Читать книгу The Death of Kings - Conn Iggulden - Страница 12

Casaverius allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation as he surveyed the long kitchen hall. Everywhere, the bustle of the evening was coming to an end, with the last of the orders served hours before.

‘Perfection is in the detail,’ he murmured to himself as he had done every evening for the ten years he had been employed by Cornelius Sulla. Good years, though his once trim figure had swollen alarmingly in the time. Casaverius leaned back against the smooth plaster wall and continued grinding with his pestle and mortar, preparing a mustard seed paste that Sulla loved. He dipped a finger into the dark mixture and added a little oil and vinegar from the row of narrow-necked pots that hung along the walls. How could a good cook resist tasting his own meals? It was part of the process. His father had been even larger and Casaverius took pride in his heaviness, knowing that only a fool would employ a thin cook.

The brick ovens had been closed to the air for long enough and should have cooled. Casaverius motioned to the slaves that they could be raked clean ready for new charcoal in the morning. The air in the kitchen was still thickly sluggish with heat and he pulled a rag from his belt to wipe his brow. With the weight, he seemed to sweat more, he admitted to himself, pressing the already damp cloth against his face.

He considered finishing the paste in one of the cool rooms where iced dishes were prepared, but hated to leave the slaves unattended. He knew they stole food for their families, and in moderation he could forgive them. Left alone, though, they might grow incautious and who knew what would disappear then? He remembered his father complaining about the same thing in the evenings and quickly whispered a prayer for the old man, wherever he was now.

There was a great peace at the end of a day that had gone well. Sulla’s house was known for fine food and when the call came for something special, he enjoyed the excitement and energy that stole over the staff, starting with the moment of anticipation as he opened his father’s sheaf of recipes, untying the leather thongs that bound the valuable parchments and running his finger down the lettering, taking pleasure from the fact that only he could read them. His father had said that every cook should be an educated man and Casaverius sighed for a moment, his thoughts turning to his own son. The lad spent mornings in the kitchens, but his studies seemed to fly from his mind whenever the day was fine. The boy was a disappointment and Casaverius had come to accept that he might never be able to run a grand kitchen on his own.

Still, there were years left before he would leave his plates and ovens for the last time, retiring to his small home in a good district of the city. Perhaps then he might find time to entertain the guests his wife wanted. Somehow, he never managed to bring his expertise into his own home, being satisfied with simple dishes of meat and vegetables. His stomach grumbled a little at the thought and he saw the slaves were removing their own roasted packages of bread and meat from the ashes of the ovens where they had been placed at the end. It was a small loss to the kitchen to be able to send them back to their quarters with a few hot mouthfuls and it made a friendly atmosphere in the kitchens, he was sure.

The new slave, Dalcius, passed him, bearing a metal tray of spice pots, ready to be placed back on their shelves. Casaverius smiled to him as he began unloading the tray.

He was a good worker and the broker at the sales had not lied when he said he knew his way round a kitchen. Casaverius considered that he might allow him to prepare a dish for the next banquet, under his watchful eye.

‘Make sure the spices go in the right places, Dalcius,’ he said.

The big man nodded, smiling. He certainly wasn’t a talker. That beard might have to be cut off, Casaverius thought. His father had never let a beard into his kitchens, saying they made the place look untidy.

He tasted his mustard paste again and smacked his lips appreciatively, noting that Dalcius finished his task quickly and neatly. From his scars, he looked more like an old fighter, but there was nothing bullish about the man. If there had been, Casaverius couldn’t have had him in the kitchens, where the endless rushing and carrying always meant a few would bump into each other. Bad tempers couldn’t survive down below the rich houses, but Dalcius had proved amiable, if silent.

‘I will need someone to help me tomorrow morning, to prepare the pastries. Would you like to do that?’ Casaverius didn’t realise he was speaking slowly, as if to a child, but Dalcius never seemed to mind and his silences invited the manner. There was no malice in the fat cook, and he was genuinely pleased when Dalcius nodded to him before going back into the stores. A cook had to have an eye for good workers, his father had always said. It was the difference between working yourself into an early grave and achieving perfection.

‘… and perfection is in the detail,’ he murmured again to himself.

At the end of the long kitchen hall, the door to the house above opened and a smartly dressed slave entered. Casaverius straightened, laying his mortar and pestle aside without thought.

