Читать книгу The Death of Kings - Conn Iggulden - Страница 11

Brutus took a deep breath of clean mountain air as he looked back at their pursuers. With Greece spread out below them and the slopes covered with tiny purple blooms lifting a rich scent into the wind, it seemed wrong to be dwelling on death and revenge. Yet, as Renius had predicted, the group of riders contained at least one good tracker, and over the last five days they had remained doggedly on their trail despite a number of attempts to lose them.

Renius sat on a mossy rock nearby with his shoulder stump exposed, rubbing grease into the scarred flesh as he did every morning. Brutus felt guilty each time he saw it, remembering the fight in the training yard of Julius’ estate. He thought he could even remember the blow that had severed the nerves of the arm, but there was no calling it back after all this time. Though the flesh had formed a pink pad of callus, raw patches would appear that needed to be salved. The only real relief came when Renius was forced to leave the leather cap off and let the air get to the skin, but he hated the curious looks it brought and shoved the cap back on whenever he could.

‘They’re getting closer,’ Brutus said. He didn’t need to explain, the five men following had been in both their thoughts ever since first sighting them.

The sun-hammered beauty of the mountains concealed a poor soil that attracted few farmers. The only signs of life were the small figures of the hunters making their slow way up. Brutus knew they could not stay ahead of horses for much longer and as soon as they reached the plains below the Romans would be run down and killed. Both of them were approaching exhaustion and the last of the dry food had gone that morning.

Brutus eyed the vegetation that clung to life on the craggy slopes, wondering if any of it was edible. He’d heard of soldiers eating the singing crickets that haunted each tuft and clump of grass, but it wouldn’t be worth it to catch one at a time. They couldn’t go another day without food and their waterskins were less than half full. Gold coins still filled his belt pouch, but the nearest Roman city was more than a hundred miles away across the plains of Thessaly and they’d never make it. The future looked bleak unless Renius could come up with an idea, but the old gladiator was silent, apparently content to while away an hour rubbing his stump. As Brutus watched, Renius pulled one of the dark flowers and squeezed its juice onto the hairy pad that hung from his shoulder. The old gladiator was always testing herbs for their soothing effect, but, as usual, he sniffed with disappointment and let the broken petals fall out of his good hand.

Renius’ calm expression suddenly infuriated Brutus. With a pair of horses under them, the pursuers from the village would never have come close. It was not in Renius’ nature to regret past decisions, but every pace gained on the footsore Romans made Brutus grunt in irritation.

‘How can you just sit there while they climb up to us? The immortal Renius, victor of hundreds of bouts to the death, cut to pieces by a few ragged Greeks on a hilltop.’

Renius looked at him, unmoved, then shrugged. ‘The slope will cut down their advantage. Horses aren’t much good up here.’

‘So we’re making a stand then?’ Brutus demanded, feeling vast relief that Renius had some sort of plan.

‘They won’t be here for hours yet. If I were you, I’d sit down in the shade and rest. You’ll find sharpening my sword will calm your nerves.’

Brutus scowled at him, but still took up the older man’s gladius and began to work a stone along the edges in long strokes.

‘There are five of them, remember,’ he said after a while.

Renius ignored him, fitting the leather cup over his stump with a grunt. He held one end of the tying thong in his teeth and knotted it with the ease of long practice while Brutus looked on.

‘Eighty-nine,’ Renius said suddenly.

‘What?’

‘I killed eighty-nine men in the bouts in Rome. Not hundreds.’

He rose smoothly to his feet and there was nothing of an old man in his movement. It had taken a long time to retrain his body to balance without the weight of his left arm, but he had beaten that loss as he had beaten everything else that stood against him in his life. Brutus remembered the moment Cabera had pressed his hands into the grey flesh of Renius’ chest and seen the colour change as the body stiffened in a sudden rush of returning life. Cabera had sat back on his heels in silent awe as they watched the old man’s hair darken, as if even death couldn’t keep its grip on him. The gods had saved the old gladiator, perhaps so he in turn could save another young Roman on a hilltop in Greece. Brutus felt his own confidence build, forgetting the hunger and exhaustion that racked him.

