The Pillars of Rome (27 page)

‘They not always win, boy.’

Aquila was now glaring up at him. ‘You were taken prisoner?’

The shepherd nodded with some reluctance. ‘So you a free-born Roman?’

Aquila replied defiantly. ‘Yes.’

‘You have name?’

‘Aquila Terentius.’

The man raised his head to look at the sky, as if acknowledging the source. ‘Well, young eagle, I too have name. It Gadoric, and I a slave, though I was once free-born like you.’ Aquila held his hand out and the man took it with a grin. ‘Free-born Roman shakes the hand of slave!’

‘Is that the wrong thing to do?’ asked Aquila, confused.

The shepherd laughed and picked up his battered straw hat. ‘No, boy, that the right thing to do, but it not happen often. Let us go, see if I have any animals left.’

The sheep were huddled in a tight group, with Minca laying right in front of them, paws outstretched and eyes fixed for the least sign of movement.

‘He’s a bit big for a sheepdog.’

‘He bred to hunt stags. Two-week-old pup when I was taken. Kept him inside my coat, next to the skin.’ He called to the dog in his alien tongue and it ran over to join him, to have its ears vigorously rubbed. ‘Now we look after sheep.’

Gadoric issued some more commands to the dog and it ran out of sight. Then he tapped the lead ram with his long staff and it immediately headed in the opposite direction, away from the canine smell.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Aquila.

‘To field over there.’ He pointed his staff to the south of the woods.

Aquila was curious about this man, Gadoric. He was a slave, but he had once been free and with that scar and his empty eye socket, he had probably been a soldier. He might have some interesting tales to tell. ‘Can I come with you?’

‘I just about to ask,’ said Gadoric, clapping the youngster on the shoulder. Aquila might be curious
about him, but that was nothing compared to the interest that the flaxen-haired Celt had in the golden-haired child.

As they left the woods the shepherd, with his hat back in place, bent his shoulders, once more adopting the shuffling gait of an old man. Aquila looked at him strangely.

‘Can trust you?’ asked Gadoric, stopping suddenly. Taken by surprise, Aquila did not answer and they gazed intently at each other, until eventually, not sure what to say, the boy shrugged. ‘There be no way knowing, is there?’ Aquila shrugged again. Gadoric leant on his staff, clearly unsure if it was wise to speak. When he did, he sounded just as uncertain. ‘I could ask you swear on your Roman gods, but I not believe in them.’

‘I do,’ said Aquila quickly, silently evoking the name of
Sanctus
, the God of Good Faith.

‘No. I know men swear on every god in world, plus father’s life, that they not betray something, then watch them do it.’ He put one finger to his scarred face. ‘I prefer to look in the eye, my one against you two, and ask straight. Aquila Terentius, I tell you secret, can I trust you keep it?’

The boy threw his arm across his chest in a soldierly salute and used the words he had been told were appropriate. ‘On the altar of
Sanctus
and on pain of death.’

‘Not die to keep it, lad,’ said Gadoric with a
smile, again touching Aquila’s hair. ‘Just not give it away to whole neighbourhood.’

‘I won’t!’

So Gadoric told him that his shuffling gait was a pretence to keep him here. He had pretended sickness when he was brought south, taking herbs that made him seem really ill. All the others, brought south with him, had been sent to Sicily, to toil on starvation rations in the cornfields. Too weak for such work, he had been kept here as a shepherd for the local magnate, Cassius Barbinus.

‘Cassius Barbinus is a very wealthy man. He’s very important round here. He bought my father’s farm off him, which is why he had to go into the legions. Barbinus owns this wood, too, and it’s rumoured he’s told his overseer to flog anyone he finds taking game from it. Everyone is frightened of him.’

‘I not frightened of him,’ snapped Gadoric. ‘But this part Italy closer to home than Sicily. One day I go back.’

‘Will Barbinus free you?’ asked Aquila.

‘No boy, he not free me.’ Aquila felt a trace of fear at the look in Gadoric’s single eye. ‘But maybe I cut out stinking Roman heart as souvenir to take home.’

He must have realised he had scared the boy, so he laughed again and patted him on the shoulder, then indicated, with his head, the sheep grazing
happily on some long grass. ‘Grass for the cattle, not sheep. The dog need get them moving, eh?’

He whistled. Minca came out of the woods and bounded towards them. ‘You like tell Minca what do?’

‘I’ll be happy just as long as he doesn’t attack me.’

The dog, tail wagging, leapt about excitedly and it was obvious he was not going to attack anyone. ‘So you not want to?’

‘Yes,’ said Aquila eagerly. Fulmina would not let him have a dog, since she held that it would just take the food out of their mouths, and besides they had no work to justify keeping an animal.

‘Minca not understand Latin. You need learn my tongue before you give him commands.’

‘I’m a quick learner,’ said Aquila eagerly.

‘So we try, no?’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Marcellus watched with intense fascination as the two gladiators circled round each other. They had come to proper combat twice already and the Bithynian, a professional fighter, had a large gash on his upper arm, bleeding copiously, but he had narrowly missed skewering his opponent, a Lacedemonian Greek, who now had a corresponding gash in his side, just below his sword arm. Neither had been able to gain an advantage in the fierce struggles, so they had been forced to part, just to recover their breath. He was aware of his father, glancing at him occasionally to see how he was reacting to the sight of proper fighting and real blood.

Marcellus wanted to yell encouragement to the Greek but he dare not; it was no part of a patrician boy’s behaviour to show that he was partisan, especially when his father had been given the place of honour. A client of his, a man who was standing
for election as one of the Urban Aediles for this year, had staged the games, of which this contest was the final event. Lucius, presiding, would have to decide if one of these men lived or died and the only criteria would be their courage and skill with the short swords and shields in their hands.