‘The master sends his apologies for the late hour and wonders if he may be sent something cold before he sleeps, an ice dish,’ the young man said.

Casaverius thanked him, pleased as always with the courtesy.

‘For all his guests?’ he asked quickly, thinking.

‘No, sir, his guests have departed. Only the general remains.’

‘Wait here, then. I will have it ready in a few moments.’

The kitchens went from end-of-evening stupor to alertness in the time it took Casaverius to issue new orders. Two of the kitchen runners were sent down the steps to the ice rooms, far below the kitchens. Casa strode under a low arch and through a short corridor to where the desserts were prepared.

‘A lemon ice, I think,’ he muttered as he walked. ‘Beautiful bitter southern lemons, made sweet and cold.’

Everything was in place as he entered the cool dessert room. Like the main kitchen, the walls were hung with dozens of amphorae filled with syrups and sauces, made and refilled whenever the kitchens were quiet. There was no hint of the oven heat in there and he felt the sweat chill on his heavy body with a pleasurable shiver.

The ice blocks, wrapped in rough cloth, were brought up in minutes and crushed under his direction until the ice was a fine slurry. To this he added the bitter-sweet lemon and stirred it in, just enough to flavour without overpowering. His father had said the ice must not be yellow and Casaverius smiled as he noted the colour and fine texture, using a ladle to scoop the mixture into the glass bowls on a serving tray.

He worked quickly. Even in the cool room the ice was melting and the journey through the kitchens would have to be fast. He hoped that one day Sulla would allow another passage to be cut in the rock under his luxurious home, so that the iced desserts could be brought straight up. Still, with care and speed, the dishes would reach his table almost intact.

After only a few minutes, the two bowls were full of the white ice and Casaverius sucked his fingers, groaning in exaggerated pleasure. How good it was to taste cold in the summer! He wondered briefly how much silver coin the two bowls represented, but it was an unimaginable sum. Drivers and carts transported huge blocks of ice from the mountains, losing half in the journey. They were brought down to the dripping darkness of the ice rooms below him, there to melt slowly, but giving cool drinks and desserts for all the summer months. He reminded himself to check that the supplies were adequate. It was almost time for a new order.

Dalcius entered the room behind him, still carrying his spice tray.

‘May I watch you prepare the ices? My last master never had them.’

Casaverius motioned him in cheerfully.

‘The work is done. They must be rushed through the kitchens before they begin to melt.’ Dalcius leaned over the table and his arm knocked over the jug of sticky syrup in a wide yellow stain. Casaverius’ good humour vanished on the instant.

‘Quick, you idiot, fetch cloths to clean it up. There is no time to waste.’

The big slave looked terrified and he stammered, ‘I … I’m sorry. I have another tray here, master.’

He held out the tray and Casaverius lifted the bowls, cleaning them quickly with his own sweat-soaked rag. No time to be sensitive, he thought. The ice was melting. He placed the bowls on the tray and wiped his fingers irritably.

‘Don’t just stand there, run! And if you trip over your own feet, I’ll have you whipped.’ Dalcius moved quickly out of the room, and Casaverius began to wipe up the spilled mess. Perhaps the man was too clumsy for more difficult tasks.

Outside in the corridor, it was the work of a moment for Tubruk to empty the vial of poison into the bowls, stirring it in with a finger. That done, he raced through to the kitchen and handed the tray to the waiting slave.

The eyes that had seemed so nervous looked steadily at the retreating back as the door to the house above closed behind him. Now he must escape, but there was bloody work to do first. He sighed. Casaverius was not a bad man, but one day in the future, even with the beard cut off and his hair grown back to its normal length, the cook might still be able to recognise him.

Feeling suddenly weary, he turned back towards the cool rooms, touching the bone-handled knife under his tunic as he walked. He would make sure it looked like a murder rather than suicide. That should keep Casaverius’ family safe from revenge.

‘Did you give him the tray?’ Casa snapped as Tubruk re-entered the small cool room.

‘I did. I am sorry, Casaverius.’

The cook looked up as Tubruk stepped quickly towards him. The man’s voice had deepened slightly and the usual manner was missing. He saw the blade and fear and confusion coursed through him.

