Lucius packed up his materials and rose to leave.

‘Thanks, Lucius. He won’t kill me because I’ll beat him. I simply need to adjust my strategy, that’s all.’

‘He’s going to kill you,’ repeated Marcus, biting into a dried apple, stolen from the winter stores.

A week later to the day, Marcus rose at dawn and began his exercises, which he believed would stimulate the reflexes needed to be a great swordsman. His room was a simple cell of white stone, containing only his bed and a trunk with his personal possessions. Gaius had the adjoining room and, on his way to the toilet, Marcus kicked the door to wake him up. He entered the small room and chose one of the four stone-rimmed holes that led to a sewer of constantly running water, a miracle of engineering that meant there was little or no smell, with the night soil washing out into the river that ran through the valley. He removed the capstone and pulled up his night shift.

Gaius had not stirred when he returned, and he opened the door to chide him for his laziness. The room was empty and Marcus felt a surge of disappointment.

‘You should have taken me with you, my friend. You didn’t have to make it so obvious that you didn’t need me.’

He dressed quickly and set out after Gaius as the sun cleared the valley rim, lighting the estates even as the field slaves bent to work in the first session.

What mist there was burned off rapidly, even in the cooler woods. Marcus found Gaius on the border of the two estates. He was unarmed.

As Marcus came up behind him, Gaius turned, a look of horror on his face. When he saw it was his friend he relaxed and smiled.

‘Glad you came, Marcus. I didn’t know what time he’d arrive, so I’ve been here a while. I thought you were him for a moment.’

‘I’d have waited with you, you know. I’m your friend, remember. Also, I owe him a beating as well.’

‘Your hand is broken, Marcus. Anyway, I owe him two beatings to your one.’

‘True, but I could have jumped on him from a tree, or tripped him as he ran in.’

‘Tricks don’t win battles. I will beat him with my strength.’

For a moment, Marcus was silenced. There was something cold and unforgiving in the usually sunny boy he faced.

The sun rose slowly, shadows changed. Marcus sat down, at first in a crouch and then with his legs sprawled out in front of him. He would not speak first. Gaius had made it a contest of seriousness. He could not stand for hours, as Gaius seemed willing to do. The shadows moved. Marcus marked their positions with sticks and estimated that they had waited three hours when Suetonius appeared silently, walking along the path. He smiled a slow smile when he saw them and paused.

‘I am beginning to like you, little wolf. I think I will kill you today, or perhaps break your leg. What do you think would be fair?’

Gaius smiled and stood as tall and as straight as he could. ‘I would kill me. If you don’t, I will keep fighting you until I am big and strong enough to kill you. And then I will have your woman, after I have given her to my friend.’

Marcus looked in horror as he heard what Gaius was saying. Maybe they should just run. Suetonius squinted at the boys and pulled a short, vicious little blade from his belt.

‘Little wolf, mudfish – you are too stupid to get angry at, but you yap like puppies. I will make you quiet again.’

He ran at them. Just before he reached the pair, the ground gave way with a crack and he disappeared from sight in a rush of air and an explosion of dust and leaves.

‘Built you a wolf trap, Suetonius,’ Gaius shouted cheerfully.

The fourteen-year-old jumped for the sides and Gaius and Marcus spent a hilarious few minutes stamping on his fingers as he tried to gain a purchase in the dry earth. He screamed abuse at them and they slapped each other on the back and jeered at him.

‘I thought of dropping a big rock in on you, like they do with wolves in the north,’ Gaius said quietly when Suetonius had been reduced to sullen anger. ‘But you didn’t kill me, so I won’t kill you. I might not even tell anyone how we dropped Suetonius into a wolf trap. Good luck in getting out.’

Suddenly, he let rip with a war whoop, quickly followed by Marcus, their cries and ecstatic yells disappearing into the woods as they pelted away, on top of the world.

As they pounded along the paths, Marcus called over his shoulder, ‘I thought you said you’d beat him with your strength!’

‘I did. I was up all night digging that hole.’

The sun shone through the trees and they felt as if they could run all day.

Left alone, Suetonius scrabbled up the sides, caught an edge and heaved himself over and out. For a while, he sat there and contemplated his muddy praetexta and breeches. He frowned for most of the way home, but, as he cleared the trees and came out into the sunshine, he began to laugh.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_daedb7d7-07b9-5a18-8432-2785e36678e2)







Gaius and Marcus walked behind Tubruk as he paced out a new field for ploughing. Every five paces, he would stretch out a hand and Gaius would pass him a peg from a heavy basket. Tubruk himself carried twine wrapped in a great ball around a wooden spindle. Ever patient, he would tie the twine around a peg and then hand it to Marcus to hold while he hammered it into the hard ground. Occasionally, Tubruk would sight back along the lengthening line at the landmarks he had noted and grunt in satisfaction before carrying on.

It was dull work and both boys wanted to escape down to the Campus Martius, the huge field just outside the city where they could ride and join in the sports.

‘Hold it steady,’ Tubruk snapped at Marcus as the boy’s attention wandered.

‘How much longer, Tubruk?’ Gaius asked.

‘As long as it takes to finish the job properly. The fields must be marked out for the ploughman, then the posts hammered in to set the boundary. Your father wants to increase the estate revenues and these fields have good soil for figs, which we can sell in the city markets.’

Gaius looked around him at the green and golden hills that made up his father’s land.

‘Is this a rich estate then?’

Tubruk chuckled. ‘It serves to feed and clothe you, but we don’t have enough land to plant much barley or wheat for bread. Our crops have to be small and that means we have to concentrate on the things the city wants to buy. The flower gardens produce seeds that are crushed to make face oils for high-born city ladies and your father has purchased a dozen hives to house new swarms of bees. You boys will have honey at every meal in a few months and that brings in a good price as well.’

‘Can we help with the hives when the bees come?’ Marcus spoke up, showing a sudden interest.

‘Perhaps, though they take careful handling. Old Tadius used to keep bees before he became a slave. I hope to use him to collect the honey. Bees don’t like to have their winter stores stolen away from them and it needs a practised hand. Hold that peg steady now – that’s a stade, six hundred and twenty-five feet. We’ll turn a corner here.’

‘Will you need us for much longer, Tubruk? We were hoping to take ponies into the city and see if we can listen to the Senate debate.’

Tubruk snorted. ‘You were going to ride into the Campus, you mean, and race your ponies against the other boys. Hmm? There’s only this last side to mark out today. I can have the men set the posts tomorrow. Another hour or two should see us finished.’

The two boys looked at each other glumly. Tubruk put down his spindle and mallet and stretched his back with a sigh. He tapped Gaius on the shoulder gently.

‘This is your land we’re working on, remember. It belonged to your father’s father and when you have children, it will belong to them. Look at this.’

Tubruk crouched down on one knee and broke the hard ground with the peg and mallet, tapping until the churned, black soil was visible. He pressed his hand into the earth and gripped a handful of the dark substance, holding it up for their inspection.

Gaius and Marcus looked bemused as he crumbled the dirt between his fingers.

‘There have been Romans standing where we are standing for hundreds of years. This dirt is more than just earth. It is us, the dust of the men and women who have gone before us. You came from this and you will go back to it. Others will walk over you and never know you were once there and as alive as they themselves.’

‘The family tomb is on the road to the city,’ Gaius muttered, nervous in the face of Tubruk’s sudden intensity.

The old gladiator shrugged. ‘In recent years, but our people have been here for longer than there was ever a city there. We have bled and died in these fields in long-forgotten wars.We will again perhaps, in wars in years to come. Put your hand into the ground.’

Reaching out to the reluctant boy, he took Gaius’ hand and pushed it into the broken soil, closing the fingers over as he withdrew it.

‘You hold history, boy. Land that has seen things we cannot. You hold your family and Rome in your hand. It will grow crops for us and feed us and make money for us so that we can enjoy luxuries. Without it, we are nothing. Land is everything and wherever you travel in the world, only this soil will be truly yours. Only this simple black muck you hold will be home to you.’

Marcus watched the exchange, his expression serious. ‘Will it be home to me as well?’

For a moment, Tubruk did not answer, instead holding Gaius’ gaze as the boy gripped the soil tightly in his hand. Then he turned to Marcus and smiled.

‘Of course, lad. Are you not Roman? Is not the city as much yours as anyone’s?’ The smile faded and he returned his gaze to Gaius. ‘But this estate is Gaius’ own and one day he will be master of it and look down on shaded fig groves and buzzing hives and remember when he was just a little lad and all he wanted was to show new tricks on his pony to the other boys of the Campus Martius.’

He did not see the sadness that came onto Marcus’ face for a moment.

Gaius opened his hand and placed the earth back in the broken spot Tubruk had made, pressing it down thoughtfully.

‘Let us finish the marking then,’ he said and Tubruk nodded as he rose to his feet.

The sun was going down as the two boys crossed one of the Tiber bridges that led to the Campus Martius. Tubruk had insisted they wash and change into clean tunics before setting out, but even at the late hour the vast space was still full of the young of Rome, gathered in groups, throwing discuses and javelins, kicking balls to each other and riding ponies and horses with shouted encouragement. It was a noisy place and the boys loved to watch the wrestling tournaments and chariot practices.

Young as they were, they were both confident in the high saddles that gripped them at the groin and buttocks, holding them secure through manoeuvres. Their legs hung long over the ribs of the steeds, gripping tight in the turns for added stability.

Gaius looked around for Suetonius and was pleased not to see him in the crowds. They hadn’t met again after trapping him in the wolf pit, and that was how Gaius wanted to leave it – with the battle won and over. Further skirmishes could only mean trouble.

He and Marcus rode up to a group of children near their own age and hailed them, dismounting with a leg flung over the pony’s side. No one they knew was there, but the group parted as they approached and the mood was friendly, their attention on a man with a discus gripped in his right hand.

‘That’s Tani. He’s the champion of his legion,’ one boy muttered aloud to Gaius.

As they watched, Tani launched himself, spinning on the spot and releasing the disc at the setting sun. There were whistles of appreciation as it flew and one or two of the boys clapped.

Tani turned to them. ‘Take care. It’ll be coming back this way in a moment.’

Gaius could see another man run to the fallen disc and pick it up before spinning it into flight once more. This time, the discus was released at a wide angle and the crowd scattered as it soared towards them. One boy was slower than the rest and when the discus hit and skipped, it caught him in the side with a thump, even as he tried to dodge. He fell winded, and groaned as Tani ran up to his side.

‘Good stop, lad. Are you all right?’

The boy nodded, clambering to his feet, but still holding his side in pain. Tani patted him on the shoulder, stooping smoothly to pick up the fallen discus. He returned to his spot to throw again.

‘Anyone racing horses today?’ Marcus asked.

A few turned and weighed him up, casting gazes at the sturdy little pony Tubruk had chosen for him.

‘Not so far. We came to watch the wrestling, but it finished an hour ago.’ The speaker indicated a trampled space nearby where a square had been marked out on the grassy ground. A few men and women stood in clusters nearby, talking and eating.

‘I can wrestle,’ Gaius broke in quickly, his face lighting up. ‘We could have our own competition.’

The group murmured interest. ‘Pairs?’

‘All at once – last one standing is the winner?’ Gaius replied. ‘We need a prize, though. How about we all put in what money we have and last one standing takes the collection?’

The boys in the crowd discussed this and many began to search in their tunics for coins, giving them to the largest, who walked with confidence as the pile of coins grew in his hands.

‘I’m Petronius. There’s about twenty quadrantes here. How much have you got?’

‘Any coins, Marcus? I have a couple of bronze bits.’ Gaius added them to the boy’s handful and Marcus added three more.

Petronius smiled as he counted again. ‘A fair collection. Now, as I’m taking part, I’ll need someone to hold it for me until I win.’ He grinned at the two newcomers.

‘I’ll hold it for you, Petronius,’ a girl said, accepting the coins into her smaller hands.

‘My sister, Lavia,’ he explained.

She winked at Gaius and Marcus, a smaller but still stocky version of her brother.

Chatting cheerfully, the group made their way over to the marked square and only a few remained on the outside to watch. Gaius counted seven other boys in addition to Petronius, who began limbering up confidently.

‘What rules?’ Gaius said as he stretched his own legs and back.

Petronius gathered the group together with a gesture. ‘No punching. If you land on your back you are out. All right?’

The boys agreed grimly, the mood becoming hostile as they eyed each other.

Lavia spoke from the side: ‘I’ll call start. All ready?’

The contestants nodded. Gaius noted that a few other people were wandering over, always ready to view or bet on a contest in whatever form. The air smelled cleanly of grass and he felt full of life. He scuffed his feet and remembered what Tubruk had said about the soil. Roman earth, fed with the blood and bones of his ancestors. It felt strong under his feet and he set himself. The moment seemed to hold, and nearby he could see Tani the discus champion spin and release again, his discus flying high and straight over the Campus Martius. The sun was reddening as it sank, giving a warm cast to the tense boys in the square.

‘Begin!’ Lavia shouted.

Gaius dropped to one knee, spoiling a lunge that went over his head. He shoved up then, with all the strength of his thighs, taking another boy off his feet and leaving him flat on the dusty grass. As Gaius rose, he was hammered from the side, but spun as he fell so that his unknown attacker hit the ground first, with Gaius’ weight knocking the wind from him.

Marcus was locked in a grip with Petronius, their hands tight on each other’s armpits and shoulders. Another struggling combatant was shoved blindly into Petronius and the pair fell roughly, but Gaius’ moment of inattention was punished by an arm circling his neck from behind and tightening on his windpipe. He kicked out backwards and raked his sandals down someone’s shin, hacking back with an elbow at the same time. He felt the grip loosen but then they were both sent sprawling by a knot of fighting boys. Gaius hit the ground hard and scrambled to get to the side of the square, even as a foot clouted into his cheek, splitting the skin.