‘There are only five today,’ Brutus said. ‘And I am the best of my generation, you know. There is not a man alive who can beat me with a sword.’

Renius grunted at this. ‘I was the best of my generation, lad, and from what I can see, the standard has slipped a bit since then. Still, we may yet surprise them.’

Cornelia groaned in pain as the midwife rubbed golden olive oil into her thighs, helping the muscles to uncramp. Clodia handed her a warm drink of milk and honey wine and she emptied the cup almost without tasting it, holding it out for more even as the next contraction built in her. She shuddered and cried out.

The midwife continued to lather oil over her in wide, slow strokes, holding a cloth of the softest wool in her hands, which she dipped into a bowl of the liquid.

‘Not long now,’ she said. ‘You are doing very well. The honey and wine should help with the pain, but it will soon be time to move you over to the chair for the birth. Clodia, fetch more cloths and the sponge in case there’s bleeding. There shouldn’t be much. You are very strong and your hips are a good size for this work.’

Cornelia could only moan in response, breathing in short gasps as the contraction came on fully. She clenched her teeth and gripped the sides of the hard bed, pushing down with her hips. The midwife shook her head slightly.

‘Don’t start pushing yet, dear. The baby is just thinking about coming out. It’s dropped down into position and needs to rest. I’ll tell you when to start pressing her out.’

‘Her?’ Cornelia gasped between heavy breaths.

The midwife nodded. ‘Boys are always easier births. It’s girls who take as long as this.’ She thanked Clodia as the sponge and cloths were placed next to the wooden birthing chair, ready for the last stages of the labour.

Clodia reached out and took Cornelia’s hand, rubbing it tenderly. A door to the room opened quietly and Aurelia entered, moving quickly to the bed and taking the other hand in her own tight grip. Clodia watched her covertly. Tubruk had told her all about the woman’s problems so that she would be able to deal with any difficulty, but Cornelia’s labour seemed to focus her attention and it was right that she should be present at the birth of her grandchild. With Tubruk gone from the house to complete the business they had discussed, Clodia knew it would fall on her to remove Aurelia if she began her sickness before the birth was over. None of her own servants would dare, but it was not a task Clodia relished and she sent a quick prayer to the household gods that it would not be necessary.

‘We think it will be a daughter,’ Clodia told her as Julius’ mother took up station on the other side.

Aurelia did not reply. Clodia wondered if her stiffness was because she was the lady of the house and Clodia only a slave, but dismissed the idea. The rules were relaxed during a labour and Tubruk had said she had trouble with the small things that people took for granted.

Cornelia cried out and the midwife nodded sharply.

‘It’s time,’ she said, turning to Aurelia. ‘Are you up to helping us, dear?’

When there was no answer, the midwife asked again, much louder. Aurelia seemed to come out of a daze.

‘I’d like to help,’ she said quietly and the midwife paused, weighing her up. Then she shrugged.

‘All right, but it could be hours. If you’re not up to it, send in a strong girl to help in your stead. Understand?’

Aurelia nodded, her attention again on Cornelia as she got into position to help take her weight over to the chair.

As Clodia too began to lift, she marvelled at the confidence the midwife showed. Of course, she was a freedwoman, so the days of her slavery were long behind, but there was not an ounce of deference in her manner. Clodia rather liked her and resolved to be as strong as was needed herself.

The chair was built solidly and had arrived on a cart with the midwife a few days before. Together, the women walked Cornelia to where it stood, close to the bed. She gripped the arms tightly, letting her whole weight fall on the narrow curve of the seat. The midwife knelt in front of Cornelia, pushing her legs gently apart over the deep crescent cut into the old wood.

