Читать книгу The Gates of Rome - Conn Iggulden - Страница 10

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.