Anger swelled for a moment, but he saw his attacker hadn’t even registered him and he retired to the edge of the square, cheering on Marcus, who had regained his feet. Petronius was down and out, knocked cold, and only Marcus and two others were still in the competition. The crowd that had gathered to watch were yelling encouragement and making side bets. Marcus grabbed one of the pair by the crotch and neck and tried to lift him into the air for throwing. The boy struggled wildly as his feet came off the ground and Marcus staggered with him just as the last gripped him around his own chest and knocked him over backwards in a heaving pile of limbs.

The stranger came to his feet with a whoop and took a circuit of the square with his hands held high. Gaius could hear Marcus laughing and breathed deeply in the summer air as his friend stood up, brushing off the dust.

In the middle distance, beyond the vast Campus, Gaius could see the city, built on seven ancient hills centuries before. All around him were the shouts and cries of his people and underneath his feet, his land.

In hot darkness, lit only by a crescent moon that signalled the month coming to a close, the two boys made their way in silence over the fields and paths of the estate. The air was filled with the smell of fruit and flowers and crickets creaked in the bushes. They walked without speaking until they reached the place where they had stood with Tubruk earlier in the day, at the corner of the peg-marked line of a new field.

With the moon giving so little light, Gaius had to feel along the twine until he came to the broken spot at the corner and then he stood and drew a slim knife from his belt, taken from the kitchens. Concentrating, he drew the sharp blade across the ball of his thumb. It sank in deeper than he had intended and blood poured out over his hand. He passed the blade to Marcus and held the thumb high, slightly worried by the injury and hoping to slow the bleeding.

Marcus drew the knife along his own thumb, once, then twice, creating a scratch from which he squeezed a few swelling beads of blood.

‘I’ve practically cut my thumb off here!’ Gaius said irritably.

Marcus tried to look serious, but failed. He held out his hand and they pressed them together so that the blood mingled in the darkness. Then Gaius pushed his bleeding thumb into the broken ground, wincing. Marcus watched him for a long moment before copying the action.

‘Now you are a part of this estate as well and we are brothers,’ Gaius said.

Marcus nodded and in silence they began the walk back to the sprawling white buildings of the estate. Invisibly in the darkness, Marcus’ eyes brimmed and he wiped his hand over them quickly, leaving a smear of blood on his skin.

Gaius stood on the top of the estate gates, shading his eyes against the bright sun as he looked towards Rome. Tubruk had said his father would be returning from the city and he wanted to be the first to see him on the road. He spat on his hand and ran it through his dark hair to smooth it down.

He enjoyed being up away from the chores and cares of his life. The slaves below rarely looked up as they passed from one part of the estate buildings to another and it was a peculiar feeling to watch and yet be unobserved: a moment of privacy and quiet. Somewhere, his mother would be looking for him to carry a basket for her to collect fruit, or Tubruk would be looking for someone to wax and oil the leather harness of the horses and oxen, or a thousand other little tasks. Somehow, the thought of all those things he was not doing raised his spirits. They couldn’t find him and he was in his own little place, watching the road to Rome.

He saw the dust trail and stood up on the gatepost. He wasn’t sure. The rider was still far away, but there weren’t too many estates that could be reached from their road and the chances were good.

After another few minutes he was able to see the man on the horse clearly and let out a whoop, scrambling to the ground in a rush of arms and legs. The gate itself was heavy, but Gaius threw his weight against it and it creaked open enough for him to squeeze through and run off down the road to meet his father.

His child’s sandals slapped against the hard ground and he pumped his arms enthusiastically as he raced towards the approaching figure. His father had been gone for a full month and Gaius wanted to show him how much he had grown in the time. Everyone said so.

‘Tata!’ he called and his father heard and reined in as the boy ran up to him. He looked tired and dusty, but Gaius saw the beginnings of a smile crease against the blue eyes.

‘Is this a beggar, or a small bandit, I see on the road?’ his father said, reaching out an arm to lift his son to the saddle.

Gaius laughed as he was swung into the air and gripped his father’s back as the horse began a slower walk up to the estate walls.

‘You are taller than when I saw you last,’ his father said, his voice light.

‘A little. Tubruk says I am growing like corn.’

His father nodded in response and there was a friendly silence between them that lasted until they reached the gates. Gaius slid off the horse’s back and heaved the gate wide enough for his father to enter the estate.

‘Will you be home for long this time?’

His father dismounted and ruffled his hair, ruining the spit-smoothness he’d worked at.

‘A few days, perhaps a week. I wish it was more, but there is always work to be done for the Republic.’ He handed the reins to his son. ‘Take old Mercury here to the stables and rub him down properly. I’ll see you again after I have inspected the staff and spoken to your mother.’

Gaius’ open expression tightened at the mention of Aurelia and his father noticed. He sighed and put his hand on his son’s shoulder, making him meet his gaze.

‘I want to spend more time away from the city, lad, but what I do is important to me. Do you understand the word “Republic”?’

Gaius nodded and his father looked sceptical.

‘I doubt it. Few enough of my fellow senators seem to. We live an idea, a system of government that allows everyone to have a voice, even the common man. Do you realise how rare that is? Every other little country I have known has a king or a chief running it. He gives land to his friends and takes money from those who fall out with him. It is like having a child loose with a sword.

‘In Rome, we have the rule of law. It is not yet perfect or even as fair as I would like, but it tries to be and that is what I devote my life to. It is worth my life – and yours too when the time comes.’

‘I miss you, though,’ Gaius replied, knowing it was selfish.

His father’s gaze hardened slightly, then he reached out to ruffle Gaius’ hair once more.

‘And I miss you too. Your knees are filthy and that tunic is more suitable for a street child, but I miss you too. Go and clean yourself up – but only after you have rubbed Mercury down.’

He watched his son trudge away, leading the horse, and smiled ruefully. He was a little taller, Tubruk was right.

In the stables, Gaius rubbed the flanks of his father’s horse, smoothing away sweat and dust and thinking over his father’s words. The idea of a republic sounded very fine, but being a king was clearly more exciting.

Whenever Gaius’ father Julius had been away for a long absence, Aurelia insisted on a formal meal in the long triclinium. The two boys would sit on children’s stools next to the long couches, on which Aurelia and her husband would recline barefoot, with the food served on low tables by the household slaves.

Gaius and Marcus hated the meals. They were forbidden to chatter and sat in painful silence through each course, allowing the table servants only a quick rub of their fingers between dipping them into the food. Although their appetites were large, Gaius and Marcus had learned not to offend Aurelia by eating too quickly and so were forced to chew and swallow as slowly as the adults while the evening shadows lengthened.

Bathed and dressed in clean clothes, Gaius felt hot and uncomfortable with his parents. His father had put aside the informality of their meeting on the road and now talked with his wife as if the two boys did not exist. Gaius watched his mother closely when he could, looking for the trembling that would signal one of her fits. At first, they had terrified him and left him sobbing, but after years an emotional callousness had grown, and occasionally he even hoped for the trembling so that he and Marcus would be sent from the table.

He tried to listen and be interested in the conversation, but it was all about developments in the laws and city ordinances. His father never seemed to come home with exciting stories of executions or famous street villains.

‘You have too much faith in the people, Julius,’ Aurelia was saying. ‘They need looking after as a child needs a father. Some have wit and intelligence, I agree, but most have to be protected …’ She trailed off and silence fell.

Julius looked up and Gaius saw a sadness come into his face, making him look away, embarrassed, as if he had witnessed an intimacy.

‘Relia?’

Gaius heard his father’s voice and looked back at his mother, who lay like a statue, her eyes focused on some distant scene. Her hand trembled and suddenly her face twisted like a child’s. The tremor that began in her hand spread to her whole body and she twisted in spasm, one arm sweeping bowls from the low table. Her voice erupted violently from her throat, a torrent of screeching sound that made the boys wince backwards.

Julius rose smoothly from his seat and took his wife in his arms.

‘Leave us,’ he commanded and Gaius and Marcus went out with the slaves, leaving behind them the man holding the twisting figure.

The following morning, Gaius was woken by Tubruk shaking his shoulder.

‘Get up, lad. Your mother wants to see you.’

Gaius groaned, almost to himself, but Tubruk heard.

‘She is always quiet after a … bad night.’

Gaius paused as he pulled clothes on. He looked up at the old gladiator.

‘Sometimes, I hate her.’

Tubruk sighed gently.

‘I wish you could have known her as she was before the sickness began. She used to sing to herself all the time and the house was always happy. You have to think that your mother is still there, but can’t get out to you. She does love you, you know.’

Gaius nodded and smoothed his hair down carelessly.

‘Has my father gone back to the city?’ he asked, knowing the answer. His father hated to feel helpless.

‘He left at dawn,’ Tubruk replied.

Without another word, Gaius followed him through the cool corridors to his mother’s rooms.

She sat upright in bed, her face freshly washed and her long hair braided behind her. Her skin was pale, but she smiled as Gaius entered and he was able to smile back.

‘Come closer, Gaius. I am sorry if I scared you last night.’

He came into her arms and let her hold him, feeling nothing. How could he tell her he wasn’t scared any more? He had seen it too many times, each worse than the last. Some part of him knew that she would get worse and worse, that she was already leaving him. But he could not think of that – better to keep it inside, to smile and hug her and walk away untouched.

‘What are you going to do today?’ she asked as she released him.

‘Chores with Marcus,’ he replied.

She nodded and seemed to forget him. He waited for a few seconds and when there was no further response turned and walked from the room.

When the tiny space in her thoughts faded and she focused again on the room, it was empty.

Marcus met him at the gates, carrying a bird net. He looked into his friend’s eyes and made his tone light and cheerful.

‘I feel lucky today. We’ll catch a hawk – two hawks. We’ll train them and they’ll sit on our shoulders, attacking on our command. Suetonius will run when he sees us.’

Gaius chuckled and cleared his mind of thoughts of his mother. He missed his father already, but the day was going to be a long one and there was always something to do in the woods. He doubted Marcus’ idea of hawk-catching would work, but he would go along with it until the day was over and all the paths had been walked.

The green gloom almost made them miss the raven that sat on a low branch, not far from the sunlit fields. Marcus froze as he saw it first and pressed a hand against Gaius’ chest.

‘Look at the size of it!’ he whispered, unwrapping his bird net.

They crouched down and crept forward, watched with interest by the bird. Even for a raven it was large and it spread heavy black wings as they approached, before almost hopping to the next tree with one lazy flap.

‘You circle around,’ Marcus whispered, his voice excited. He backed this up with circling motions of his fingers and Gaius grinned at him, slipping into the undergrowth to one side. He crept around in a large circle, trying to keep the tree in sight while checking the path for dry twigs or rustling leaves.

When Gaius emerged on the far side, he saw the raven had changed tree again, this time to a long trunk that had fallen years before. The gentle slope of the trunk was easy to climb and Marcus had already begun to inch up it towards the bird, at the same time trying to keep the net free for throwing.

Gaius padded closer to the base of the tree. ‘Why doesn’t it fly away?’ he thought, looking up at the raven. It cocked its large head to one side and opened its wings again. Both boys froze until the bird seemed to relax, then Marcus levered himself upwards again, legs dangling on each side of the thick trunk.

Marcus was only feet from the bird when he thought it would fly off again. It hopped about on the trunk and branches, seemingly unafraid. He unfolded the net, a web of rough twine usually used for holding onions in the estate kitchens. In Marcus’ hands, it had instantly become the fearsome instrument of a bird-catcher.

Holding his breath, he threw it and the raven took off with a scream of indignation. It flapped its wings once again and landed in the slender branches of a young sapling near Gaius, who ran at it without thinking.

As Marcus scrambled down, Gaius shoved at the sapling and felt the whole thing give with a sudden crack, pinning the bird in the leaves and branches on the ground. With Gaius pressing it all down, Marcus was able to reach in and hold the heavy bird, gripped tightly in his two hands. He raised it triumphantly and then hung on desperately as the raven struggled to escape.

‘Help me! He’s strong,’ Marcus shouted and Gaius added his own hands to the struggling bundle. Suddenly an agonising pain shot through him. The beak was long and curved like a spear of black wood. It jabbed at his hand, catching and gripping the piece of soft flesh between thumb and first finger.

Gaius yelped. ‘Get it off. It’s got my hand, Marcus.’ The pain was excruciating and they panicked together, with Marcus fighting to hold his grip while Gaius tried to lever the vicious beak off his skin.

‘I can’t get it off, Marcus.’

‘You’ll have to pull it,’ Marcus replied grimly, his face red with the effort of holding the enraged bird.

‘I can’t, it’s like a knife. Let it go.’

‘I’m not letting it go. This raven is ours. We caught it in the wild, like hunters.’

Gaius groaned with pain.

‘It caught us, more like.’ His fingers waved in agony and the raven let go without warning, trying to snap at one of them. Gaius gasped in relief and backed off hurriedly, holding his hands against his groin and doubling over.

‘He’s a fighter, anyway,’ Marcus said with a grin, shifting his grip so the searching head couldn’t find his own flesh. ‘We’ll take him home and train him. Ravens are intelligent, I’ve heard. He’ll learn tricks and come with us when we go to the Campus Martius.’

‘He needs a name. Something war-like,’ Gaius replied, in between sucking his torn skin.

‘What’s the name of that god who goes round as a raven or carries one?’

‘I don’t know, one of the Greek ones, I think. Zeus?’

‘That’s an owl, I think. Someone has an owl.’

‘I don’t remember one with a raven, but Zeus is a good name for him.’

They smiled at each other and the raven went quiet, looking around him with apparent calmness.

‘Zeus it is then.’

They walked back over the fields to the estate with the bird held firmly in Marcus’ grasp.

‘We’ll have to find somewhere to hide him,’ he said. ‘Your mother doesn’t like us catching animals. You remember when she found out about the fox?’

Gaius winced, looking at the ground. ‘There’s an empty chicken coop next to the stables. We could put him in there. What do ravens eat?’