‘Press yourself against the back of the chair,’ she advised, then turned to Clodia. ‘Don’t let it tip backwards. I’ll have another job for you when the baby is showing her head, but for now, that’s your task, understood?’

Clodia took up position with the weight of her hip braced against the chair back.

‘Aurelia? I want you to push down on the abdomen when I say, not before. Is that clear?’

Aurelia placed her hands on the swollen belly and waited patiently, her eyes clear.

‘It’s starting again,’ Cornelia said, wincing.

‘That’s as it should be, my girl. The baby wants to come out. Let it build and I’ll tell you when to push.’ Her hands rubbed more oil into Cornelia and she smiled.

‘Shouldn’t be long now. Ready? Now, girl, push! Aurelia, press down gently.’

Together, they pressed and Cornelia wailed in pain. Again and again they tensed and released until the contraction had gone and Cornelia was drenched in perspiration, her hair wet and dark.

‘Getting the head out is the worst of it,’ the midwife said. ‘You’re doing well, dear. A lot of women scream all the way through. Clodia, I want you to press a piece of cloth against her bottom during the spasms. She won’t thank us if there are grapes hanging there at the end.’

Clodia did as she was told, reaching down between the chair-back and Cornelia and holding the pad steady.

‘Not long now, Cornelia,’ she said, comfortingly.

Cornelia managed a weak smile. Then the contractions built again, a tightening of every muscle that was frightening in its power. She had never known anything like it and almost felt a spectator in her own body as it moved to rhythms of its own, with a strength she didn’t know she had. She felt the pressure build and build, then suddenly disappear, leaving her exhausted.

‘No more,’ she whispered.

‘I have the head, dear. The rest is easier,’ the midwife replied, her voice calm and cheerful. Aurelia rubbed her hands over the swelling, leaning over the chair to see between Cornelia’s shaking legs.

The midwife held the baby’s head in her hands, which were wrapped in coarse cloth to prevent slipping. The eyes were closed and the head appeared misshapen, distended, but the midwife seemed not to worry and urged them on as the next contraction hit and the rest of the baby slid into her hands. Cornelia sagged back into the chair, her legs feeling like water. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, and she could only nod her thanks as Aurelia wiped her brow with a cool cloth.

‘We have a girl!’ the midwife said as she took a small sharp knife to the cord. ‘Well done, ladies. Clodia, fetch me a hot coal to make a seal.’

‘Aren’t you going to tie it?’ Clodia asked as she stood.

The midwife shook her head, using her hands to clear the baby’s skin of blood and membranes. ‘Burning’s cleaner. Hurry up, my knees are aching.’

Another heaving contraction brought a slithering mess of dark flesh out of Cornelia with a final cry of exhaustion. The midwife motioned to Aurelia to clear it away. Julius’ mother attended to the afterbirth without a thought, now used to the woman’s authority. She felt a glow of unaccustomed happiness as the new reality sank in. She had a granddaughter. Aurelia glanced at her hands covertly, relieved to see the shaking was absent.

A cry cut the air and suddenly the women were smiling. The midwife checked the limbs, her movements quick and practised.

‘She will be fine. A little blue, but turning pink already. She will have fair hair like her mother unless it darkens. A beautiful child. Have you the swaddling cloths?’

Aurelia handed them to her as Clodia returned, holding a tiny hot coal in iron tongs. The midwife pressed it to the tiny stump of cord with a sizzle and the baby screamed with renewed vigour as she set about wrapping the child tightly, leaving only her head free.

‘Have you thought of a name for her?’ she asked Cornelia.

‘If it was a boy, I was going to name him after his father, Julius. I always thought it … she would be a boy.’

The midwife stood with the baby in her arms, taking in Cornelia’s pale skin and exhaustion.

‘There’s plenty of time to think of names. Help Cornelia onto the bed to rest, ladies, while I gather my things.’

The sound of a fist striking the estate gates could be heard as a low booming in the birthing room. Aurelia lifted her head and stood.