‘Dalcius! Put that down!’ he said, but Tubruk shoved the dagger neatly into the fleshy chest, bursting the heart. Twice more he stabbed it home to be sure.

Casaverius fought for breath, but it would not come. His face purpled and his hands flailed, knocking the ladles and jugs off the tables with a crash.

Finally, Tubruk stood, feeling sick. In all his years as a gladiator and a legionary, he had never murdered an innocent and he felt stained by it. Casaverius had been a likeable man and Tubruk knew the gods cried out against those that hurt the good. He steadied himself, trying to drag his gaze away from the fat man’s body where it had slid onto the floor. He left quietly, his footsteps loud in the corridor that led back to the kitchen. Now he had to escape and reach Fercus before the alarm was sounded.

Sulla lolled on a couch, his thoughts drifting away from the conversation with his general, Antonidus. It had been a long day and the Senate seemed to be trying to block his nominations for new magistrates. He had been made Dictator with the mandate of restoring order to the Republic and they had been eager enough to grant his every wish for the first few months. Recently, they had taken up hours of debate with long speeches on the powers and limitations of the office and his advisers had said he should not impose on them too harshly for a while. They were small men, he thought. Small in deed and dreams. Marius would scorn them for fools, if he were still alive.

‘… objections will be raised to the lictors, my friend,’ Antonidus was saying.

Sulla snorted disdainfully.

‘Objections or not, I will continue to have twenty-four of them with me. I have many enemies and I want them to be a reminder of my power as I walk between the Capitol and the Curia.’

Antonidus shrugged.

‘In the past, there have been only twelve. Perhaps it is better to let the Senate have their way on this, to gain strength in more serious negotiation.’

‘They are a pack of toothless old men!’ Sulla snapped. ‘Has not order returned to Rome in the last year? Could they have done it? No. Where was the Senate when I was fighting for my life? What help were they to me then? No. I am their master and they should be made to recognise that simple fact. I am tired of walking carefully around their sensibilities and pretending the Republic is still young and strong.’

Antonidus said nothing, knowing that any objection he made would be met with wilder promises and threats. He had been honoured at first to be taken on as military adviser, but the post had been a hollow one, with Sulla using him only as a puppet for his own orders. Even so, part of him agreed with Sulla’s frustration. The Senate struggled to protect their dignity and old authority, while acknowledging the need for a Dictator to keep the peace in the city and Roman lands. It was farcical and Sulla was quickly tiring of the game.

A slave entered with the ices, placing them on a low table before bowing out of the room. Sulla sat up, his irritation forgotten.

‘You will have to taste these. There is nothing like them for relief from the summer heat.’ He took a silver spoon and ladled the white ice into his mouth, shutting his eyes with pleasure. The bowl was soon empty, and he considered calling for another. His whole body seemed cooler after the ice and his mind was calm. He saw Antonidus had not begun and urged him on.

‘It must be eaten quickly, before it melts. Even then, it can be a wonderfully refreshing drink.’ He watched as the general sampled a spoonful and smiled with him.

Antonidus wanted to finish their business and go home to his family, but knew he could not rise until Sulla became tired. He wondered when that might be.

‘Your new magistrates will be confirmed tomorrow at the Curia,’ he said.

Sulla lay back on his couch, his expression resuming its sulky lines.

‘They had better be. I owe those men favours. If there is another delay, the Senate will regret it, I swear before the gods. I will disband them and have the doors nailed shut!’

He winced slightly as he spoke and his hand drifted to his stomach, rubbing gently.

‘If you choose to disband the Senate, there will be civil war again, with the city in flames once more,’ Antonidus said. ‘However, I suspect you would emerge triumphant at the end. You know you have unwavering support in the legions.’

‘That is the path of kings,’ Sulla replied. ‘It draws and repels me at the same time. I loved the Republic, would still love it now if it was run by the sort of men who ruled when I was a boy. They are all gone now and when Rome calls, the little ones who are left can only run crying to me.’ He belched suddenly, wincing, and as he did so Antonidus felt a worm of pain begin in his own gut. Fear brought him to his feet, his glance falling to the bowls, one empty, one barely touched.

‘What is it?’ Sulla demanded, pulling himself upright, his face twisting in the knowledge even as he spoke. The burning in his belly was spreading and he pressed his hand into himself as if to crush it.