‘Meat, I think. They scavenge battlefields, unless that’s crows. We can get a few scraps from the kitchens and see what he takes, anyway. That won’t be a problem.’

‘We’ll have to tie twine to his legs for the training, otherwise he’ll fly off,’ Gaius said, thoughtfully.

Tubruk was talking to three carpenters who were to repair part of the estate roof. He spotted the boys as they walked into the estate yard and motioned them over to him. They looked at each other, wondering if they could run, but Tubruk wouldn’t let them get more than a few paces, for all his apparent inattention as he had turned back to the workers.

‘I’m not giving Zeus up,’ Marcus whispered harshly.

Gaius could only nod as they approached the group of men.

‘I’ll come along in a few minutes,’ Tubruk instructed as the men walked to their tasks. ‘Take the tiles off the section until I get there.’

He turned to the boys. ‘What’s this? A raven. Must be a sick one if you caught it.’

‘We trapped him in the woods. Followed him and brought him down,’ Marcus said, his voice defiant.

Tubruk smiled as if he understood and reached out to stroke the bird’s long beak. Its energy seemed to have gone and it panted almost like a dog, revealing a slender tongue between the hard blades.

‘Poor thing,’ Tubruk muttered. ‘Looks terrified. What are you going to do with him?’

‘His name’s Zeus. We’re going to train him as a pet, like a hawk.’

Tubruk shook his head once, slowly. ‘You can’t train a wild bird, boys. A hawk is raised from a chick by an expert and even they stay wild. The best trainer can lose one every now and then if it flies too far from him. Zeus is fully grown. If you keep him, he’ll die.’

‘We can use one of the old chicken coops,’ Gaius insisted. ‘There’s nothing in there now. We’ll feed him and fly him on a string.’

Tubruk snorted. ‘Do you know what a wild bird does if you keep him locked up? He can’t stand walls around him. Especially a tiny space like one of the chicken coops. It will break his spirit and, day by day, he will pull his own feathers out in misery. He won’t eat, he’ll just hurt himself until he dies. Zeus here will choose death over captivity. The kindest thing you can do for him is to let him go. I don’t think you could have caught him unless he was sick, so he might be dying anyway, but at least let him spend his last days in the woods and the air, where he belongs.’

‘But …’ Marcus fell silent, looking at the raven.

‘Come on,’ Tubruk said. ‘Let’s go out into the fields and watch him fly.’

Glumly, the boys looked at each other and followed him back out of the gates. Together, they stood gazing down the hill.

‘Set him free, boy,’ Tubruk said and something in his voice made them both look at him.

Marcus raised and opened his hands and Zeus heaved himself into the air, spreading large black wings and fighting for height. He screamed frustration at them until he was just a dot in the sky over the woods. Then they saw him descend and disappear.

Tubruk reached out and held the necks of the two boys in his rough hands.

‘A noble act. Now there are a number of chores to do and I couldn’t find you earlier, so they’ve piled up waiting for your attention. Inside.’

He steered the boys through the gate into the courtyard, taking a last look over the fields towards the woods before he followed them.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0bfffd5a-e70e-524d-a879-bf4826dd9fa1)







That summer saw the start of the boys’ formal education. From the beginning, they were both treated equally, with Marcus also receiving the training necessary to run a complex estate, albeit a minor one. In addition to continuing the formal Latin that had been drummed into them since birth, they were taught about famous battles and tactics as well as how to manage men and handle money and debts. When Suetonius left to be an officer in an African legion the following year, both Gaius and Marcus had begun to learn Greek rhetoric and the skills of debate that they would need if, as young senators later on, they ever chose to prosecute or defend a citizen on a matter of law.

Although the three hundred members of the Senate met only twice each lunar month, Gaius’ father Julius remained in Rome for longer and longer periods, as the Republic struggled to deal with new colonies and the swiftly growing wealth and power. For months, the only adults Gaius and Marcus would see were Aurelia and the tutors, who arrived at the main house at dawn and left with the sun sinking behind them and denarii jingling in their pockets. Tubruk was always there too, a friendly presence who stood no nonsense from the boys. Before Suetonius had left, the old gladiator had walked the five miles to the main house of the neighbouring estate and waited eleven hours, from dawn to dusk, to be admitted to see the eldest son of the house. He didn’t tell Gaius what had transpired, but had returned with a smile and ruffled Gaius’ hair with his big hand before going down to the stables to see to the new mares as they came into season.

Of all the tutors, Gaius and Marcus enjoyed the hours with Vepax the best. He was a young Greek, tall and thin in his toga. He always arrived at the estate on foot and carefully counted the coins he earned before walking back to the city. They met with him for two hours each week in a small room Gaius’ father had set aside for the lessons. It was a bare place, with a stone-flagged floor and unadorned walls. With the other tutors, droning through the verses of Homer and Latin grammar, the two boys often fidgeted on the wooden benches, or drifted in concentration until the tutor noticed and brought them back with sharp smacks from the cane. Most were strict and it was difficult to get away with much with only the two of them to take up the master’s attention. One time, Marcus had used his stylus to draw a picture of a pig with a tutor’s beard and face. He had been caught trying to show it to Gaius and had to hold out his hand for the stick, suffering miserably through three sharp blows.

Vepax didn’t carry a cane. All he ever had with him was a heavy cloth bag full of clay tablets and figures, some blue and some red to show different sides. By the appointed hour, he would have cleared the benches to one side of the room and set out his figures to represent some famous battle of the past. After a year of this, their first task was to recognise the structure and name the generals involved. They knew Vepax would not limit himself to Roman battles; sometimes the tiny horse and legionary figures were representing Parthia or ancient Greece or Carthage. Knowing Vepax was Greek himself, the boys had pushed the young man to show them the battles of Alexander, thrilled by the legends and what he had achieved at such a young age. At first, Vepax had been reluctant, not wanting to be seen to favour his own history, but he had allowed himself to be persuaded and showed them every major battle where records and maps survived. For the Greek wars, Vepax never opened a book, placing and moving each piece from memory.

He told the boys the names of the generals and the key players in each conflict as well as the history and politics when they had a direct bearing on the day. He made the little clay pieces come alive for Marcus and Gaius, and every time it came to the end of the two hours they would look longingly at them as he packed them away in his bags, slowly and carefully.

One day, as they arrived, they found most of the little room covered in the clay characters. A huge battle had been set out and Gaius counted the blue characters quickly, then the red, multiplying it in his head as he had been taught by the arithmetic tutor.

‘Tell me what you see,’ Vepax said quietly to Gaius.

‘Two forces, one of more than fifty thousand, the other nearly forty. The red is … the red is Roman, judging by the heavy infantry placed to the front in legion squares. They are supported by cavalry on the right and left wings, but they are matched by the blue cavalry facing them. There are slingers and spearmen on the blue side, but I can’t see any archers, so missile attacks will be over a very short range. They seem roughly matched. It should be a long and difficult battle.’

Vepax nodded. ‘The red side is indeed Roman, well-disciplined veterans of many battles. What if I told you the blues were a mixed group, made up of Gauls, Spaniards, Numidians and Carthaginians? Would that make a difference to the outcome?’

Marcus’ eyes gleamed with interest. ‘It would mean we were looking at Hannibal’s forces. But where are his famous elephants? Didn’t you have elephants in your bag?’ Marcus looked hopefully over at the limp cloth sack.

‘It is Hannibal the Romans were facing, but by this battle, his elephants had died. He managed to find more later and they were terrifying at the charge, but here he had to make do without them. He is outnumbered by two legions. His force is mixed where the Roman one is unified. What other factors might affect the outcome?’

‘The land,’ Gaius cried. ‘Is he on a hill? His cavalry could smash …’

Vepax waved a hand gently.

‘The battle took place on a plain. The weather was cool and clear. Hannibal should have lost. Would you like to see how he won?’

Gaius stared at the massed pieces. Everything was against the blue forces. He looked up.

‘Can we move the pieces as you explain?’

Vepax smiled. ‘Of course. Today I will need both of you to make the battle move as it did once before. Take the Roman side, Gaius. Marcus and I will take Hannibal’s force.’

Smiling, the three faced each other over the ranks of figures.

‘The battle of Cannae, one hundred and twenty-six years ago. Every man who fought in the battle is dust, every sword rusted away, but the lessons are still there to be learned.’

Vepax must have brought every clay soldier and horse he had to form this battle, Gaius realised. Even with each piece representing a five hundred, they took up most of the available room.

‘Gaius, you are Aemilius Paulus and Terentius Varro, experienced Roman commanders. Line by line you will advance straight at the enemy, allowing no deviation and no slackness in discipline. Your infantry is superb and should do well against the ranks of foreign swordsmen.’

Thoughtfully, Gaius began moving his infantry forward, group by group.

‘Support with your cavalry, Gaius. They must not be left behind or you could be flanked.’

Nodding, Gaius brought the small clay horses up to engage the heavy cavalry Hannibal commanded.

‘Marcus. Our infantry must hold. We will advance to meet them, and our cavalry will engage theirs on the wings, holding them.’

Heads bowed, all three moved figures in silence until the armies had shifted together, face to face. Gaius and Marcus imagined the snorts of the horses and the war cries splitting the air.

‘And now, men die,’ Vepax murmured. ‘Our infantry begin to buckle in the centre as they meet the best-trained enemy they have ever faced.’ His hands flew out and switched figure after figure to new positions, urging the boys along as they went.

On the floor in front of them, the Roman legions pushed back Hannibal’s centre, which buckled before them, close to rout.

‘They cannot hold,’ Gaius whispered, as he saw the great crescent bow that grew deeper as the legions forced themselves forward. He paused and looked over the whole field. The cavalry were stationary, held in bloody conflict with the enemy. His mouth dropped as Marcus and Vepax continued to move pieces and suddenly the plan was clear to him.

‘I would not go further in,’ he said and Vepax’s head came up with a quizzical expression.

‘So soon, Gaius? You have seen a danger that neither Paulus nor Varro saw until it was too late. Move your men forward, the battle must be played out.’ He was clearly enjoying himself, but Gaius felt a touch of irritation at having to follow through moves that would lead to the destruction of his armies.

The legions marched through the Carthaginian forces and the enemy let them in, falling back quickly and without haste, losing as few men as possible to the advancing line. Hannibal’s forces were moving from the back of the field to the sides, swelling the trap, and, after what Vepax said was only a couple of hours, the entire Roman force was submerged in the enemy on three sides, which slowly closed behind them until they were caught in a box of Hannibal’s making. The Roman cavalry were still held by equally skilled forces and the final scene needed little explanation to reveal the horror of it.

‘Most of the Romans could not fight, trapped as they were in the middle of their own close formations. Hannibal’s men killed all day long, tightening the trap until there was no one left alive. It was annihilation on a scale rarely seen before or since. Most battles leave many alive, at least those who run away, but these Romans were surrounded on all sides and had nowhere to flee to.’

The silence stretched for long moments as the two boys fixed the details in their minds and imaginations.

‘Our time is up today, boys. Next week I will show you what the Romans learned from this defeat and others at the hands of Hannibal. Although they were unimaginative here, they brought in a new commander, known for his innovation and daring. He met Hannibal at the battle of Zama fourteen years later and the outcome was very different.’

‘What was his name?’ Marcus asked excitedly.

‘He had more than one. His given name was Publius Scipio, but because of the battles he won against Carthage he was known as Scipio Africanus.’

As Gaius approached his tenth birthday, he was growing into an athletic, well-coordinated lad. He could handle any of the horses, even the difficult ones that required a brutal hand. They seemed to calm at his touch and respond to him. Only one refused to let him remain in the saddle and Gaius had been thrown eleven times when Tubruk sold the beast before the struggle killed one or the other of them.

To some extent, Tubruk controlled the purse of the estate while Gaius’ father was away. He could decide where the profits from grain and livestock would be best spent, using his judgement. It was a great trust and a rare one. It wasn’t up to Tubruk, however, to engage specialist fighters to teach the boys the art of war. That was the decision of the father – as was every other aspect of their upbringing. Under Roman law, Gaius’ father could even have had the boys strangled or sold into slavery if they displeased him. His power in his household was absolute and his goodwill was not to be risked.

Julius returned home for his son’s birthday feast. Tubruk attended him as he bathed away the dust of the journey in the mineral pool. Despite being ten years older than Tubruk, the years sat well on his sun-dark frame as he eased through the water. Steam rose in wisps as a sudden rush of fresh hot water erupted from a pipe into the placid waters of the bath. Tubruk noted the signs of health to himself and was pleased. In silence, he waited for Julius to finish the slow immersion and rest on the submerged marble steps near the inflow pipe, where the water was shallow and warmest.

Julius lay back against the coldness of the pool ledges and raised an eyebrow at Tubruk. ‘Report,’ he said and closed his eyes.

Tubruk stood stiffly and recited the profits and losses of the previous month. He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall and spoke fluently of minute problems and successes without once referring to notes. At last, he came to the end and waited in silence. After a moment, the blue eyes of the only man who’d ever employed him without owning him opened once again and fixed him with a look that had not been melted by the heat of the pool.

‘How is my wife?’

Tubruk kept his face impassive. Was there a point in telling this man that Aurelia had worsened still further? She had been beautiful once, before childbirth had left her close to death for months. Ever since Gaius had come into the world, she had seemed unsteady on her feet, and no longer filled the house with laughter and flowers that she would pick herself out in the far fields.

‘Lucius attends her well, but she is no better … I have had to keep the boys away some days, when the mood has come on her.’

Julius’ face hardened and a heat-fattened vein in his neck started twitching with the load of angry blood.

‘Can the doctors do nothing? They take my aureus pieces without a qualm, but she worsens every time I see her!’

Tubruk pressed his lips together in an expression of regret. Some things must simply be borne, he knew. The whip falls and hurts and you must quietly wait for it to fall no more.