‘Tubruk usually opens the gate for visitors,’ she said, ‘but he has deserted us.’

‘Only for a few weeks, mistress,’ Clodia replied quickly, feeling guilty. ‘He said the business in the city would not take longer than that.’

Aurelia seemed not to hear the reply as she left the room.

Julius’ mother walked slowly and carefully out into the front yard, wincing at the bright sunlight after so long indoors. Two of her servants waited patiently by the gate, but knew better than to open it without her agreement, no matter who was standing there. It was a rule Tubruk had enforced ever since the riots years before. He seemed to care for the safety of the house, yet had left her alone as he had promised he would never do. She composed her expression, noticing a small drop of blood on her sleeve as she did so. Her right hand shook slightly and she gripped it in the other, willing the fit down.

‘Open the gate!’ came a man’s voice from the other side, his fist banging on the wood yet again.

Aurelia signalled to the servants and they removed the bracing beam, pulling the gate open for the visitor. Aurelia saw they were both armed, another rule of Tubruk’s.

Three mounted soldiers entered, resplendent in gleaming armour and helmet-plumes. They were dressed as if for a parade and the sight of them sent a chill through Aurelia.

Why wasn’t Tubruk here? He would be able to handle this so much better than she could.

One of the men dismounted, his movements easy and assured. Holding the reins bunched in one hand, he handed Aurelia a roll of vellum sealed with thick wax. She took it and waited, watching him. The soldier shuffled his feet as he realised Aurelia was not going to speak.

‘Orders, mistress. From our master the Dictator of Rome.’

Still, Aurelia was silent, gripping the hand that held the scroll with the other, her knuckles showing white.

‘Your daughter by marriage is here and Sulla orders her presence before him in the city immediately,’ the man continued, realising that unless he spoke, she might never open the scroll that confirmed the orders with Sulla’s personal seal.

Aurelia found her voice as the shaking steadied in her for a moment.

‘She has just given birth. She cannot be moved. Return in three days and I will have her ready to travel.’

The soldier’s face hardened slightly, his patience unravelling. Who did this woman think she was?

‘Mistress, she will be made ready now. Sulla has ordered her to the city and she will be on the road immediately, willing or not. I will wait here, but I expect to see her in a few minutes at most. Do not make us come in to fetch her.’

Aurelia paled slightly.

‘Wh … what about the child?’

The soldier blinked. There was no child mentioned in his orders, but careers were not made by disappointing the Dictator of Rome.

‘The child too. Make them both ready.’ His expression softened a little. It would hurt nothing to be kind and the woman looked very fragile suddenly. ‘If you have a cart and horses that can be harnessed quickly, they can travel in that.’

Aurelia turned without another word and disappeared into the buildings. The soldier looked up at his two companions, his eyebrows raised.

‘I told you this would be easy. I wonder what he wants with the woman.’

‘Depends who the father is, I should think,’ one replied, winking lewdly.

Tubruk sat stiffly in the chair, nodding as he took the wine offered to him. The man he faced was his own age and they had been friends for the best part of thirty years.

‘I still have difficulty recognising I am not the young man I was,’ Fercus said, smiling ruefully. ‘I used to have mirrors all round my house, but every time I passed one, I would be surprised at the old man peering out at me. Still, the body fails, but the mind remains relatively sharp.’

‘I should hope so; you are not old,’ Tubruk replied, trying to relax and enjoy his friend’s company as he had so many times over the years.

‘You think not? Many of those we knew have gone on to cause mischief in the silent lands by now. Disease took Rapas and he was the strongest man I ever met. At the end, they say his son put him over his shoulder to carry him out into the sun. Can you imagine anyone putting that great ox over their shoulder? Even a son of his! It is a terrible thing to grow old.’

‘You have Ilita and your daughters. She hasn’t left you yet?’ Tubruk murmured.

Fercus snorted into his wine. ‘Not yet, though she still threatens to every year. In truth, you need a good, fat woman yourself. They hold off the old age wonderfully, you know. And keep your feet warm at night, as well.’

