Читать книгу The Gates of Rome - Conn Iggulden - Страница 8

That summer saw the start of the boys’ formal education. From the beginning, they were both treated equally, with Marcus also receiving the training necessary to run a complex estate, albeit a minor one. In addition to continuing the formal Latin that had been drummed into them since birth, they were taught about famous battles and tactics as well as how to manage men and handle money and debts. When Suetonius left to be an officer in an African legion the following year, both Gaius and Marcus had begun to learn Greek rhetoric and the skills of debate that they would need if, as young senators later on, they ever chose to prosecute or defend a citizen on a matter of law.

Although the three hundred members of the Senate met only twice each lunar month, Gaius’ father Julius remained in Rome for longer and longer periods, as the Republic struggled to deal with new colonies and the swiftly growing wealth and power. For months, the only adults Gaius and Marcus would see were Aurelia and the tutors, who arrived at the main house at dawn and left with the sun sinking behind them and denarii jingling in their pockets. Tubruk was always there too, a friendly presence who stood no nonsense from the boys. Before Suetonius had left, the old gladiator had walked the five miles to the main house of the neighbouring estate and waited eleven hours, from dawn to dusk, to be admitted to see the eldest son of the house. He didn’t tell Gaius what had transpired, but had returned with a smile and ruffled Gaius’ hair with his big hand before going down to the stables to see to the new mares as they came into season.

Of all the tutors, Gaius and Marcus enjoyed the hours with Vepax the best. He was a young Greek, tall and thin in his toga. He always arrived at the estate on foot and carefully counted the coins he earned before walking back to the city. They met with him for two hours each week in a small room Gaius’ father had set aside for the lessons. It was a bare place, with a stone-flagged floor and unadorned walls. With the other tutors, droning through the verses of Homer and Latin grammar, the two boys often fidgeted on the wooden benches, or drifted in concentration until the tutor noticed and brought them back with sharp smacks from the cane. Most were strict and it was difficult to get away with much with only the two of them to take up the master’s attention. One time, Marcus had used his stylus to draw a picture of a pig with a tutor’s beard and face. He had been caught trying to show it to Gaius and had to hold out his hand for the stick, suffering miserably through three sharp blows.

Vepax didn’t carry a cane. All he ever had with him was a heavy cloth bag full of clay tablets and figures, some blue and some red to show different sides. By the appointed hour, he would have cleared the benches to one side of the room and set out his figures to represent some famous battle of the past. After a year of this, their first task was to recognise the structure and name the generals involved. They knew Vepax would not limit himself to Roman battles; sometimes the tiny horse and legionary figures were representing Parthia or ancient Greece or Carthage. Knowing Vepax was Greek himself, the boys had pushed the young man to show them the battles of Alexander, thrilled by the legends and what he had achieved at such a young age. At first, Vepax had been reluctant, not wanting to be seen to favour his own history, but he had allowed himself to be persuaded and showed them every major battle where records and maps survived. For the Greek wars, Vepax never opened a book, placing and moving each piece from memory.

He told the boys the names of the generals and the key players in each conflict as well as the history and politics when they had a direct bearing on the day. He made the little clay pieces come alive for Marcus and Gaius, and every time it came to the end of the two hours they would look longingly at them as he packed them away in his bags, slowly and carefully.

One day, as they arrived, they found most of the little room covered in the clay characters. A huge battle had been set out and Gaius counted the blue characters quickly, then the red, multiplying it in his head as he had been taught by the arithmetic tutor.

‘Tell me what you see,’ Vepax said quietly to Gaius.

‘Two forces, one of more than fifty thousand, the other nearly forty. The red is … the red is Roman, judging by the heavy infantry placed to the front in legion squares. They are supported by cavalry on the right and left wings, but they are matched by the blue cavalry facing them. There are slingers and spearmen on the blue side, but I can’t see any archers, so missile attacks will be over a very short range. They seem roughly matched. It should be a long and difficult battle.’

Vepax nodded. ‘The red side is indeed Roman, well-disciplined veterans of many battles. What if I told you the blues were a mixed group, made up of Gauls, Spaniards, Numidians and Carthaginians? Would that make a difference to the outcome?’

Marcus’ eyes gleamed with interest. ‘It would mean we were looking at Hannibal’s forces. But where are his famous elephants? Didn’t you have elephants in your bag?’ Marcus looked hopefully over at the limp cloth sack.

‘It is Hannibal the Romans were facing, but by this battle, his elephants had died. He managed to find more later and they were terrifying at the charge, but here he had to make do without them. He is outnumbered by two legions. His force is mixed where the Roman one is unified. What other factors might affect the outcome?’

‘The land,’ Gaius cried. ‘Is he on a hill? His cavalry could smash …’

Vepax waved a hand gently.

‘The battle took place on a plain. The weather was cool and clear. Hannibal should have lost. Would you like to see how he won?’

Gaius stared at the massed pieces. Everything was against the blue forces. He looked up.

‘Can we move the pieces as you explain?’