Sometimes she would tear her clothes into rags and sit huddled in a corner until hunger drove her out of her private rooms. Other days, she would be almost the woman he had met and loved when he first came to the estate, but given to long periods of distraction. She would be discussing a crop and suddenly, as if another voice had spoken, she would tilt her head to listen, and you might as well have left the room for all she remembered you.

Another rush of hot water disturbed the slow-dripping silence and Julius sighed like escaping steam.

‘They say the Greeks have much learning in the area of medicine. Hire one of those and dismiss the fools who do her so little good. If any of them claim that only their skills have kept her from being even worse, have him flogged and dumped on the road back to the city. Try a midwife. Women sometimes understand themselves better than we do – they have so many ailments that men do not.’

The blue eyes closed again and it was like a door shutting on an oven. Without the personality, the submerged frame could have been any other Roman. He held himself like a soldier and thin white lines marked the scars of old actions. He was not a man to be crossed and Tubruk knew he had a ferocious reputation in the Senate. He kept his interests small, but guarded those interests fiercely. As a result, the powermongers were not troubled by him and were too lazy to challenge the areas where he was strong. It kept the estate wealthy and they would be able to employ the most expensive foreign doctors that Tubruk could find. Wasted money, he was sure, but what was money for if not to use it when you saw the need?

‘I want to start a vineyard on the southern reaches. The soil there is perfect for a good red.’

They talked over the business of the estate and, again, Tubruk took no notes, nor felt the need after years of reporting and discussing. Two hours after he had entered, Julius smiled at last.

‘You have done well. We prosper and stay strong.’

Tubruk nodded and smiled back. In all the talk, not once had Julius asked after his own health or happiness. They both knew that serious problems would be mentioned and small problems dealt with alone. It was a relationship of trust, not between equals, but between an employer and one whose competence he respected. Tubruk was no longer a slave, but he was a freedman and could never have the total confidence of those born free.

‘There is another matter, a more personal one,’ Julius continued. ‘It is time to train my son in warfare. I have been distracted from my duty as a father to some extent, but there is no greater exercise to a man’s talents than the upbringing of his son. I want to be proud of him and I worry that my absences, which are likely to get worse, will be the breaking of the boy.’

Tubruk nodded, pleased at the words. ‘There are many experts in the city, trainers of boys and the young men of wealthy families.’

‘No. I know of them and some have been recommended to me. I have even inspected the products of this training, visiting city villas to see the young generation. I was not impressed, Tubruk. I saw young men infected with this new philosophical learning, where too much emphasis is placed on improving the mind and not enough on the body and the heart. What good is the ability to play with logic if your fainting soul shrinks away from hardship? No, the fashions in Rome will produce only weaklings, with few exceptions, as I see it. I want Gaius trained by people on whom I can depend – you, Tubruk. I’d trust no other with such a serious task.’

Tubruk rubbed his chin, looking troubled.

‘I cannot teach the skills I learned as a soldier and gladiator, sir. I know what I know, but I don’t know how to pass it on.’

Julius frowned in annoyance, but didn’t press it. Tubruk never spoke lightly.

‘Then spend time making him fit and hard as stone. Have him run and ride for hours each day, over and over until he is fit to represent me. We will find others to teach him how to kill and command men in battle.’

‘What about the other lad, sir?’

‘Marcus? What about him?’

‘Will we train him as well?’

Julius frowned further and he stared off into the past for a few seconds.

‘Yes. I promised his father when he died. His mother was never fit to have the boy, it was her running away that practically killed the old man. She was always too young for him. The last I heard of her, she was little better than a party whore in one of the inner districts, so he stays in my house. He and Gaius are still friends, I take it?’

‘Like twin stalks of corn. They’re always in trouble.’

‘No more. They will learn discipline from now on.’

‘I will see to it that they do.’

Gaius and Marcus listened outside the door. Gaius’ eyes were bright with excitement at what he’d heard. He grinned as he turned to Marcus and dropped the smile as he saw his friend’s pale face and set mouth.

‘What’s wrong, Marc?’

‘He said my mother’s a whore,’ came the hissing reply. Marcus’ eyes glinted dangerously and Gaius choked back his first joking reply.

‘He said he’d heard it – just a rumour. I’m sure she isn’t.’

‘They told me she was dead, like my father. She ran away and left me.’ Marcus stood and his eyes filled with tears. ‘I hope she is a whore. I hope she’s a slave and dying of lung-rot.’ He spun round and ran away, arms and legs flailing in loose misery.

Gaius sighed and rejected the idea of going after him. Marcus would probably go down to the stables and sit in the straw and the shadows for a few hours. If he was followed too soon, there would be angry words and maybe blows. If he was left, it would all have gone with time, the change of mood coming without warning, as his quick thoughts settled elsewhere.

It was his nature and there was no changing it. Gaius pressed his head again to the crack between the door and the frame that allowed him to hear the two men talk of his future.

‘… unchained for the first time, so they say. It should be a mighty spectacle. All of Rome will be there. Not all the gladiators will be indentured slaves – some are freedmen who have been lured back with gold coins. Renius will be there, so the gossips say.’

‘Renius – he must be ancient by now! He was fighting when I was a young man myself,’ Julius muttered in disbelief.

‘Perhaps he needs the money. Some of the men live too richly for their purses, if you understand me. Fame would allow him large debts, but everything has to be paid back in the end.’

‘Perhaps he could be hired to teach Gaius – he used to take pupils, I remember. It has been so long, though. I can’t believe he’ll be fighting again. You will get four tickets then, my interest is definitely aroused. The boys will enjoy a trip into the city proper.’

‘Good – though let us wait until after the lions have finished with ancient Renius before we offer him employment. He should be cheap if he is bleeding a little,’ Tubruk said wryly.

‘Cheaper still if he’s dead. I’d hate to see him go out. He was unstoppable when I was young. I saw him fight in exhibitions against four or five men. One time they even blindfolded him against two. He cut them down in two blows.’

‘I saw him prepare for those matches. The cloth he used allowed in enough light to see the outlines of shapes. That was all the edge he needed. After all, his opponents thought he was blind.’

‘Take a big purse for hiring trainers. The circus will be the place to find them, but I will want your eye for the sound of limb and honour.’

‘I am, as always, your man, sir. I will send a message tonight to collect the tickets on the estate purse. If there is nothing else?’

‘Only my thanks. I know how skilfully you keep this place afloat. While my senatorial colleagues fret at how their wealth is eroded, I can be calm and smile at their discomfort.’ He stood and shook hands in the wrist grip that all legionaries learned.

Tubruk was pleased to note the strength still in the hand. The old bull had a few years in him yet.

Gaius scrambled away from the door and ran down to see Marcus in the stables. Before he had gone more than a little way, he paused and leaned against a cool, white wall. What if he was still angry? No, surely the prospect of circus tickets – with unchained lions no less! – surely this would be enough to burn away his sorrow. With renewed enthusiasm and the sun on his back, he charged down the slopes to the outbuildings of teak and lime plaster that housed the estate’s supply of workhorses and oxen. Somewhere, he heard his mother’s voice calling his name, but he ignored it, as he would a bird’s shrill scream. It was a sound that washed over him and left him untouched.

The two boys found the body of the raven close to where they had first seen it, near the edge of the woods on the estate. It lay in the damp leaves, stiff and dark, and it was Marcus who saw it first, his depression and anger lifting with the find.

‘Zeus,’ he whispered. ‘Tubruk said he was sick.’ He crouched by the track and reached out a hand to stroke the still glossy feathers. Gaius crouched with him. The chill of the woods seemed to get through to both of them at the same time and Gaius shivered slightly.

‘Ravens are bad omens, remember,’ he murmured.

‘Not Zeus. He was just looking for a place to die.’

On an impulse, Marcus picked up the body again, holding it in his hands as he had before. The contrast saddened both of them. All the fight was gone and now the head lay limply, as if held only by skin. The beak hung open and the eyes were shrivelled, hollow pits. Marcus continued to stroke the feathers with his thumb.

‘We should cremate him – give him an honourable funeral,’ said Gaius. ‘I could run back to the kitchens and fetch an oil lamp. We could build a pyre for him and pour some of the oil over it. It would be a good send-off for him.’

Marcus nodded and placed Zeus carefully on the ground.

‘He was a fighter. He deserves something more than just being left to rot. There’s a lot of dry wood around here. I’ll stay to make the pyre.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ Gaius replied, turning to run. ‘Think of some prayers or something.’

He sprinted back to the estate buildings and Marcus was left alone with the bird. He felt a strange solemnity come upon him, as if he was performing a religious rite. Slowly and carefully, he gathered dry sticks and built them into a square, starting with thicker branches that were long dead and building on layers of twigs and dry leaves. It seemed right not to rush.

The woods were quiet as Gaius returned. He too was walking slowly, shielding the small flame of an oily wick where it protruded from an old kitchen lamp. He found Marcus sitting on the dry path, with the black body of Zeus lying on a neat pile of dead wood.

‘I’ll have to keep the flame going while I pour the oil, so it could flare up quickly. We’d better say the prayers now.’

As the evening darkened, the flickering yellow light of the lamp seemed to grow in strength, lighting their faces as they stood by the small corpse.

‘Jupiter, head of all the gods, let this one fly again in the underworld. He was a fighter and he died free,’ Marcus said, his voice steady and low.

Gaius readied the oil for pouring. He held the wick clear, avoiding the little flame and poured on the oil, drenching the bird and the wood in its slipperiness. Then he touched the flame to the pyre.

For long seconds, nothing happened except for a faint sizzling, but then an answering flame spread and blazed with a sickly light. The boys stood and Gaius placed the lamp on the path. They watched with interest as the feathers caught and burned with a terrible stink. The flames flickered over the body and fat smoked and sputtered in the fire. They waited patiently.

‘We could gather the ashes at the end and bury them, or spread them around in the woods or the stream,’ Gaius whispered.

Marcus nodded in silence.

To help the fire, Gaius poured on the rest of the oil from the lamp, extinguishing its small light. Flames grew again and most of the feathers had been burned away, except for those around the head and beak, which seemed obstinate.

Finally, the last of the oil burned to nothing and the fire sank to glowing embers.

‘I think we’ve cooked him,’ whispered Gaius. ‘The fire wasn’t hot enough.’

Marcus took a long stick and poked at the body, now covered in wood ash but still recognisably the raven. The stick knocked the smoking thing right out of the ashes and Marcus spent a few moments trying to roll it back in without success.

‘This is hopeless. Where’s the dignity in this?’ he said angrily.

‘Look, we can’t do any more. Let’s just cover him in leaves.’

The two boys set about gathering armfuls and soon the scorched raven was hidden from view. They were silent as they walked back to the estate, but the reverent mood was gone.




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_97c12558-59e6-577d-bea8-3ecea3098ecb)







The circus was arranged by Cornelius Sulla, a rising young man in the ranks of Roman society. The king of Mauretania had entertained the young senator while he commanded the Second Alaudae legion in Africa. To please him, King Bocchus sent a hundred lions and twenty of his best spearmen to the capital. With these as a core, Sulla had put together a programme for five days of trials and excitement.

It was to be the largest circus ever arranged in Rome and Cornelius Sulla had his reputation and status assured by the achievement. There were even calls raised in Senate for there to be a more permanent structure to hold the games. The wooden benches bolted and pegged together for great events were unsatisfactory and really too small for the sort of crowds that wanted to see lions from the dark, unknown continent. Plans for a vast circular amphitheatre capable of holding water and staging sea battles were put forward, but the cost was huge and they were vetoed by the people’s tribunes as a matter of course.

Gaius and Marcus trotted behind the two older men. Since Gaius’ mother had become unwell, the boys were rarely allowed into the city proper any more, as she fretted and rocked in misery at the thought of what could happen to her son in the vicious streets. The noise of the crowd was like a blow and their eyes were bright with interest.

Most of the Senate would travel to the games in carriages, pulled or carried by slaves and horses. Gaius’ father scorned this and chose to walk through the crowds. That said, the imposing figure of Tubruk beside him, fully armed as he was, kept the plebeians from shoving too rudely.

The mud of the narrow streets had been churned into a stinking broth by the huge throng and after only a short time their legs were spattered almost to the knees by filth, their sandals covered. Every shop heaved with people as they passed and there was always a crowd ahead and a mob behind pushing them on. Occasionally, Gaius’ father would take side streets when the roads were blocked completely by shopkeepers’ carts carrying their wares around the city. These were packed with the poor, and beggars sat in doorways, blind and maimed, with their hands outstretched. The brick buildings loomed over them, five and six storeys high, and, once, Tubruk put a hand out to hold Marcus back as a bucket of slops was poured out of an open window into the street below.

Gaius’ father looked grim, but walked on without stopping, his sense of direction bringing them through the dark maze back onto the main streets to the circus. The noise of the city intensified as they grew close, with the shouted cries of hot-food sellers competing with the hammering of coppersmiths and bawling, screaming children who hung, snot-nosed, on their mothers’ hips.

On every street corner, jugglers and conjurors, clowns and snake charmers performed for thrown coins. That day, the pickings were slim, despite the huge crowds. Why waste your money on things you could see every day when the amphitheatre was open?

‘Stay close to us,’ Tubruk said, bringing the boys’ attention back from the colours, smells and noise. He laughed at their wide-mouthed expressions. ‘I remember the first time I saw a circus – the Vespia, where I was to fight my first battle, untrained and slow, just a slave with a sword.’

‘You won, though,’ Julius replied, smiling as they walked.

‘My stomach was playing me up, so I was in a terrible mood.’

Both men laughed.

‘I’d hate to face a lion,’ Tubruk continued. ‘I’ve seen a couple on the loose in Africa. They move like horses at the charge when they want to, but with fangs and claws like iron nails.’

‘They have a hundred of the beasts and two shows a day for five days, so we should see ten of them against a selection of fighters. I am looking forward to seeing these black spearmen in action. It will be interesting to see if they can match our javelin throwers for accuracy.’