‘I feel it too,’ Antonidus said in panic. ‘It could be poison. Put your fingers down your throat, quickly!’

Sulla staggered slightly, going down onto one knee. He seemed about to pass out and Antonidus reached towards him, ignoring his own smaller pain even as it swelled.

He pushed a finger into the Dictator’s limp mouth, grimacing as a flood of slippery pulp vomited out of him. Sulla moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head.

‘Come on, come on, again,’ Antonidus insisted, pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh of the inner throat. The spasms came, ejecting dark bile and saliva from the lips until the Dictator heaved drily. Then the wrenching chest sagged and the lungs ceased to draw, failing with one last wheezing breath. Antonidus shouted for help and emptied his own stomach, hoping through his fear that he had not taken enough to kill him.

The guards were quick, but they found Sulla already pale and still and Antonidus semi-conscious, spattered with a stinking broth of all they had eaten. He had barely enough strength to rise, but they were frozen, unsure without orders.

‘Fetch doctors!’ he croaked, his throat feeling raw and swollen. The pain in his stomach began to level off and he took his hand away, trying to gather himself.

‘Seal the house. The Dictator has been poisoned!’ he shouted. ‘Send men to the kitchens. I want to know who brought this slop up here and the name of everyone who touched it. Move!’ His strength seemed to leave him in that moment and he let himself sag back onto the couch where he had been so peacefully discussing the Senate only minutes before. He knew he had to act quickly or Rome would erupt in chaos as soon as the news hit the streets. Once more he vomited, and when he was done he felt weak, but his mind began to clear.

When the doctors rushed in they ignored the general to tend to Sulla. They touched him at the wrist and neck and looked at each other in horror.

‘He is gone,’ one of them said, his face white.

‘His killers will be found and torn apart. I swear it on my house and my gods,’ Antonidus whispered, his voice as bitter as the taste in his mouth.

Tubruk reached the small door that led out to the street just as shouts erupted in the main buildings of Sulla’s city home. There was only one guard there, but the man was alert and ready, his face forbidding.

‘Get back on your way, slave,’ he said firmly, his hand on his gladius. Tubruk growled at him and leapt forward, punching him off his feet with a sudden blow. The soldier fell awkwardly, knocked senseless. Tubruk paused, knowing he could step quickly over him, through the little trade entrance and be gone. The man would recognise him and be able to give a description, though he could well be executed for failing to hold the gate. Tubruk took a grip on the despair that had filled him since killing Casaverius. His duty was to Cornelia and Julius – and to the memory of Julius’ father, who had trusted him.

Grimly, he drew his small knife and cut the soldier’s throat, standing clear so as to avoid getting blood on his clothes. The man gurgled with the cut, his eyes clearing for a moment before death took him. Tubruk dropped the knife and opened the gate, stepping out onto the city streets and into the thin crowd of people, walking their peaceful journeys unknowing as the old wolf moved through them.

He had to reach Fercus to be safe, but there was more than a mile to go and though he moved quickly he could not run for fear of someone spotting and chasing him. Behind, he could hear the familiar clatter of soldiers’ sandals as they took up position and began halting the crowds, searching for weapons, looking for a guilty face.

More legionaries ran past him, their gazes sweeping the crowd as they tried to get ahead and close the road. Tubruk took a side street and then another, trying not to panic. They would not know yet who they were looking for, but he had to shave the beard as soon as he was safe. Whatever happened, he knew they must not take him alive. At least then, with luck, they might never link him to the estate and Julius’ family.

As the soldiers began to close the road, a man in the crowd suddenly ran, throwing aside a basket of vegetables he had been carrying. Tubruk thanked the gods for the man’s guilty conscience and tried not to look back as the soldiers brought him down, though the man’s squeal was desperate as they cracked his head onto the stone street. Tubruk walked through turning after turning with hurried steps and the shouting was left behind at last. He slowed his pace in the darkening shadows as he reached the alley that Fercus had told him to make for. At first, he thought it was deserted, but then he saw his friend step out from an unlit doorway and beckon to him. He went inside quickly, his nerves close to breaking, finally collapsing in the dirty little room that meant safety, at least for a while.

‘Did you do it?’ Fercus asked as Tubruk tried to get his breath back and his racing pulse to slow.

