Читать книгу The Emperor Series Books 1-4 - Conn Iggulden - Страница 30

Marcus sat easily on his horse, occasionally reaching forward to scratch Lancer's ears as they rode down the mountain path. Peppis was dozing behind him, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the horse's walk. Marcus thought of waking him with an elbow to see the view, but decided to leave him alone.

It seemed as if they could see all of Greece from the heights, spread out below in a rolling green and yellow landscape with groves of olive trees and isolated farms speckling the hills and valleys. The clean air smelled different, carrying the scent of unknown flowers.

Marcus remembered gentle Vepax, the tutor, and wondered if he had walked these hills. Or perhaps Alexander himself had taken armies through to the plains on his way to battle distant Persia. He imagined the grim Cretan archers and the Macedonian phalanx as they followed the boy king, and his back straightened in the saddle.

Renius rode ahead, his eyes swinging from the narrow trail to the surrounding scrub foliage and back in a monotonous pattern of alertness. He had withdrawn into himself more and more over the previous week of travel and whole days had passed without more than a few words spoken between them. Only Peppis broke the long silences with exclamations of wonder at birds or lizards on the rocks. Marcus hadn't pushed for conversation, sensing that the gladiator was happier with silence. He smiled wryly at the man's back as they rode, mulling over how he felt about him.

He had hated him once, at that moment in the courtyard of the estate, with Gaius lying wounded in the dust. Yet a grudging respect had existed even before Marcus had raised his sword against him. Renius had a solidity to him that made other men seem insubstantial in comparison. He could be brutal and had a great capacity for callous violence, oblivious to pain or fear. Others followed his lead without a thought, as if they somehow knew this man would see them through. Marcus had seen it on the estate and on the ship and it was difficult not to feel a touch of awe himself. Even age couldn't hold him. Marcus remembered the moment as Cabera closed the old man's wounds, and his surprise at the way the healing took so quickly. They had both watched in astonishment as life swelled in the broken figure and the skin flushed with suddenly rushing blood.

‘He walks a greater path than most,’ Cabera had said later, when Renius had been laid out on a cool bed in the house to finish his healing. ‘His feet are strong in the earth.’

Marcus had wondered at Cabera's tone as he tried to make the young man understand the importance of what he had seen.

‘Never have I seen death take its grip off a man as it did with Renius. The gods were whispering in my mind when I touched him.’

The path twisted and turned and they slowed to let the horses pick their way through the broken surface stones, unwilling to risk a sprain or a fall on the steep slope.

‘What does the future hold for you, I wonder?’ Marcus thought to himself in the comfortable silence. ‘Father.’

The word came to him and he realised the idea had been there for some time. He had never known a man to call father and the word unlocked a door in his mind as he explored his feelings further without pain. Renius was not his blood, but a part of him wished he was travelling these lands with his father, protecting each other from dangers. It was a grand daydream and he pictured men's faces as they heard he was the son of Renius. They would look at him with a little awe of their own perhaps and he would simply smile.

Renius broke wind noisily, shifting his weight to the left without looking back. Marcus laughed suddenly at this interruption to his thoughts and continued chuckling to himself at intervals for some time after. The gladiator rode on, his thoughts on the descent and his future once he had delivered Marcus to his legion.

As they approached a narrow part of the trail, boulders rose on both sides as if the thin path had been cut through them. Renius laid his hand on his sword and loosened the blade.

‘We're being watched. Be ready,’ he called back in a low voice.

Almost as he finished speaking, a dark figure rose from the undergrowth nearby.

‘Stop.’

The word was spoken with casual confidence and in good, clear Latin, but Renius ignored it. Marcus part drew his sword and kept the horse walking with pressure from his knees. From the sudden stiffness in the arms around his waist, he knew Peppis was awake and alert, but for once staying silent.

The man looked like a Greek, with the distinctive curled beard, but, unlike the merchants of the town they'd seen, he had the air of a warrior about him. He smiled and called out again.