‘I am too set in my ways for new love,’ Tubruk replied. ‘Where would I find a woman willing to put up with me? No, I’ve found a family of sorts at the estate. I can’t imagine another.’

Fercus nodded, his eyes missing nothing of the tension that filled the old gladiator’s frame. He was prepared to wait until Tubruk felt ready to broach the reason for his sudden visit. He knew the man well enough not to hurry him, just as he knew that he would help in any way he could. It wasn’t simply a matter of the debts he owed, though they were many; it was the fact that Tubruk was a man he respected and liked. There was no malice in him and he was strong in ways that Fercus had rarely seen.

Mentally, he tallied up his holdings and available gold. If it was a matter of money that was needed, there had been better times, but he had reserves and debts of his own that could be called in.

‘How’s business?’ Tubruk asked, unconsciously matching Fercus’ own thoughts.

Fercus shrugged, but stopped the light reply before it left his lips.

‘I have funds,’ he said. ‘There is always a need for slaves in Rome, as you know.’

Tubruk looked steadily at the man who had once sold him to be trained for combat in front of thousands. Even then, as a young quarry slave who knew nothing of the world or the training to come, he had seen that Fercus was never cruel to those who passed through his sales. He remembered despairing on the night before he was sent to the training pens, when his mind turned to ways of ending his life. Fercus had stopped by him as he walked his rounds and told him that if he had heart and strength, he could buy himself free and still have most of his life ahead of him.

‘I will come back on that day and kill you,’ Tubruk had said to the man.

Fercus had held his gaze for a long time before replying. ‘I hope not,’ he had said. ‘I hope you will ask me to share a cup of wine.’

The younger Tubruk had been unable to reply, but later the words were a comfort to him, just to know that one day there could be the freedom to sit and drink in the sun, his own master. On the day he was free, he had walked through the city to Fercus’ home and placed an amphora on the table. Fercus had set up two cups next to it and their friendship had begun without bitterness.

If there was anyone in the world outside the estate that he could trust, then Fercus was the man, but still he was silent as he went over the plans he had made since Clodia had come to see him. Surely there was another way? The course he followed sickened him, but he knew if he was prepared to die to protect Cornelia, then he could surely do this.

Fercus stood and gripped Tubruk’s arm.

‘You are troubled, my old friend. Whatever it is, ask me.’ His eyes were steady as Tubruk looked up at him and held the gaze, the past open between them.

‘Can I trust you with my life?’ Tubruk asked.

Fercus gripped his arm all the tighter in response, then settled back into his seat.

‘You don’t have to ask. My daughter was dying before you found a midwife to save her. I would have died myself at the hands of those thieves if you had not fought them off. I owe such a debt to you that I thought I would never have the chance to repay it. Ask me.’

Tubruk took a deep breath.

‘I want you to sell me back into slavery – to the house of Sulla,’ he said quietly.

Julius barely felt Cabera’s hands as they lifted his eyelids. The world seemed alternately dark and bright to him and his head was filled with a red agony. He heard Cabera’s voice from far away and tried to curse him for disturbing the darkness.

‘His eyes are wrong,’ someone said. Gaditicus? The name meant nothing, though he knew the voice. Was his father there? Distant memories of lying in darkness on the estate came to him and merged with his thoughts. Was he still in bed after Renius had cut him in training? Were his friends out on the walls turning back the slave rebellion without him? He struggled slightly and felt hands pressing him down. He tried to speak, but his voice would not obey, though a mushy sound came out, like the moan of a dying bullock.

‘That is not a good sign,’ Cabera’s voice came. ‘The pupils are different sizes and he is not seeing me. His left eye has filled with blood, though that will pass in a few weeks. See how red it is. Can you hear me, Julius? Gaius?’

Julius could not answer even to his childhood name. A weight of blackness pressed them all away from him.

Cabera stood up and sighed.