They walked under the entrance arch and paused at a series of wooden tubs filled with water. For a small coin, they had the mud and smell scrubbed from their legs and sandals. It was good to be clean again. With the help of an attendant, they found the seats reserved for them by one of the estate slaves, who’d travelled in the previous evening to await their arrival. Once they were seated, the slave stood to walk the miles back to the estate. Tubruk passed him another coin to buy food for the journey and the man smiled cheerfully, pleased to be away from the backbreaking labour of the fields for once.

All around them sat the members of the patrician families and their slaves. Although there were only three hundred representatives in the Senate, there must have been close to a thousand others. Rome’s lawmakers had taken the day off for the first battles of the five-day run. The sand was raked smooth in the vast pit; the wooden stands filled with thirty thousand of the classes of Rome. The morning heat built and built into a wall of discomfort, largely ignored by the people.

‘Where are the fighters, Father?’ Gaius asked, searching for signs of lions or cages.

‘They are in that barn building over there. You see where the gates are? There.’

He opened a folded programme, purchased from a slave as they went in.

‘The organiser of the games will welcome us and probably thank Cornelius Sulla. We will all cheer for Sulla’s cleverness in making such a spectacle possible. Then there are four gladiatorial combats, to first blood only. One will follow that is to the death. Renius will give a demonstration of some sort and then the lions will roam “the landscapes of their Africa”, whatever that means. Should be an impressive show.’

‘Have you ever seen a lion?’

‘Once, in the zoo. I have never fought one, though. Tubruk says they are fearsome in battle.’

The amphitheatre fell quiet as the gates opened and a man walked out dressed in a toga so white it almost glowed.

‘He looks like a god,’ Marcus whispered.

Tubruk leaned over to the boy. ‘Don’t forget they bleach the cloth with human urine. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.’

Marcus looked at Tubruk in surprise for a moment, wondering if a joke had been made of some kind. Then he forgot about it as he tried to hear the voice of the man who had strode to the centre of the sand. He had a trained voice, and the bowl of the amphitheatre acted as a perfect reflector. Nonetheless, part of his announcement was lost as people shuffled or whispered to their friends and were shushed.

‘… welcome that is due … African beasts … Cornelius Sulla!’

The last was said in crescendo and the audience cheered dutifully, more enthusiastically than Julius or Tubruk had been expecting. Gaius heard the words of the old gladiator as he leaned in close to his father.

‘He may be a man to watch, this one.’

‘Or to watch out for,’ his father replied with a meaningful look.

Gaius strained to see the man who rose from his seat and bowed. He too wore a simple toga, with an embroidered hem of gold. He was sitting close enough for Gaius to see this really was a man who looked like a god. He had a strong, handsome face and golden skin. He waved and sat down, smiling at the pleasure of the crowds.

Everyone settled back for the main excitement, conversations springing up all around. Politics and finance were discussed. Cases being argued in law were raked and chewed over by the patricians. They were still the ultimate power in Rome and therefore the world. True, the people’s tribunes, with their right to veto agreements, had taken some of the edge off their authority, but they still had the power of life and death over most of the citizens of Rome.

The first pair of fighters entered wearing tunics of blue and black. Neither was heavily armoured, as this was a display of speed and skill rather than savagery. Men did die in these contests, but it was rare. After a salute to the organiser and sponsor of the games, they began to move, short swords held rigid and shields moving in hypnotic rhythms.

‘Who will win, Tubruk?’ Gaius’ father suddenly snapped.

‘The smaller, in the blue. His footwork is excellent.’

Julius summoned one of the runners for the circus betting groups and gave over a gold aureus coin, receiving a tiny blue plaque in return. Less than a minute later, the smaller man side-stepped an over-extended lunge and drew his knife lightly over the other’s stomach as he stepped through. Blood spilled as over the lip of a cup and the audience erupted with cheers and curses. Julius had earned two aurei for the one he’d wagered and he pocketed the profit cheerfully. For each match that followed, he would ask Tubruk who would win as they began to feint and move. The odds sank after the start, of course, but Tubruk’s eye was infallible that day. By the fourth match, all nearby spectators were craning to catch what Tubruk said and then shouting for the betting slaves to take their money.

Tubruk was enjoying himself.

‘This next one is to the death. The odds favour the Corinthian fighter, Alexandros. He has never been stopped, but his opponent, from the south of Italy, is also fearful and has never been beaten to first blood. I cannot choose between them at this point.’

‘Let me know as soon as you can. I have ten aurei ready for the wager – all our winnings and my original stakes. Your eye is perfect today.’

Julius summoned the betting slave and told him to stand close. No one else in the area wanted to bet, as they all felt the luck of the moment and were content to wait for the signal from Tubruk. They watched him, some with held breath, poised for the first signal.

Gaius and Marcus looked at the crowd.

‘They are a greedy lot, these Romans,’ Gaius whispered and they grinned at each other.

The gates opened again and Alexandros and Enzo entered. The Roman, Enzo, wore a standard set of mail covering his right arm from hand to neck and a brass helmet above the darker iron scales. He carried a red shield in his left. His only other garments were a loincloth and wrappings of linen around his feet and ankles. He had a powerful physique and carried few scars, although one puckered line marked his left forearm from wrist to elbow. He bowed to Cornelius Sulla and saluted the crowd first, before the foreigner.

Alexandros moved well, balanced and assured as he came to the middle of the amphitheatre. He was identically dressed, although his shield was stained blue.

‘They are not easy to tell apart,’ Gaius said. ‘In the armour, they could be brothers.’

His father snorted. ‘Except for the blood in them. The Greek is not the same as the Italian. He has different and false gods. He believes things that no decent Roman would ever stand for.’ He spoke without turning his head, intent on the men below.

‘But will you bet on such a man?’ Gaius continued.

‘I will if Tubruk thinks he will win,’ came the response, accompanied by a smile.

The contest would begin with the sounding of a ram’s horn. It was held in copper jaws in the first row of seats and a short bearded man was waiting for his own signal to set his lips to it. The two gladiators stepped close to each other and the horn sound wailed out across the sand.

Before Gaius could tell whether the sound had stopped, the crowd was roaring and the two men were hammering blows at each other. In the first few seconds, strike after strike landed, some cutting, some sliding from steel made suddenly slippery with bright blood.

‘Tubruk?’ came his father’s voice.

Their area of the stands was torn between watching the fantastic display of savagery and getting in on the bet.

Tubruk frowned, his chin on his bunched fist.

‘Not yet. I cannot tell. They are too even.’

The two men broke apart for a moment, unable to keep up the pace of the first minute. Both were bleeding and both were spattered with dust sticking to their sweat.

Alexandros rammed his blue shield up under the other’s guard, breaking his rhythm and balance. His sword arm came up and over, looking for a high wound. The Italian scrambled back without dignity to escape the blow and his shield fell in the dust as he did so. The crowd hooted and jeered, embarrassed by their man. He rose again and attacked, perhaps stung by the comments of his countrymen.

‘Tubruk?’ Julius laid his hand on the man’s arm. The fight could be over in seconds and if there was an obvious advantage to one of the fighters, the betting would cease.

‘Not yet. Not … yet …’ Tubruk was a study in concentration.

On the sand, the area around the fighters was speckled darkly where their blood had dripped. Both paced to the left and then the right, then rushed in and cut and sliced, ducked and blocked, punched and tried to trip the other. Alexandros caught the Italian’s sword on his shield. It was partially destroyed in the force of the blow and the blade was trapped by the softer metal of the blue rectangle. Like the other, it too was wrenched to the sand and both men faced each other sideways on, moving like crabs so that their arm-mail would protect them. The swords were nicked and blunted and the exertions in the raging Roman heat were beginning to tell on their strength.

‘Put it all on the Greek, quickly,’ Tubruk spoke.

The betting slave looked for approval to the owner behind him. Odds were whispered and the bets went on, with much of the crowd taking a slice.

‘Five to one against on Alexandros – could have been a lot better if we’d gone earlier,’ Julius muttered, as he watched the two fighters below.

Tubruk said nothing.

One of the gladiators lunged and recovered too fast for the other. The sword whipped back and into his side, causing a gout of blood to rush. The riposte was viciously fast and sliced through a major leg muscle. A leg buckled and as the man went down, his opponent hacked into his neck, over and over, until he was thumping at a corpse. He lay in the mixing blood, as it was sucked away by the dry sand and his chest heaved with the pain and exertion.

‘Who won?’ Gaius asked frantically. Without the shields it wasn’t clear, and a murmur went around the seats as the question was repeated over and over. Who had won?

‘I think the Greek is dead,’ the betting slave said.

His master thought it was the Roman, but until the victor rose and removed his helmet, no one could be sure.

‘What happens if they both die?’ Marcus asked.

‘All bets are off,’ replied the owner and financier of the betting slave. Presumably he had a lot of money riding on the outcome as well. Certainly he looked as tense as anyone there.

For maybe a minute, the surviving gladiator lay exhausted, his blood spilling. The crowd grew louder, calling on him to rise and take off the helmet. Slowly, in obvious pain, he grasped his sword and pushed himself up on it. Standing, he swayed slightly and reached down to take a handful of sand. He rubbed the sand into his wound, watching as it fell away in soft red clumps. His fingers too were bloody as he raised them to remove the helmet.

Alexandros the Greek stood and smiled, his face pale with loss of blood. The crowd threw abuse at the swaying figure. Coins glittered in the sun as they were thrown, not to reward, but to hurt. With curses, money was exchanged all around the amphitheatre and the gladiator was ignored as he sank to his knees again and had to be helped out by slaves.

Tubruk watched him go, his face unreadable.

‘Is he a man to see about training?’ Julius asked, ebullient as his winnings were counted into a pouch.

‘No – he won’t last out the week, I should think. Anyway, there was little schooling in his technique, just good speed and reflexes.’

‘For a Greek,’ said Marcus, trying to join in.

‘Yes, good reflexes for a Greek,’ Tubruk replied, his mind far away.

While the sand was being raked clean, the crowd continued with their business, although Gaius and Marcus could see one or two spectators re-enacting the gladiators’ blows with shouts and mock cries of pain. As they waited, the boys saw Julius tap Tubruk on his arm, bringing to his attention a pair of men approaching through the rows. Both seemed slightly out of place at the circus, with their togas of rough wool and their skins unadorned by metal jewellery.

Julius stood with Tubruk and the boys copied them. Gaius’ father put out his hand and greeted the first to reach them, who bowed his head slightly on contact.

‘Greetings, my friends. Please take a seat. This is my son and another boy in my care. I’m sure they can spend a few minutes buying food?’

Tubruk handed a coin to both of them and the message was clear. Reluctantly, they moved off between the rows and joined a queue at a food stall. They watched as the four men bent their heads close and talked, their voices lost in the crowd.

After a few minutes, as Marcus was buying oranges, Gaius saw the two newcomers thank his father and take his hand again. Then each moved over to Tubruk, who put coins in their hands as they left.

Marcus had bought an orange for each of them and when they’d returned to their seats he handed them out.

‘Who were those men, Father?’ Gaius asked, intrigued.

‘Clients of mine. I have a few bound to me in the city,’ Julius replied, skinning his orange neatly.

‘But what do they do? I have never seen them before.’

Julius turned to his son, registering the interest. He smiled.

‘They are useful men. They vote for candidates I support, or guard me in dangerous areas. They carry messages for me, or … a thousand other small things. In return, they get six denarii a day, each man.’

Marcus whistled. ‘That must add up to a fortune.’

Julius transferred his attention to Marcus, who dropped his gaze and fiddled with the skin of his orange.

‘Money well spent. In this city, it is good to have men I can call on quickly, for any sudden task. Rich members of the Senate may have hundreds of clients. It is part of our system.’

‘Can you trust these clients of yours?’ Gaius broke in.

Julius grunted. ‘Not with anything worth more than six denarii a day.’

Renius entered without announcement. One moment, the crowd were chatting amongst themselves with the dirty sand ring empty, and the next a small door opened and a man walked out of it. At first, he wasn’t noticed, then people pointed and began to stand.

‘Why are they cheering so loudly?’ Marcus asked, squinting at the lone figure standing in the burning sun.

‘Because he has come back one more time. Now you will be able to say you saw Renius fight when you have children of your own,’ Tubruk replied, smiling.

Everyone around them seemed lit up by the spectacle. A chant began and swelled: ‘Ren-i-us … Ren-i-us.’ The noise drowned out all the shuffling of feet and rustling clothing. The only sound in the world was his name.

He raised his sword in salute. Even from a distance, it was clear that age had not yet taken a good twisting grip on him.

‘Looks good for sixty. Belly’s not flat, though. Look at that wide belt,’ Tubruk muttered almost to himself. ‘You’ve let yourself go a little, you silly old fool.’

As the old man received the plaudits of the crowd, a single file of fighting slaves entered the sandy ring. Each wore a cloth around his loins that allowed free movement and carried a short gladius. No shields or armour could be seen. The Roman crowd fell quiet as the men formed a diamond with Renius at the centre. There was a moment of stillness and then the animal enclosure opened.

Even before the cage was dragged out onto the sand, the short, hacking roars could be heard. The crowd whispered in anticipation. There were three lions pacing the cage as it was dragged out by sweating slaves. Through the bars they were obscene shapes; huge humped shoulders, head and jaws tapering back to hindquarters almost as an afterthought. They were created to crush out life with massive jaws. They swiped with their paws in unfocused rage as the cage was jarred and finally came to rest.

Slaves lifted hammers aloft to knock out the wooden pegs that held the front section of the cage. The crowd licked dry lips. The hammers fell, and the iron lattice dropped onto the sand, an echo clearly heard in the silence. One by one, the great cats moved out of the cage, revealing a speed and sureness of step that was frightening.

The largest roared defiance at the group of men that faced it across the sand. When they made no move, it began to pace up and down outside the cage, watching them all the while. Its companions roared and circled and it settled back onto its haunches.