‘Stop, or you will be killed. Last chance.’

‘Renius?’ Marcus muttered nervously.

The old man scowled, but kept going, digging his heels into Apollo's flanks to urge him into a trot.

An arrow cut the air, taking the horse high in the shoulder with a dull thumping sound. Apollo screamed and fell, pitching Renius to the ground in a crash of metal and swearing. Peppis cried out in fear and Marcus reined in, scanning the undergrowth for the archer. Was there only one, or were there more out there? These men were obviously brigands; they would be lucky to escape alive if they submitted meekly.

Renius came to his feet awkwardly, yanking out his sword. His eyes glinted. He nodded to Marcus, who dismounted smoothly, using his horse to block the sight of the hidden archer. He drew his gladius, reassured by its familiar weight. Peppis came off the horse in a scramble and tried to hide behind a leg, muttering nervously to himself.

The stranger spoke again, his voice friendly. ‘Do not do anything foolish. My companions are very good with their bows. Practice is the only way to fill the hours here in the mountains, that and relieving the occasional traveller of his possessions.’

‘There is only one archer, I think,’ Renius growled, staying light on the balls of his feet and keeping an eye on the scrub. He knew the man would not have stayed in the same place and could be creeping in to get a clean kill as they spoke.

‘You wish to gamble your life on this, yes?’

The two men looked at each other and Peppis gripped Lancer's leg, making the horse snort with displeasure.

The outlaw was clean and simply dressed. He looked much like one of the huntsmen Marcus had known on the estate, burned a deep brown by constant exposure to the sun and wind. He did not look like a man given to empty threats and Marcus groaned inwardly. At best, they would arrive at the legion with no kit or equipment, a beginning he might never live down. At worst, death was a few moments away.

‘You look like an intelligent man,’ the outlaw continued. ‘If I drop my hand, you will be dead on the instant. Put your sword on the ground and you will live a few moments more, perhaps until you grow old, yes?’

‘I've been old. It isn't worth it,’ Renius replied, already beginning to move.

He threw his gladius at the man, end over end in the air. Before it struck, he was leaping away into the shadow of the rock-side. An arrow cut the air where he had been, but no others accompanied it. Only one archer.

Marcus had used the moment to duck under his horse's belly past Peppis, and came up running, throwing himself at the slope, trusting to his speed to keep him steady. He cleared the main ridge without slowing down and accelerated, guessing where the archer must be hiding. As he approached, a man broke from the cover of a grove of fig trees off to his right and he almost skidded as he turned to follow.

He had him in twenty paces along the loose rock surface, bringing him down from behind in a leap. The impact jarred the gladius from his hand and he found himself locked in a struggle with a man who was bigger and stronger than he was. The archer twisted violently in Marcus' grip and they found each other's throats with grasping hands. Marcus began to panic. The man's face was red, but his neck appeared to be made of wood and he couldn't seem to get a crushing grip on the thick flesh.

He would have called for Renius, but the man couldn't have climbed the ridge with only one arm, and anyway he could not draw breath with the archer's great paws on his throat. Marcus dug his thumbs into the windpipe and heaved all his downward weight onto them. The man grunted in pain, but the hairy hands tightened still further and Marcus saw flashes of white light across his vision as his body began to scream for air. His own hands seemed to weaken and he despaired for a second. His right hand came off the throat, almost without his conscious thought and began to hammer the grunting face. The white lights were streaked with flashes of black and his vision began to narrow into a dark tunnel, but he kept striking over and over. The face below him was a messy red pulp, but the hands on his throat were merciless.

Then they fell away, without drama, lying limp on the ground. Marcus sobbed in air and rolled off to one side. His heart was beating at an impossible speed and he felt light-headed, almost as if he was floating. He pulled himself onto his knees and his fingers scrabbled without strength for the hilt of his sword in ever-widening circles.