All of his school friends were there as well, with their parents and siblings, so he sneaked a look towards the Trebonius family, his eye catching that of Gaius’s sister Valeria. She immediately gave him sight of her tongue, accompanied by a derisory shake of the head. Marcellus, who would have liked a brother, was grateful not to have a sister; those of his friends with female siblings seemed to suffer mightily for the privilege, none more than Gaius Trebonius, Valeria being a positive menace. Sharp-tongued and interfering, she could not leave the boys to their games. Worse, as far as Marcellus was concerned, she seemed determined to include him in her torments, as if his being an only child qualified him for her attention.

The mother was soft-hearted and indulgent, seemingly blind to her behaviour, while her father was away. Not that his presence would have made any difference; Marcellus remembered him as even less of a disciplinarian than the mother. He loathed nothing more than those occasions when whole families were invited to his house, since Valeria encouraged all the other girls, so that together they
teased him and his friends beyond endurance. He shook his head slightly to clear her image from his mind and returned his whole attention to the fight.

Why did he favour the Greek? Marcellus did not really know, but the Lacedemonian was wearing a most handsome helmet, polished till it gleamed and crowned with stiff horsehair. Dyed deep red, it made the boy think of Achilles, Ajax and the other Greek heroes of antiquity, perhaps even Alexander himself. The Bithynian wore a drab affair, little more than a peaked metal skullcap, electing to fight in something light, rather than something impressive. To Marcellus, schooled in the historical works of Ptolemy, it was the Alexandrian hero versus the Persian tyranny. No Roman could place his support the other way, yet many did, no doubt because they had money on the fellow. He was quite well known, having survived several bouts at previous games without so much as a scratch and he should have seen off his less experienced Greek opponent well before this. In the first clash he had seemed content to demonstrate his prowess, exciting the crowd with some very fancy swordplay.

The Greek, fighting in a much more prosaic fashion, had parried the elegant thrusts with some difficulty and having proved his abilities to those in the crowd who supported him, the Bithynian had stood off to rest, circling round his opponent for a full minute before dashing in for the finish, his
intentions plain; a couple of quick thrusts to disarm his rival, a hefty cut to draw blood and finally a stroke with the sword to bring the fellow to his knees, then he could hand the man’s fate over to Lucius Falerius. But the Greek was not prepared to play and the nature of the contest had changed immediately, the Bithynian suddenly finding himself on the defensive, with his opponent thrusting past his guard to slash his arm. The spurt of blood added an instantaneous spur, the contest becoming immediately much more heated. The Bithynian attacked with great fury, returning the compliment by drawing blood, but he could not overcome his opponent and the frustration started to show in the way the fight developed.

The noise abated as they drifted apart, but it rose to an even higher crescendo as the two combatants, with a resounding clash of swords, rushed at each other simultaneously. They hacked away, the ringing sound of metal striking metal barely audible above the roar of the crowd. Their shields clashed as they sought to knock each other off balance, the prelude to a disabling thrust. The Bithynian, using his shield to protect his front, coiled his body to one side then swung his sword, neck height, with all his strength. The Greek was caught with his shield in the wrong place and had the blow connected it would have decapitated him. Marcellus heard his father speak sharply, complaining quickly about
such a murderous cut, this as the Greek dropped to his knee, the sword lopping half the horse-hair plumes from the top of his helmet. He did not stay down, but used the spring effect, coming swiftly back to his full height. The boss of his shield, rising above his head, took the Bithynian’s unadorned helmet on the cap, knocking the man’s head back. The Greek’s sword followed, and the roar of the crowd was near deafening as it sliced into his opponents throat, entering in the middle of the jaw, and exiting from one side.

Marcellus kept a keen eye fixed on the scene as the blood spurted out of the gorge in a great gush. The Bithynian’s head, neck sliced through to the bone, fell drunkenly to one side, as though it was about to come off completely, the tendons and muscles looking white against the rushing, foaming blood that pumped out of the torn veins. His father, unusually for him, swore loudly, as the Bithynian dropped into the sand like a sacrificed bull, twitching and jerking as he died.

‘This is outrageous, Hortensius,’ snapped Lucius to the man on his left, the Aedile candidate who was paying for these games. The crowd had fallen silent, so the older senator’s voice fairly boomed out, ‘You really must speak to your gladiator manager about the way these fellows are conducting themselves.’

‘I agree, Lucius Falerius,’ replied the young,
would-be magistrate, aware that any offence to his honoured guest could put a serious blight on his future career. Marcellus wondered if he really did agree; it had been a very good fight and from what he had heard, such a thing as he had just witnessed, the killing of one opponent by another, common in the south, was extremely rare in Rome itself. It harked back to the origin of the contest, the funeral rites of great leaders, where selected warriors would fight to the death over their grave for the right to accompany them to Hades.

‘We cannot have these fellows killing each other without permission, Hortensius. What is the point of having a presiding magistrate of the games?’

Hortensius looked very serious as he replied. ‘We mustn’t have them usurping your prerogatives, Lucius Falerius.’

‘This isn’t some left-handed way to save money, is it, a guarantee of saving a fee?’

Marcellus thought his father had asked a silly question and so did Hortensius judging by the look on his face. Luckily, Lucius had turned his attention back to the arena, and the sweating Greek who stood facing the platform, sword raised in front of his heaving chest.

Hortensius spoke quickly, eager to please. ‘Since this fellow has deprived you of your right to choose life or death for his opponent, I think it only fitting, Lucius Falerius, that you decide on his fate. Victor
he might be, but he’s yours to dispose of.’

Lucius nodded once, his eyes still fixed on the man who had so angered him. Marcellus also had his eyes fixed on the Greek now, half in admiration, and half to avoid looking at the spreading bloodstain and the exposed organs of the Bithynian at his feet.