‘The helmet saved his life, at least, but the blood from his ears is not good. He may recover, or he may remain like this. I have seen it before with head wounds. The spirit can be crushed.’ The grief was clear in his voice and Gaditicus was reminded that the healer had come aboard with Julius and had a history that went back further than the time on Accipiter.

‘Do what you can for him. There’s a good chance we’ll all see Rome again if they get the money they want. At least for a while, we’re worth more alive than dead.’

Gaditicus fought to keep the despair from his voice. A captain who had lost his ship was not likely to find another. Trussed helpless on the deck of the second trireme, he had watched his beloved Accipiter sink beneath the sea in a swirl of bubbles and driftwood. The slaves at the oars had not been released and their screams had been desperate and hoarse until the waters took the ship. His career too had sunk with her, he knew.

The struggle had been brutal, but most of his men had finally been cut down, overwhelmed and attacked on two sides. Again and again, Gaditicus played over the short battle in his mind, looking for ways he could have won. Always he finished by shrugging, telling himself to forget the loss, but the humiliation stayed with him.

He had thought of taking his life to deny them his ransom and the shame it would cause his family. If they could even raise the money.

It would have been easier on them if he had gone down with Accipiter like so many of his men. Instead, he was left to sit in his own filth with the twelve surviving officers and Cabera who had escaped by offering to use his skills as a healer for the pirates. There were always those with wounds that would not close and infections that clung to their genitals after whores in lonely ports. The old man had been busy since the battle and was only allowed to see them once a day to check their own wounds and dressings.

Gaditicus shifted slightly, scratching at the lice and fleas that had infested him since the first night in the cramped and filthy cell. Somewhere above, the men that held them captive swaggered about on the trireme’s decks, rich with prisoners for ransom and the chests of silver stolen from Accipiter’s hold. It had been a profitable risk for them and he grimaced as he recalled their arrogance and triumph.

One of the men had spat in his face after his hands and feet were tied. Gaditicus flushed with anger as he thought of it. The man had been blind in one eye, his face a mass of old scars and stubbly bristle. The white eye had seemed to peer at the Roman captain and the man’s cackle almost made him show his anger and humiliate himself further by struggling. Instead, he had stared impassively, only grunting when the little man kicked him in the stomach and walked away.

‘We should try to escape,’ Suetonius whispered, leaning in close enough for Gaditicus to smell his breath.

‘Caesar can’t be moved at the moment, so put it out of your mind. It will take a few months for the ransom messages to reach the city and a few more for the money to come back to us, if it comes at all. We will have more than enough time to plan.’

Prax too had been spared by the pirates. Without his armour, he seemed much more ordinary. Even his belt had been taken in case the heavy buckle could be used as a weapon and he constantly hitched up his bracae. Of all of them, he had taken the change in fortunes with the least obvious anger, his natural patience helping to keep them all steady.

‘The lad’s right though, Captain. There’s a good chance they’ll just drop us all overboard when they get the silver from Rome. Or the Senate could stop our families making the payment, preferring to forget us.’

Gaditicus bristled. ‘You forget yourself, Prax. The Senate are Romans as well, for all your poor opinions of them. They won’t let us be forgotten.’

Prax shrugged. ‘Still, we should make plans. If this trireme meets another Roman galley, we’ll be sent over the side if they look like boarding us. A bit of chain around our feet would do the job nicely.’

Gaditicus met the eyes of his optio for a few moments. ‘All right. We’ll work out a few things, but if the chance comes, I’m not leaving anyone behind. Caesar has a broken arm as well as the head injury. It will be weeks before he can stand, even.’

‘If he survives,’ Suetonius put in.

Cabera looked at the young officer, his gaze sharp.

‘He is strong, this one, and he has an expert healer tending him.’

Suetonius looked away from the old man’s intense stare, suddenly embarrassed.

Gaditicus broke the silence. ‘Well, we have the time to consider all outcomes, gentlemen. We have plenty of that.’