‘I think so. We will know tomorrow. They have closed off the streets, but I made it clear. Gods, it was close!’

Fercus handed him a razor and motioned to a bowl of cold water.

‘You still have to get clear of the city, my friend. And that will not be easy if Sulla is dead. If he is alive, it will be next to impossible.’

‘Are you ready to do what you have to?’ Tubruk said quietly, rubbing the water into the bushy growth that covered his face.

‘I am, though it hurts me to do it.’

‘Not as much as it will hurt me. Do it quickly once I have shaved.’

He noticed his hand trembled as he used the narrow blade and cursed to himself as he cut the skin.

‘Let me do it,’ Fercus said, taking the razor from him. For a few minutes there was silence between them, though their thoughts ran wildly.

‘Did you get out without being seen?’ Fercus asked as he worked at the stubborn bristle. Tubruk didn’t answer for a long time.

‘No. I had to kill two innocent men.’

‘The Republic can stand a little blood on its hem if Sulla’s death restores equality to Rome. I cannot regret what you have done, Tubruk.’

Tubruk remained silent as the blade cut away the last of his beard. He rubbed his face, his eyes sad.

‘Do it now, while I feel numb.’

Fercus took a deep breath, walking around to face the old gladiator. There was nothing left of the shambling Dalcius in his strong face.

‘Perhaps …’ Fercus began hesitantly.

‘It is the only way. We discussed this. Do it!’ Tubruk gripped the arms of the chair as Fercus raised a fist and began to beat his face into an unrecognisable mess. He felt his nose break along old lines and spat onto the floor. Fercus breathed heavily and Tubruk coughed, wincing.

‘Don’t stop … yet,’ he whispered through the pain, wanting it to be over.

When they were finished, Fercus would return with Tubruk to his own home, leaving the rented room behind without a trace of them. Tubruk would be chained into a coffle of slaves leaving the city, his face swollen. His final act before the slave market had been to sign a chit of sale under his own name. Fercus would deliver one more anonymous slave to the estate outside the city, ready for a back-breaking life of work in the fields.

At last, Tubruk raised a hand and Fercus stopped, panting and amazed at how much effort the beating had taken to give. The man who sat in the chair bore only a small resemblance to the one who had come in from the streets. He was satisfied.

‘I never beat my slaves,’ he muttered.

Tubruk raised his head slowly.

‘You have not beaten one now,’ he said, swallowing blood.

Brutus ducked below a ridge of stone, panting. Their pursuers had brought bows and his quick glimpse had shown two archers hanging back while the others crept cautiously towards their position. As soon as he and Renius were forced to show themselves, the shafts would bite into them and it would be over.

Brutus pressed as closely as he could to the dark rock, thinking furiously. He was sure he’d recognised Livia’s husband as one of the archers, so it looked as if the man had been persuaded of her innocence while there was no one to argue with her. No doubt she would welcome him home as a hero if he dragged Brutus’ body behind him.

The thought of her warmed Brutus for a moment. Her dull husband would probably never appreciate what he had.

Renius had given his dagger to the younger man, preferring the solid weight of his gladius. Brutus had his own sword sheathed and a small blade in each hand as he waited. He knew he could throw them well enough to kill, but they would hardly give him a chance to aim before the archers sighted on him. It would be close.

He put his head over the ridge and took in the positions of the men climbing towards him. The archers shouted a warning to their companions, but Brutus was already out of sight and moving to a new position. This time, he rose fully and sent one knife flashing before he threw himself down.

A shaft buzzed overhead, but Brutus grinned as he heard the knife strike flesh. He moved again, further along the ridge near to Renius, the second knife ready in his hand.

‘I think you just scratched him,’ Renius muttered.

Brutus frowned at him for disturbing his concentration, flushing as a stream of raging oaths sounded over the crest.

‘And annoyed him,’ Renius added.

Brutus tensed for another attempt. He would have loved to aim at one of the archers, but the bows could just be picked up by another and they stood furthest from the small ridge that hid the Romans.

He leapt up to find one of them almost on top of him. The man gaped at the sudden apparition and Brutus sank the blade into his exposed throat, dropping back and scrambling away on his stomach, raising dust.