Finally, they closed on the leather grip and he breathed a silent prayer of thanks. He could hear Renius and Peppis calling for him below, but had no breath to answer. Staggering, he took a few steps back to the man and froze as he saw the eyes were open and looking at him, the heavy chest heaving as raggedly as his own.

Rasping words grated past the man's smashed lips, but they were Greek and Marcus couldn't understand them. Still panting, he pressed the sharp tip of the gladius against the man's chest and shoved down hard. Then his grip slipped off the hilt and he collapsed in a sprawl, turning weakly to empty his stomach onto the ground.

By the time Marcus climbed stiffly back to the path, Peppis had recovered Renius' sword and the gladiator was holding a pad of cloth to the wound in Apollo's shoulder. The big horse was shivering visibly with shock, but was on his feet and aware. Peppis had to hold Lancer's reins tightly as the horse stepped and skittered, wide nostrils and eyes showing his fear at the smell of blood.

‘Are you all right, lad?’ Renius asked.

Marcus nodded, unable to speak. His throat felt crushed and air seemed to whistle with each breath. He pointed at it and Renius beckoned him closer so he could take a look. He made the movement slow, so as not to alarm the horses.

‘Nothing permanent,’ he judged a moment later. ‘Big hands, judging by the prints.’

Marcus could only gasp weakly. He hoped Renius couldn't smell the sour vomit odour that seemed to surround him in a cloud, but guessed he could and chose not to mention it.

‘They made a mistake attacking us,’ Peppis observed, his little face serious.

‘Yes, they did, boy, though we were lucky as well,’ Renius replied. He looked at Marcus. ‘Don't try to speak, just help the boy strap the equipment to your horse. Apollo will be lame for a week or two. We'll ride in turns unless those bandits have mounts nearby.’

Lancer whinnied and an answering snort came from further down the mountain. Renius grinned.

‘Luck is with us again, I see,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Did you search the body?’

Marcus shook his head and Renius shrugged.

‘Not worth climbing up again. They wouldn't have had much and a bow's no use to a man with one arm. Let's get going. We can get off this rock by sunset if we keep a fast pace.’

Marcus began removing Apollo's packs, taking the reins. Renius patted his shoulder as he turned away. The action was worth far more than words.

After a month of long days and cold nights, it was good to see the legion camp from far away across the plain. Even at that distance, thin sounds carried. It seemed like a town on the horizon, with eight thousand men, women and children engaged in the simple day-to-day tasks necessary to keep such a large body of men in the field. Marcus tried to imagine the armouries and smithies, built and taken apart with each camp. There would be food kitchens, building supply dumps, stonemasons, carpenters, leather-workers, slaves, prostitutes and thousands of other civilians who lived and were paid to support the might of Rome in battle. Unlike the tent rows of Marius' legion, this was a permanent camp, with a solid wall and fortifications surrounding the main grounds. In a sense, it was a town, but a town constantly prepared for war.

Renius pulled up and Marcus drew alongside on Lancer, tugging on the reins to halt the third horse they had named Bandit after his last owner. Peppis sat awkwardly on Bandit's riding blanket, his mouth open at the sight of the encamped legion. Renius smiled at the boy's awe.

‘That's it, Marcus. That is your new home. Do you still have the papers Marius gave you?’

Marcus patted his chest in response, feeling the folded pack of parchment under the tunic.

‘Are you coming in?’ he asked. He hoped so. Renius had been a part of his life for so long that the thought of seeing the man riding away while he rode up to the gates alone was too painful to express.

‘I'll see you and Peppis to the Praefectus castrorum – the quartermaster. He will tell you which century you will join. Learn the history quickly; each has its own record and pride.’

‘Any other advice?’

‘Obey every order without complaint. At the moment you fight like an individual, like one of the savage tribes. They will teach you to trust your companions and to fight as a unit, but the learning does not come easily to some.’

He turned to Peppis. ‘Life will be hard for you. Do as you are told and when you are grown you will be allowed to join the legion. Do nothing that shames you. Do you understand?’