Without a signal, without a warning, it ran at the men, who shrank back visibly. This was death coming for them.

Renius could be heard barking out commands. The front of the diamond, three brave men, met the charge, swords ready. At the last moment, the lion took off in a rushing leap and smashed two of the slaves from their feet, striking with a paw on each chest. Neither moved, as their chests were shards and daggers of bone. The third man swung and hit the heavy mane, doing little damage. The jaws closed on his arm in a snap like the strike of a snake. He screamed and carried on screaming as he staggered away, one wrist holding the pumping red remains of the other. A sword scraped along the lion’s ribs and another cut a hamstring so that the rear quarters went suddenly limp. This served only to enrage the beast and it snapped at itself in red confusion. Renius growled a command and the others stepped back to allow him the kill.

As he landed the fatal blow, the other two lions attacked. One caught the head of the wounded man who had wandered away. A quick crack of the jaws and it was over. That lion settled down with the corpse, ignoring the other slaves as it bit into the soft abdomen and began to feed. It was quickly killed, speared on three blades in the mouth and chest.

Renius met the charge of the last to his left. His protecting slave was tumbled by the strike and over him came the snapping rage that was the male cat. Its paws were striking and great dark claws stood out like spear points, straining to pierce and tear. Renius balanced himself and struck into the chest. A wound opened with a rush of sticky dark blood, but the blade skittered off the breastbone and Renius was struck by a shoulder, only luck letting the jaws snap where he had been. He rolled and came up well, still with sword in hand. As the beast checked and turned back on him, he was ready and sent his blade into the armpit and the bursting heart. The strength went out of it in the instant, as if the steel had lanced a boil. It lay and bled into the sand, still aware and panting, but become pitiful. A soft moan came from deep within the bloody chest as Renius approached, drawing a dagger from his belt. Reddish saliva dribbled onto the sand as the torn lungs strained to fill with air.

Renius spoke softly to the beast, but the words could not be heard in the stands. He lay a hand on the mane and patted it absently, as he would a favourite hound. Then he slipped the blade into the throat and it was over.

The crowd seemed to draw breath for the first time in hours and then laughed at the release of tension. Four men were dead on the sand, but Renius, the old killer, still stood, looking exhausted. They began to chant his name, but he bowed quickly and left the ring, striding to the shadowed door and into darkness.

‘Get in quickly, Tubruk. You know my highest price. A year, mind – a full year of service.’

Tubruk disappeared into the crowds and the boys were left to make polite conversation with Julius. However, without Tubruk to act as a catalyst, the conversation died quickly. Julius loved his son, but had never enjoyed talking to the young. They prattled and knew nothing of decorum and self-restraint.

‘He will be a hard teacher, if his reputation is accurate. He was once without equal in the empire, but Tubruk tells the stories better than I.’

The boys nodded eagerly and determined to press Tubruk for the details as soon as they had the opportunity.

The seasons had turned towards autumn on the estate before the boys saw Renius again, dismounting from a gelding in the stone yard of the stables. It was a mark of his status that he could ride like an officer or a member of the Senate. Both of them were in the hay barn adjoining, and had been jumping off the high bales onto the loose straw. Covered in hay and dust, they were not fit to be seen and peered out at the visitor from a corner. He glanced around as Tubruk came to meet him, taking the reins.

‘You will be received as soon as you are refreshed from your journey.’

‘I have ridden less than five miles. I am neither dirty nor sweating like an animal. Take me in now, or I’ll find the way myself,’ snapped the old soldier, frowning.

‘I see you have lost none of your charm and lightness of manner since you worked with me.’

Renius didn’t smile and for a second the boys expected a blow, or a violent retort.

‘I see you have not yet learned manners to your elders. I expect better.’

‘Everyone is younger than you. Yes, I can see how you would be set in your ways.’

Renius seemed to freeze for a second, slowly blinking. ‘Do you wish me to draw my sword?’

Tubruk was still, and Marcus and Gaius noticed for the first time that he too wore his old gladius in a scabbard.

‘I wish you only to remember that I am in charge of the running of the estate and that I am a free man, like yourself. Our agreement benefits us both; there are no favours being done here.’

Renius smiled then. ‘You are correct. Lead on then to the master of the house. I would like to meet the man who has such interesting types working for him.’

As they left, Gaius and Marcus looked at each other, eyes aglow with excitement.

‘He will be a hard taskmaster, but will quickly become impressed at the talent he has on his hands …’ Marcus whispered.

‘He will realise that we will be his last great work, before he drops dead,’ Gaius continued, caught up in the idea.

‘I will be the greatest swordsman in the land, aided by the fact that I have stretched my arms every night since I was a baby,’ Marcus went on.

‘The fighting monkey, they will call you!’ Gaius declared in awe.

Marcus threw hay at his face and they grabbed each other with mock ferocity, rolling around for a second until Gaius ended up on top, sitting heavily on his friend’s chest.

‘I will be the slightly better swordsman, too modest to embarrass you in front of the ladies.’

He struck a proud pose and Marcus shoved him off into the straw again. They sat panting and lost in dreams for a moment.

At length, Marcus spoke: ‘In truth, you will run this estate, like your father. I have nothing and you know my mother is a whore … no, don’t say anything. We both heard your father say it. I have no inheritance save my name and that is stained. I can only see a bright future in the army, where at least my birth is noble enough to allow me high position. Having Renius as my trainer will help us both, but me most of all.’

‘You will always be my friend, you know. Nothing can come between us.’ Gaius spoke clearly, looking him in the eye.

‘We will find our paths together.’

They both nodded and gripped hands for a second in the pact. As they let go, Tubruk’s familiar bulk appeared as he stuck his head into the hayloft.

‘Get yourselves cleaned up. Once Renius has finished with your father, he’ll want some sort of inspection.’

They stood slowly, nervousness obvious in their movements.

‘Is he cruel?’ Gaius asked.

Tubruk didn’t smile.

‘Yes, he is cruel. He is the hardest man I have ever known. He wins battles because the other men feel pain and are frightened of death and dismemberment. He is more like a sword than a man and he will make you both as hard as himself. You will probably never thank him – you will hate him, but what he gives you will save your lives more than once.’

Gaius looked at him questioningly. ‘Did you know him before?’

Tubruk laughed, a short bark with no humour. ‘I should say so. He trained me for the ring, when I was a slave.’

His eyes flashed in the sun as he turned and he was gone.

Renius stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands clasped behind his back. He frowned at the seated Julius.

‘No. If anyone interferes, I will leave on that hour. You want your son and the whore’s whelp to be made into soldiers. I know how to do that. I have been doing it, one way or another, all my life. Sometimes they only learn as the enemy charges, sometimes they never learn, and I have left a few of those in shallow foreign graves.’

‘Tubruk will want to discuss their progress with you. His judgement is usually first-rate. He was, after all, trained by you,’ Julius said, still trying to regain the initiative he felt he had lost.

This man was an overwhelming force. From the moment he entered the room, he had dominated the conversation. Instead of setting out the manner of his son’s teaching, as he had intended, Julius found himself on the defensive, answering questions about his estate and training facilities. He knew better now what he did not have than what he did.

‘They are very young, and …’

‘Any older would be too late. Oh, you can take a man of twenty and make him a competent soldier, fit and hard. A child, though, can be fashioned into a thing of metal, unbreakable. Some would say you have already left it too late, that proper training should commence at five years. I am of the opinion that ten is the optimum to ensure the proper development of muscle and lung capacity. Earlier can break their spirits; later and their spirits are too firmly in the wrong courses.’

‘I agree, to some ext—’

‘Are you the real father of the whore’s boy?’ Renius spoke curtly, but quietly, as if inquiring after the weather.

‘What? Gods, no! I –’

‘Good. That would have been a complication. I accept the year contract then. My word is given. Get the boys out into the stable yard for inspection in five minutes. They saw me arrive so they should be ready. I will report to you quarterly in this room. If you cannot make the appointment, be so good as to let me know. Good day.’

He turned on his heel and strode out. Behind him, Julius blew air out of puffed cheeks in a mixture of amazement and contentment.

‘Could be just what I wanted,’ he said, and smiled for the first time that morning.




CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_8dcd0eaf-737d-5ef1-8e51-869f6ddb708e)







The first thing they were told was that they would get a good night’s sleep. For eight hours, from before midnight to dawn, they were left alone. At all other times they were being taught, or toughened, or cramming food into their mouths in hasty, snatched breaks of only minutes.

Marcus had had the excitement knocked out of him on that first day, when Renius took his chin in his leathery hand and peered at him.

‘Weak-spirited, like his mother was.’

He’d said no more at the time, but Marcus burned with the humiliating thought that the old soldier he wanted so much to like him might have seen his mother in the city. From the first moment, his desire to please Renius became a source of shame to him. He knew he had to excel at the training, but not in such a way that the old bastard would approve.

Renius was easy to hate. From the first, he called Gaius by his name, while only referring to Marcus as the boy, or the ‘whore’s boy’. Gaius could see it was deliberate, some attempt to use their hatred as a tool to improve them. Yet he could not help but feel annoyance as his friend was humbled over and over again.

A stream ran through the estate, carrying cold water down to the sea. One month after his arrival, they had been taken down to the water before noon. Renius had simply motioned to a dark pool.

‘Get in,’ he said.

They’d looked at each other and shrugged.

The cold was numbing from the first moments.

‘Stay there until I come back for you,’ was the command called over his shoulder as Renius walked back up to the house, where he ate a light lunch and bathed, before sleeping through the hot afternoon.

Marcus felt the cold much more than his friend. After only a couple of hours, he was blue around the face and unable to speak for shivering. As the afternoon wore on, his legs went numb and the muscles of his face and neck ached from shivering. They talked with difficulty, anything to take their minds off the cold. The shadows moved and the talk died. Gaius was nowhere near as uncomfortable as his friend. His limbs had gone numb long before, but breathing was still easy, whereas Marcus was sipping small breaths.

The afternoon cooled unnoticed outside the eternal chill of the shaded section of fast-flowing water. Marcus rested with his head leaning to one side or the other, with an eye half-submerged and slowly blinking, seeing nothing. His mind could drift until his nose was covered, when he would splutter and raise himself straight again. Then he would dip once more, as the pain worsened. They had not spoken for a long time. It had become a private battle, but not against each other. They would stay until they were called for, until Renius came back and ordered them to climb out.

As the day fled, they both knew that they could not climb out. Even if Renius appeared at that moment and congratulated them, he would have to drag them out himself, getting wet and muddy in the process if the gods were watching at all.

Marcus slipped in and out of waking, coming back with a sudden start and realising he had somehow drifted away from the cold and the darkness. He wondered then if he would die in the river.

In one of those dreaming dozes, he felt warmth and heard the welcoming crackle of a good log fire. An old man prodded the burning wood with his toe, smiling at the sparks. He turned and seemed to notice the boy watching him, white and lost.

‘Come closer to the warm, boy, I’ll not hurt ye.’

The old man’s face carried the wrinkles and dirt of decades of labour and worry. It was scarred and seamed like a stitched purse. The hands were covered in rope veins that shifted under the skin as the swollen knuckles moved. He was dressed like a travelling man, with patched clothes and a dark-red cloth wrapping his throat.

‘What do we have here? A mudfish! Rare for these parts, but good eating on one, they say. You could cut a leg off and feed us both. I’d stop the bleeding, boy, I’m not without tricks.’

Huge eyebrows bristled and raised in interest at the thought. The eyes glittered and the mouth opened to reveal soft gums, wet and puckered. The man patted his pockets and the shadows copied his movements, flapping on dark-yellow walls that were lit only by the flames.

‘Hold still, boy, I have a knife with a saw edge for you …’ A hand like rough stone was pressed over his whole face, suddenly larger than a hand had any right to be.

The old man’s breath was warm on his ear, smelling foully of rotting teeth.

He awoke choking and heaving dryly. His stomach was empty and the moon had risen. Gaius was beside him still, his face barely above the black glass water, head nodding in and out of the darkness.

It was enough. If the choice was to fail or to die, then he would fail and not mind the consequences. Tactically, that was the better choice. Sometimes, it is better to retreat and marshal your forces. That was what the old man wanted them to know. He wanted them to give up and was probably waiting somewhere nearby, waiting for them to learn this most important of lessons.

Marcus didn’t remember the dream, except for the fear of being smothered, which he still felt. His body seemed to have lost its familiar shape and just sat, heavy and waterlogged beneath the surface. He had become some sort of soft-skinned, bottom-dwelling fish. He concentrated and his mouth hung slackly, dribbling back water as cold as himself. He swayed forward and brought up his arm to hold a root. It was the first time a limb had cleared the water in eleven hours. He felt the cold of death on him and had no regrets. True, Gaius was still there, but they would have different strengths. Marcus would not die to please some poxed-up old gladiator.

He slithered out, an inch at a time, mud plastering his face and chest as he dragged himself to the bank. His bloated stomach did seem buoyant in the water, as if filled from within. The sensation as his full weight finally came to bear on the hard ground was one of ecstasy. He lay and began to shudder in spasmodic fits of retching. Yellow bile trickled weakly out of his lips and mixed with the black mud. The night was quiet and he felt as if he’d just crawled out of the grave.

Dawn found him still there and a shadow blocking the pale sun. Renius stood there and frowned, not at Marcus, but at the tiny pale figure of the boy still in the water, eyes closed and lips blue. As Marcus watched him, he saw a sudden spasm of worry cross the iron face.

‘Boy!’ snapped the voice they had already come to loathe. ‘Gaius!’

The figure in the water lolled in the moving current, but there was no response. A muscle in Renius’ jaw clenched and the old soldier stepped up to his thighs into the pool, reaching down and scooping up the ten-year-old like a puppy over his shoulder. The eyes opened with the sudden movement, but there was no focus. Marcus rose as the old man strode away with his burden, obviously heading back to the house. He tottered after, muscles protesting.