Two more came at Brutus then, swinging blades. He rose to meet them, trying to keep an eye on the archers behind and spoil their aim with sudden steps left and right.

A shaft creased the air by his legs as the first Greek was impaled on his gladius. Brutus hung on to the slumping body, using it as a shield. Though he was dying, the man shouted and swore at Brutus as the young man danced him to one side and then another. An arrow came from nowhere to spear into the man’s back and blood spilled out of his mouth onto Brutus’ face. Brutus swore and heaved the body into the arms of his companion, then whipped his gladius up into the man’s groin in the classic legion thrust. They fell away in silence onto the shrubs and flowers and Brutus found himself looking at Livia’s husband at the moment he released his arrow.

He began to move, but the blurring shaft reached him as he turned, knocking him onto his back. The armour had saved him and Brutus blessed his gods for luck as he rolled. He came up to see Renius punch Livia’s husband flat before facing the last of them, who stood terrified, with his arms quivering under the strain of the bow.

‘Easy, boy,’ Renius called to him. ‘Go down to your horse and go home. If you fire that thing, I’ll bite your throat out.’

Brutus took a pace towards Renius, but the old gladiator held out a hand to stop him.

‘He knows what he has to do, Brutus. Just give him a little time,’ Renius said clearly. The young man holding the taut bow shook his head, looking pale with tension. Livia’s husband writhed on the ground and Renius pressed a foot onto his neck to hold him.

‘You’ve had your battle, boys, now go home and impress your wives with the story,’ Renius continued, gently increasing the pressure so that Livia’s husband began to claw at his foot, choking.

The archer eased his grip and took two paces away.

‘Let him go,’ he said in a heavy accent.

Renius shrugged. ‘Throw your bow away first.’

The young man hesitated long enough for Livia’s husband to go purple and then threw the bow over the rocks behind him with a clatter. Renius removed his foot, allowing Livia’s husband to scramble up, wheezing. The old gladiator didn’t make a move as the two young Greeks put distance between them.

‘Wait!’ Brutus called suddenly, freezing them all. ‘You have three horses you don’t need down there. I want two of them.’

Cornelia sat with her back straight, her eyes bright with worry as she faced Antonidus, the one they called Sulla’s dog.

The man was merciless, she knew, and he watched every change in her face as he questioned her with a terrifying concentration. She had heard nothing good of Sulla’s general and she had to fight not to show fear or relief at the news he had brought. Her daughter was asleep in her arms. She had decided to call her Julia.

‘Your father, Cinna, does he know you are here?’ he asked, his voice clipped as his gaze bored into her.

She shook her head slightly. ‘I do not think so. Sulla called for me from my husband’s home outside the city. I have been waiting in these rooms with my baby for days now, without seeing anyone except slaves.’

The general frowned, as if something she had said didn’t ring true, but his eyes never left hers.

‘Why did Sulla summon you?’

She swallowed nervously and knew he had seen it. What could she tell him? That Sulla had raped her with her daughter crying at her side? He might laugh or, worse, think she was trying to blacken the great man’s name after his death and have her killed.

Antonidus watched her writhe in worry and fear and wanted to slap her. She was beautiful enough for it to be obvious why she had been summoned, though he wondered how Sulla could have been aroused by a body still loose from birth.

He wondered if her father had been behind the murder and almost cursed as he realised there was yet another name to add to the list of enemies. His informants had told him Cinna was on business in the north of Italy, but assassins could have been sent from there. He stood suddenly. He prided himself on his ability to spot a liar, but she was either witless or knew nothing.

‘Don’t travel. Where will you be if I need to bring you back here?’

Cornelia thought for a moment, fighting the sudden elation. She was going to be released! Should she return to the town house or travel back to Julius’ family estate?

Clodia was probably still there, she thought.

‘I will be outside the city at the house where I was sought before.’

Antonidus nodded, his thoughts already on the problems he faced.

‘I am sorry for the tragedy,’ she forced herself to say.

‘Those responsible will suffer greatly,’ he said, his voice hard. Again, she felt the intensity of his interest in her, making her own expression seem false under his scrutiny.

After a moment more, he stood and walked away across the marble floor. The baby awoke and began to whimper to be fed. Alone and deprived of a nurse, Cornelia bared her breast to the child’s mouth and tried not to cry.