Peppis nodded, his throat dry from fear of this alien life.

‘I will learn. So will he,’ Marcus said.

Renius nodded and clicked his tongue at his horse to move on. ‘That you will.’

Marcus felt an obscure satisfaction at the clean, orderly layout of streets, complete with rows of long, low buildings for the men. He and Renius had been greeted warmly at the gate as soon as he had shown his papers and proceeded on foot to the Prefect's quarters, where he would pledge years of his life in the field service of Rome. He took confidence from Renius as the man strode confidently through the narrow roads, nodding in approval at the polished perfection of the soldiers who marched past in squads of ten. Peppis trotted behind them, carrying a heavy pack of equipment on his back.

The papers had to be shown twice more as they approached the small, white building from which the camp Prefect ran the business of a Roman town in a foreign land. At last they were allowed entry and a slim man dressed in a white toga and sandals came into the outer rooms to meet them as they passed through the door.

‘Renius! I heard it was you in the camp. The men are already talking about you losing your arm. Gods, it is good to see you!’ He beamed at them, the image of Roman efficiency, suntanned and hard, with a strong grip as he greeted each of them in turn.

Renius smiled back with genuine warmth.

‘Marius didn't tell me you were here, Carac. I am glad to see you well.’

‘You haven't aged, I swear it! Gods, you don't look a day over forty. How do you do it?’

‘Clean living,’ Renius grunted, still uncomfortable with the change Cabera had wrought.

The Prefect raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but let the subject drop.

‘And the arm?’

‘Training accident. The lad here, Marcus, cut me and I had it taken off.’

The Prefect whistled and shook Marcus' hand again.

‘I never thought I'd meet a man who could get to Renius. May I see the papers you brought with you?’

Marcus felt nervous all of a sudden. He passed them over and the Prefect motioned them to long benches as he read.

Finally, he passed them back. ‘You come very well recommended, Marcus. Who is the boy?’

‘He was on the merchant ship we took from the coast. He wants to be my servant and join the legion when he is older.’

The Prefect nodded. ‘We have many such in the camp, usually the bastard children of the men and the whores. If he shapes up there may be a place, but the competition will be fierce. I am more interested in you, young man.’

He turned to Renius. ‘Tell me about him. I will trust your judgement.’

Renius spoke firmly, as if reporting. ‘Marcus is unusually fast, even more so when his blood is fired. As he matures, I expect him to become a name. He is impetuous and brash and likes to fight, which is partly his nature and partly his youth. He will serve the Fourth Macedonia well. I gave him his basic training, but he has gone beyond that and will go further.’

‘He reminds me of your son. Have you noticed the resemblance?’ the Prefect asked quietly.

‘It had not … occurred to me,’ Renius replied uncomfortably.

‘I doubt that. Still, we always have need of men of quality and this is the place for him to find maturity. I will place him with the fifth century, the Bronze Fist.’

Renius took in a sharp breath. ‘You honour me.’

The Prefect shook his head. ‘You saved my life once. I am sorry I could not save your son's. This is a small part of my debt to you.’

Once again they shook hands. Marcus looked on in some confusion.

‘What now for you, old friend? Will you return to Rome to spend your gold?’

‘I had hoped there would be a place for me here,’ Renius said quietly.

The Prefect smiled. ‘I had begun to think you would not ask. The Fist is short of a weapons master to train them. Old Belius died of a fever six months ago and there is no one else as good. Will you take the post?’

Renius grinned suddenly, the old sharp grin. ‘I will, Carac. Thank you.’

The Prefect slapped him on the shoulder in obvious pleasure.

‘Welcome to the Fourth Macedonia, gentlemen.’ He signalled to a legionary standing to attention nearby. ‘Take this young man to his new quarters in the Bronze Fist century. Send the boy to the stables until I can assign duties to him with the other camp children. Renius and I have a lot of catching up to do – and a lot of wine to drink while we do it.’