Behind them, Tubruk stood in the shadows of the opposite bank, still hidden from sight by the foliage as he had been all night. His eyes were narrowed and as cold as the river.

Renius seemed to be fuelled by a constant anger. After months of training, the boys had not seen him smile except in mockery. On bad days, he rubbed his neck as he snapped at them and gave the impression that his temper was cracking every second. He was worst in the midday sun, when his skin would mottle with irritation at the slightest mistake.

‘Hold the stone straight in front!’ he barked at Marcus and Gaius as they sweated in the heat. The task that afternoon was to stand with arms outstretched in front, with a rock the size of a fist held in their hands. It had been easy at first.

Gaius’ shoulders were aching and his arms felt loose. He tried to tense the muscles, but they seemed out of his control. Perspiring, he watched the stone drop by a hand’s width and felt a stripe of pain over his stomach as Renius struck with a short whip. His arms trembled and muscles shuddered under the pain. He concentrated on the rock and bit his lip.

‘You will not let it fall. You will welcome the pain. You will not let it fall.’

Renius’ voice was a harsh chant as he paced around the boys. This was the fourth time they had raised the stones and each time was harder. He barely allowed them a minute to rest their aching arms before the order to raise came again.

‘Cease,’ Renius said, watching to see they controlled the descent, his whip held ready. Marcus was breathing heavily and Renius curled his lip.

‘There will come a time when you think you can’t stand the pain any more and men’s lives will depend on it. You could be holding a rope others are climbing, or walking forty miles in full kit to rescue comrades. Are you listening?’

The boys nodded, trying not to pant with exhaustion, just pleased he was talking instead of ordering the stones up again.

‘I have seen men walk themselves to death, falling onto the road with their legs still twitching and trying to lift them. They were buried with honour.

‘I have seen men of my legion keep rank and move in formation, holding their guts in with one hand. They were buried with honour.’ He paused to consider his words, rubbing the back of his neck as though he had been stung.

‘There will be times when you want to simply sit down, when you want to give up. When your body tells you it is done and your spirit is weak.

‘These are false. Savages and the beasts of the field break, but we go on.

‘Do you think you are finished now? Are your arms hurting you? I tell you that you will raise that rock another dozen times this hour and you will hold it. And another dozen if you let one fall below a hand’s width.’

A slave girl was washing dust from a wall at the side of the courtyard. She never looked at the boys, though occasionally she jumped slightly as the old gladiator barked a command. Gaius saw she looked exhausted herself, but he had noticed she was attractive, with long dark hair and a loose slave shift. Her face was delicate, with a pair of dark eyes and a full mouth pressed into a line by the concentration of her work. He thought her name was Alexandria.

As Renius spoke, she bent low to dip the cloth in the bucket and paused to wash the dirt from the material. Her shift gaped as she pressed the cloth into the water and Gaius could see the smooth skin of her neck running down to the soft curves of her breasts. He thought he could see right down to the skin of her stomach and imagined her nipples gently grazing against the rough cloth as she moved.

In that moment, Renius was forgotten, despite the pain in his arms.

The old man stopped speaking and turned on his heel to see what was distracting the boys from their lesson. He growled as he saw the slave and crossed to her with three quick strides, taking her arm in a cruel grip that made her cry out. His voice was a bellow.

‘I am teaching these children a lesson that will save their lives and you are flashing your paps at them like a cheap whore!’

The girl cowered from his anger, pulling as far as she could reach from the held wrist.

‘I …’ she stammered, seeming dazed, but Renius swore and took her by the hair. She winced in pain and he swung her to face the boys.

‘I don’t care if there are a thousand of these behind my back. I am teaching you to concentrate!’

In one brutal move, he flicked her legs away with a sweep of his foot and she fell. Still holding her hair, Renius raised his whip in his other hand and brought it down sharply, in sequence with his words.

‘You will not distract these boys while I teach.’

The girl was crying as Renius let her go. She crawled a couple of paces, then came up to a crouch and ran from the yard, sobbing.

Marcus and Gaius looked dumbfounded at Renius as he turned back to them. His expression was murderous.

‘Close your mouths, boys. This was never a game. I will make you good enough and hard enough to serve the Republic after I am gone. I will not allow weakness of any kind. Now raise the stones and hold them until I say to cease.’

Once again, the boys raised their arms, not even daring to exchange glances.

That evening, when the estate was quiet and Renius had departed for the city, Gaius delayed his usual exhausted collapse into sleep to visit the slave quarters. He felt guilty being there and kept an eye out for Tubruk’s shadow, though he couldn’t quite have explained why.

The household slaves slept under the same roof as the family, in a wing of simple rooms. It was not a world he knew and he felt nervous as he walked along the darkening corridors, wondering whether he should knock at doors, or call her name, if it really was Alexandria.

He found her sitting on a low ledge outside an open door. She seemed lost in thought and he cleared his throat gently as he recognised her. She scrambled to her feet in fright and then held herself still, looking at the floor. She had cleaned the dust of the day from her skin and it was smooth and pale in the evening light. Her hair was tied back with a scrap of cloth and her eyes were wide with darkness.

‘Is your name Alexandria?’ he said quietly.

She nodded.

‘I came to say sorry for today. I was watching you at your chores and Renius thought you were distracting us.’

She stood perfectly still in front of him and kept her gaze on the floor at his feet. The silence stretched for a moment and he blushed, unsure how to continue.

‘Look, I am sorry. He was cruel.’

Still, she said nothing. Her thoughts were pained, but this was the son of the house. ‘I am a slave,’ she longed to say. ‘Every day is pain and humiliation. You have nothing to say to me.’

Gaius waited for a few more moments and then walked away, wishing he hadn’t come.

Alexandria watched him leave, watched the confident walk and the developing strength that Renius was bringing out. He would be as vicious as that old gladiator when he was older. He was free and Roman. His compassion came from his youth and that was fast being burned away in the training yard. Her face was hot with the anger she had not dared show. It was a small victory not to have talked to him, but she cherished it.

Renius reported their progress at the end of each quarter-year. On the evening before the appointed day, Gaius’ father would return from his lodgings in the capital and receive Tubruk’s summary of the estate’s wealth. He would see the boys and spend a few minutes extra with his son. The following day, he would see Renius at dawn and the boys would sleep in, grateful for the slight break in their routine.

The first report had been frustratingly short.

‘They have made a beginning. Both have some spirit,’ Renius had stated flatly.

After a long pause, Julius realised that there was to be no further comment.

‘They are obedient?’ he asked, wondering at the lack of information. For this he’d paid so much gold?

‘Of course,’ Renius replied, his expression baffled.

‘They er … they show promise?’ Julius battled on, refusing to allow this conversation to go the way of the last one, but again feeling as if he addressed one of his old tutors instead of a man in his employ.

‘A beginning has been made. This work is not accomplished quickly.’

‘Nothing of value ever is,’ Julius replied quietly.

They looked at each other calmly for a moment and both nodded. The interview was at an end. The old warrior shook hands with a brief touch of dry skin in a quick, hard grip and left. Julius remained standing, gazing at the door that closed behind his exit.

Tubruk thought the training methods were dangerous and had mentioned an incident where the boys could have drowned without supervision. Julius grimaced. He knew that to mention the worry to Renius would be to sever their agreement. Preventing the old murderer from going too far would rest with the estate manager.

Sighing, he sat down and thought about the problems he faced in Rome. Cornelius Sulla had continued to rise in power, bringing some towns in the south of the country into the Roman fold and away from their merchant controllers. What was the name of that last? Pompeii, some sort of mountain town. Sulla kept his name in the mind of the vacuous public with such small triumphs. He commanded a group of senators with a web of lies, bribery and flattery. They were all young and brought a shudder to the old soldier as he thought of some of them. If this was what Rome was coming to, in his lifetime!

Instead of taking the business of empire seriously, they seemed to live only for sordid pleasures of the most dubious kinds, worshipping at the temple of Aphrodite and calling themselves the ‘New Romans’. There were few things that still caused outrage in the temples of the Capitol, but this new group seemed intent on finding the limits and breaking them, one by one. One of the people’s tribunes had been found murdered, one who opposed Sulla whenever possible. This would not have been too remarkable in itself; he had been found in a pool, made red by a swiftly opened vein in his leg, a not uncommon mode of death. The problem was that his children too had been found killed, which looked like a warning to others. There were no clues and no witnesses. It was unlikely the murderer would ever be found, but before another tribune could be elected, Sulla had forced through a resolution that gave a general greater autonomy in the field. He had argued the need himself and was eloquent and passionate in his persuasion. The Senate had voted and his power had grown a little more, while the power of the Republic was nibbled away.

Julius had so far managed to stay neutral, but as he was related by marriage to another of the power players, his wife’s brother Marius, he knew eventually that sides would have to be chosen. A wise man could see the changes coming, but it saddened him that the equalities of the Republic were felt as chains by more and more of the hotheads in Senate. Marius too felt that a powerful man could use the law rather than obey it. Already, he had proven this by making a mockery of the system used to elect consuls. Roman law said that a consul could only be elected once by the Senate and must then step down from the position. Marius had recently secured his third election with martial victories against the Cimbri tribes and the Teutones, whom he had smashed with the Primigenia legion. He was still a lion of the emerging Rome, and Julius would have to find the protection of his shadow if Cornelius Sulla continued to grow in power.

Favours would be owed and some of his autonomy would be lost if he threw his colours into the camp of Marius, but it might be the only wise choice. He wished he could consult his wife and listen to her quick mind dissect the problem as she had used to. Always, she could see an angle on a problem, or a point of view that no one else could see. He missed her wry smile and the way she would press her palms against his eyes when he was tired, bringing a wonderful coolness and peace …

He moved quietly through the corridors to Aurelia’s rooms and paused outside the door, listening to her long slow breaths, barely audible in the silence.

Carefully, he entered the room and crossed over to the sleeping figure, kissing her lightly on the brow. She didn’t stir and he sat by the bed, watching her.

Asleep, she seemed the woman he remembered. At any moment, she could wake and her eyes would fill with intelligence and wit. She would laugh to see him sitting there in the shadows and pull back the covers, inviting him in to the warmth of her.

‘Who can I turn to, my love?’ he whispered. ‘Who should I support and trust to safeguard the city and the Republic? I think your brother Marius cares as little for the idea as Sulla himself.’ He rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble.

‘Where does safety lie for my wife and my son? Do I throw in my house to the wolf or the snake?’

Silence answered him and he shook his head slowly. He rose and kissed Aurelia, imagining just for one moment more that, if her eyes opened, someone he knew would be looking out. Then he left quietly, shutting the door softly behind him.

When Tubruk walked his watch that evening, the last of the candles had guttered out and the rooms were dark. Julius still sat in his chair, but his eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell slowly, with a soft whistle of air from his nose. Tubruk nodded to himself, pleased he was getting some rest from worry.

The following morning, Julius ate with the two boys, a small breaking of the fast with bread, fruit and a warm tisane to counter the dawn chill. The depressive thoughts of the day before had been put aside and he sat straight, his gaze clear.

‘You look healthy and strong,’ he said to the pair of them. ‘Renius is turning you into young men.’

They grinned at each other for a second.

‘Renius says we will soon be fit enough for battle training. We have shown we can stand heat and cold and have begun to find our strengths and weaknesses. All this is internal, which he says is the foundation for external skill.’ Gaius spoke with animation, his hands moving slightly with his words.

Both boys were clearly growing in confidence and Julius felt a pang for a moment that he was not able to see more of their growth. Looking at his son, he wondered if he would come home to a stranger one day.

‘You are my son. Renius has trained many, but never a son of mine. You will surprise him, I think.’ Julius looked at Gaius’ incredulous expression, knowing the boy was not used to praise or admiration.

‘I will try to. Marcus will surprise him too, I expect.’

Julius did not look at the other boy at the table, although he felt his eyes. As if he was not present, he answered, wanting the point to be remembered and annoyed at Gaius’ attempt to bring his friend into the conversation.

‘Marcus is not my son. You carry my name and my reputation with you. You alone.’

Gaius bowed his head, embarrassed and unable to hold his father’s strangely compelling gaze. ‘Yes, Father,’ he muttered and continued to eat.

Sometimes, he wished there were other children, brothers or sisters to play with and to carry the burden of his father’s hopes. Of course, he would not give up the estate to them, that was his alone and always had been, but occasionally he felt the pressure as an uncomfortable weight. His mother especially, when she was quiet and placid, would croon to him that he was all the children she had been allowed, one perfect example of life. She often told him that she would have liked daughters to dress and pass on her wisdom to, but the fever that had struck her at his birth had taken that chance away.

Renius came into the warm kitchen. He wore open sandals with a red soldier’s tunic and short leggings that ended on his calves, stretched tight over almost obscenely large muscles, the legacy of life as an infantryman in the legions. Despite his age, he seemed to burn with health and vitality. He halted in front of the table, his back straight and his eyes bright and interested.

‘With your permission, sir, the sun is rising and the boys must run five miles before it clears the hills.’

Julius nodded and the two boys stood quickly, waiting for his dismissal.

‘Go – train hard,’ he said, smiling. His son looked eager, the other – there was something else there in those dark eyes and brows. Anger? No, it was gone. The pair raced off and the two men were once again left alone. Julius indicated the table.

‘I hear you are intending to begin battle school with them soon.’

‘They are not strong enough yet; they may not be this year, but I am not just a fitness instructor to them, after all.’

‘Have you given any thought to continuing their training after the year contract is up?’ Julius asked, hoping his casual manner masked his interest.

‘I will retire to the country next year. Nothing is likely to change that.’

‘Then these two will be your last students – your last legacy to Rome,’ Julius replied.

Renius froze for a second and Julius let no trace of his emotions betray themselves on his face.

‘It is something to think about,’ Renius said at last, before turning on his heel and going into the grey dawn light.

Julius grinned wolfishly behind him.




CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_a1aac369-19bd-53b4-b3db-00ad768205a2)







‘As officers, you will ride to the battle, but fighting from horseback is not our chief strength. Although we use cavalry for quick, smashing attacks, it is the footmen of the twenty-eight legions that break the enemy. Every man of the one hundred and fifty thousand legionaries we have in the field at any given moment of any day can walk thirty miles in full armour, carrying a pack that is a third his own weight. He can then fight the enemy, without weakness and without complaint.’

Renius eyed the two boys who stood in the heat of the noon sun, returned from a run and trying to control their breathing. More than three years he had given them, the last he would ever teach. There was so much more for them to learn! He paced around them as he spoke, snapping the words out.

‘It is not the luck of the gods that has given the countries of the world into the palms of Rome. It is not the weakness of the foreign tribes that leads them to throw themselves onto our swords in battle. It is our strength, greater and deeper than anything they can bring to the field. That is our first tactic. Before our men even reach the battle, they will be unbreakable in their strength and their morale. More, they will have a discipline that the armies of the world can blood themselves against without effect.

‘Each man will know that his brothers at his side will have to be killed to leave him. That makes him stronger than the most heroic charge, or the vain screams of savage tribes. We walk to battle. We stand and they die.’

Gaius’ breathing slowed and his lungs ceased to clamour for oxygen. In the three years since Renius had first arrived at his father’s villa, he had grown in height and strength. Approaching fourteen years of age, he was showing signs of the man he would one day be.

Burned the colour of light oak by the Roman sun, he stood easily, his frame slim and athletic, with powerful shoulders and legs. He could run for hours round the hills and still find reserves for a burst of speed as his father’s estate came into view again.

Marcus too had undergone changes, both physically and in his spirit. The innocent happiness of the boy he had been came and went in flashes now. Renius had taught him to guard his emotions and his responses. He had been taught this with the whip and without kindness of any kind for three long years. He too had well-developed shoulders, tapering down into lightning-fast fists that Gaius could not match any more. Inside him, the desire to stand on his own, without help from his line or the patronage of others, was like a slow acid in his stomach.

As Renius watched, both boys became calm and stood to attention, watching him warily. It was not unknown for him to suddenly strike at an exposed stomach, testing, always testing for weakness.

‘Gladii, gentlemen – fetch your swords.’

Silently, they turned away and collected the short swords from pegs on the training yard wall. Heavy leather belts were buckled around their waists, with a leather ‘frog’ attached, a holder for the sword. The scabbard slid snugly into the frog, tightly held by lacing so that it would remain immobile if the blade was suddenly drawn.

Properly attired, they returned to the attention position, waiting for the next order.

‘Gaius, you observe. I will use the boy to make a simple point.’ Renius loosened his shoulders with a crack and grinned as Marcus slowly drew the gladius.

‘First position, boy. Stand like a soldier, if you can remember how.’

Marcus relaxed into the first position, legs shoulder-width apart, body slightly turned from full frontal, sword held at waist height, ready to strike for the groin, stomach or throat, the three main areas of attack. Groin and neck were favourites as a deep cut there would mean the opponent bled to death in seconds.

Renius shifted his weight and Marcus’ point wavered to follow the movement.

‘Slashing the air again? If you do that, I’ll see it and pattern you. I only need one opening to cut your throat out, one blow. Let me guess which way you’re going to shift your weight and I’ll cut you in two.’ He began to circle Marcus, who remained relaxed, his eyebrows raised over a face blank of expression. Renius continued to talk.

‘You want to kill me, don’t you, boy? I can feel your hatred. I can feel it like good wine in my stomach. It cheers me up, boy, can you believe that?’

Marcus attacked in a sudden move, without warning, without signal. It had taken hundreds of hours of drill for him to eliminate all his ‘tells’, his telegraphing tensions of muscle that gave away his intentions. No matter how fast he was, a good opponent would gut him if he signalled his thoughts before each move.

Renius was not there when the stabbing lunge ended. His gladius pressed up against Marcus’ throat.

‘Again. You were slow and clumsy as usual. If you weren’t faster than Gaius, you’d be the worst I’d ever seen.’

Marcus gaped and, in a split second, the sun-warmed gladius was pressed against his inner thigh, by the big pulsing vein that carried his life.

Renius shook his head in disgust.

‘Never listen to your opponent. Gaius is observing, you are fighting. You concentrate on how I am moving, not the words I speak, which are simply to distract you. Again.’

They circled in the shadows of the yard.

‘Your mother was clumsy in bed at first.’ Renius’ sword snaked out as he spoke and was snapped aside with a bell ring of metal. Marcus stepped in and pressed his blade against the leathery old skin of Renius’ throat. His expression was cold and unforgiving.

‘Predictable,’ Marcus muttered, glaring into the cold blue eyes, nettled nonetheless.

He felt a pressure and looked down to see a dagger held in Renius’ left hand, touching him lightly on the stomach. Renius grinned.

‘Many men will hate you enough to take you with them. They are the most dangerous of all. They can run right onto your sword and blind you with their thumbs. I’ve seen that done by a woman to one of my men.’

‘Why did she hate him so much?’ Marcus asked as he took a pace away, sword still ready to defend.

‘The victors will always be hated. It is the price we pay. If they love you, they will do what you want, but when they want to do it. If they fear you, they will do your will, but when you want them to. So, is it better to be loved or feared?’

‘Both,’ Gaius said, seriously.

Renius smiled. ‘You mean adored and respected, which is the impossible trick if you are occupying lands that are only yours by right of strength and blood. Life is never a simple problem from question to answer. There are always many answers.’

The two boys looked baffled and Renius snorted in irritation.

‘I will show you what discipline means. I will show you what you have already learned. Put your swords away and stand back to attention.’

The old gladiator looked the pair over with a critical eye. Without warning, the noon bell sounded and he frowned, his manner changing in an instant. His voice lost the snap of the tutor and, for once, was low and quiet.

‘There are food riots in the city, did you know that? Great gangs that destroy property and stream away like rats when someone is brave enough to draw a sword on them. I should be there, not playing games with children. I have taught you for two years longer than my original agreement. You are not ready, but I will not waste any more of my evening years on you. Today is your last lesson.’ He stepped over to Gaius, who stared resolutely ahead.

‘Your father should have met me here and heard my report. The fact that he is late for the first time in three years tells me what?’

Gaius cleared his dry throat. ‘The riots in Rome are worse than you believed.’

‘Yes. Your father will not be here to see this last lesson. A pity. If he is dead and I kill you, who will inherit the estate?’

Gaius blinked in confusion. The man’s words seemed to jar with his reasonable tone. It was as if he were ordering a new tunic.

‘My uncle Marius, although he is with the Primigenia legion – the First-Born. He will not be expecting –’

‘A good standard, the Primigenia, did well in Egypt. My bill will be sent to him. Now I will indulge you as the current master of the estate, in your father’s absence. When you are ready, you will face me for real, not a practice, not to first blood, but an attack such as you might face if you were walking the streets of Rome today, among the rioters.

‘I will fight fairly, and if you kill me you may consider yourself to have graduated from my tutelage.’

‘Why kill us after all the time you have –’ Marcus spluttered, breaking discipline to speak without permission.

‘You have to face death at some point. I cannot continue to train you and there is a last lesson to be learned about fear and anger.’

For a moment, Renius looked unsure of himself, but then his head straightened and the ‘snapping turtle’, as the slaves called him, was back, his intensity and energy overpowering.

‘You are my last pupils. My reputation as I go into retirement hangs on your sorry necks. I will not let you go improperly trained, so that my name is blackened by your deeds. My name is something I have spent my life protecting. It is too late to consider losing it now.’

‘We would not embarrass you,’ Marcus muttered, almost to himself.

Renius rounded on him. ‘Your every stroke embarrasses me. You hack like a butcher attacking a bull carcass in a rage. You cannot control your temper. You fall for the simplest trap as the blood drains from your head! And YOU!’ He turned to Gaius, who had begun to grin. ‘You cannot keep your thoughts from your groin long enough to make a Roman of you. Nobilitas? My blood runs cold at the thought of boys like you carrying on my heritage, my city, my people.’

Gaius dropped the grin at the reference to the slave girl that Renius had whipped in front of them for distracting the boys. It still shamed him and a slow anger began to grow as the tirade continued.

‘Gaius, you may choose which of you will duel first. Your first tactical decision!’ Renius turned and strode away onto the fighting square laid out in mosaic on the training ground. He stretched his leg muscles behind them, seemingly oblivious to their dumbstruck gazes.

‘He has gone mad,’ Marcus whispered. ‘He’ll kill us both.’

‘He is still playing games,’ Gaius said grimly. ‘Like with the river. I’m going to take him. I think I can do it. I’m certainly not going to refuse the challenge. If this is how I show him that he has taught me well, then so be it. I will thank him in his own blood.’

Marcus looked at his friend and saw his resolution. He knew that, as much as he didn’t want either of them to fight Renius, it was he who had the better chance. Neither could win outright, but only Marcus had the speed to take the old man with him into the void.

‘Gaius,’ he murmured. ‘Let me go first.’

Gaius looked him in the eye, as if to gauge his thoughts.

‘Not this time. You are my friend. I do not want to see him kill you.’

‘Nor I you. Yet I am the fastest of us – I have a better chance.’

Gaius loosened his shoulders and smiled tightly. ‘He is only an old man, Marcus. I’ll be back in a moment.’

Alone, Gaius took up his position.

Renius watched him through eyes narrowed against the sun.

‘Why did you choose to fight first?’

Gaius shrugged. ‘All lives end. I chose to. That is enough.’

‘Aye, it is. Begin, boy. Let’s see if you have learned anything.’

Gently, smoothly, they began to move around each other, gladii held out and flat-bladed, catching the sun.

Renius feinted with a sudden shift of a shoulder. Gaius read the feint and forced the old man back a step, with a lunge. The blades clashed and the battle began. They struck and parried, came together in a twist of heaving muscle and the old warrior threw the young boy backwards, sprawling in the dust.

For once, Renius didn’t mock him, his face remaining impassive. Gaius rose slowly, balanced. He could not win with strength.

He took two quick steps forward and brought the blade up in a neat slice, breaking past the defence and cutting deeply into the mahogany skin of Renius’ chest.

The old man grunted in surprise as the boy pressed the attack without pause, cut after cut. Each was parried with tiny shifts of weight and movements of the blade. The boy would clearly tire himself in the sun, ready for the butcher’s knife.

Sweat poured into Gaius’ eyes. He felt desperate, unable to think of new moves that might work against this hard-eyed thing of wood that read and parried him so easily. He flailed and missed and, as he overbalanced, Renius extended his right arm, sinking the blade into the exposed lower abdomen.

Gaius felt his strength go. His legs seemed weak sticks and folded beyond his control under him, rubbery and painless. Blood spattered the dust, but the colours had gone from the courtyard, replaced by the thump of his heartbeat and flashes in his eyes.

Renius looked down and Gaius could see his eyes shine with moisture. Was the old man crying?

‘Not … good … enough,’ the old gladiator spat. Renius stepped forward, his eyes full of pain.

The brightness of the sun was blocked by a dark bar of shadow as Marcus slid his sword under the sagging throat skin of the old warrior. One step behind Renius, he could see the old man stiffen in surprise.

‘Forgotten me?’ It would be the work of a single thought to pull the blade back sharply and end the vicious old man, but Marcus had glanced at the body of his friend and knew the life was pouring out of him. He allowed the rage to build inside him for a moment and the chance for a quick death disappeared as Renius stepped smoothly away and brought up his bloody sword again. His face was stone, but his eyes shone.

Marcus began his attack, in past the guard and out before the old man had a chance to move. If he had been trying for a fatal blow, it would have landed, as the old man held immobile, his face rigid with tension. As it was, the blow was simply a loosener and the life in the old man came back with a rush.

‘Can’t you even kill me when I hold still for the strike?’ Renius snapped as he began to circle again, keeping his right side to Marcus.

‘You were always a fool – you have a fool’s pride,’ Marcus almost growled at him, forced to pay attention to this man as his friend died in the heat, alone.

He attacked again, his thought become deeds, no reflection or decision, simply blows and moves, unstoppable. Red mouths opened on the old body and Marcus could hear the spatter of blood on the dust like spring rain.

Renius had no time to speak again. He defended desperately, his face showing shock for a second before settling into his gladiatorial mask. Marcus moved with extraordinary grace and balance, too fast to counter, a warrior born.

Again and again, the old man only knew he had stopped a blow when he heard the clash of metal as his body moved and reacted without conscious thought. His mind seemed detached from the fight.

His thoughts spoke in a dry voice: ‘I am an old fool. This one may be the best I have trained, but I have killed the other – that was a mortal blow.’

His left arm hung, flapping obscene and loose, the shoulder muscle sliced. The pain was like a hammer and he felt sudden exhaustion slam into him, like the years catching up with him at last. The boy had never been this fast before, it was as if the sight of his friend dying had opened doors within him.

Renius felt his strength desert him in one despairing sigh. He had seen so many at this point where the spirit cannot take the flesh further. He warded off the battered blade of the gladius without energy, batting it away for what he knew would be the last time.

‘Cease, or I will drop you where you stand,’ came a new voice, quiet, but carrying somehow through the courtyard and house.

Marcus didn’t pause. He had been trained not to react to taunts and no one was taking this kill from him. He tensed his shoulders to drive in the iron blade.

‘This bow will kill you, boy. Put the sword down.’

Renius looked Marcus in the eyes, seeing madness there for a moment. He knew the lad would kill him and then the light was gone and control had come back.

Even with the heat of his own blood warming his limbs, the yard seemed cold to the old man as he watched Marcus glide backwards out of range and then turn to look at the newcomer. Renius had rarely been so certain of his own death to come.

There was a bow, with a glinting arrowhead. An old man, older than Renius, held the bow without a shiver of muscle, despite the obvious heft of the draw. He wore a rough brown robe and a smile that stretched over only a few teeth.





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