Vepax smiled. ‘Of course. Today I will need both of you to make the battle move as it did once before. Take the Roman side, Gaius. Marcus and I will take Hannibal’s force.’

Smiling, the three faced each other over the ranks of figures.

‘The battle of Cannae, one hundred and twenty-six years ago. Every man who fought in the battle is dust, every sword rusted away, but the lessons are still there to be learned.’

Vepax must have brought every clay soldier and horse he had to form this battle, Gaius realised. Even with each piece representing a five hundred, they took up most of the available room.

‘Gaius, you are Aemilius Paulus and Terentius Varro, experienced Roman commanders. Line by line you will advance straight at the enemy, allowing no deviation and no slackness in discipline. Your infantry is superb and should do well against the ranks of foreign swordsmen.’

Thoughtfully, Gaius began moving his infantry forward, group by group.

‘Support with your cavalry, Gaius. They must not be left behind or you could be flanked.’

Nodding, Gaius brought the small clay horses up to engage the heavy cavalry Hannibal commanded.

‘Marcus. Our infantry must hold. We will advance to meet them, and our cavalry will engage theirs on the wings, holding them.’

Heads bowed, all three moved figures in silence until the armies had shifted together, face to face. Gaius and Marcus imagined the snorts of the horses and the war cries splitting the air.

‘And now, men die,’ Vepax murmured. ‘Our infantry begin to buckle in the centre as they meet the best-trained enemy they have ever faced.’ His hands flew out and switched figure after figure to new positions, urging the boys along as they went.

On the floor in front of them, the Roman legions pushed back Hannibal’s centre, which buckled before them, close to rout.

‘They cannot hold,’ Gaius whispered, as he saw the great crescent bow that grew deeper as the legions forced themselves forward. He paused and looked over the whole field. The cavalry were stationary, held in bloody conflict with the enemy. His mouth dropped as Marcus and Vepax continued to move pieces and suddenly the plan was clear to him.

‘I would not go further in,’ he said and Vepax’s head came up with a quizzical expression.

‘So soon, Gaius? You have seen a danger that neither Paulus nor Varro saw until it was too late. Move your men forward, the battle must be played out.’ He was clearly enjoying himself, but Gaius felt a touch of irritation at having to follow through moves that would lead to the destruction of his armies.

The legions marched through the Carthaginian forces and the enemy let them in, falling back quickly and without haste, losing as few men as possible to the advancing line. Hannibal’s forces were moving from the back of the field to the sides, swelling the trap, and, after what Vepax said was only a couple of hours, the entire Roman force was submerged in the enemy on three sides, which slowly closed behind them until they were caught in a box of Hannibal’s making. The Roman cavalry were still held by equally skilled forces and the final scene needed little explanation to reveal the horror of it.

‘Most of the Romans could not fight, trapped as they were in the middle of their own close formations. Hannibal’s men killed all day long, tightening the trap until there was no one left alive. It was annihilation on a scale rarely seen before or since. Most battles leave many alive, at least those who run away, but these Romans were surrounded on all sides and had nowhere to flee to.’

The silence stretched for long moments as the two boys fixed the details in their minds and imaginations.

‘Our time is up today, boys. Next week I will show you what the Romans learned from this defeat and others at the hands of Hannibal. Although they were unimaginative here, they brought in a new commander, known for his innovation and daring. He met Hannibal at the battle of Zama fourteen years later and the outcome was very different.’

‘What was his name?’ Marcus asked excitedly.

‘He had more than one. His given name was Publius Scipio, but because of the battles he won against Carthage he was known as Scipio Africanus.’

As Gaius approached his tenth birthday, he was growing into an athletic, well-coordinated lad. He could handle any of the horses, even the difficult ones that required a brutal hand. They seemed to calm at his touch and respond to him. Only one refused to let him remain in the saddle and Gaius had been thrown eleven times when Tubruk sold the beast before the struggle killed one or the other of them.

To some extent, Tubruk controlled the purse of the estate while Gaius’ father was away. He could decide where the profits from grain and livestock would be best spent, using his judgement. It was a great trust and a rare one. It wasn’t up to Tubruk, however, to engage specialist fighters to teach the boys the art of war. That was the decision of the father – as was every other aspect of their upbringing. Under Roman law, Gaius’ father could even have had the boys strangled or sold into slavery if they displeased him. His power in his household was absolute and his goodwill was not to be risked.

Julius returned home for his son’s birthday feast. Tubruk attended him as he bathed away the dust of the journey in the mineral pool. Despite being ten years older than Tubruk, the years sat well on his sun-dark frame as he eased through the water. Steam rose in wisps as a sudden rush of fresh hot water erupted from a pipe into the placid waters of the bath. Tubruk noted the signs of health to himself and was pleased. In silence, he waited for Julius to finish the slow immersion and rest on the submerged marble steps near the inflow pipe, where the water was shallow and warmest.

Julius lay back against the coldness of the pool ledges and raised an eyebrow at Tubruk. ‘Report,’ he said and closed his eyes.

Tubruk stood stiffly and recited the profits and losses of the previous month. He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall and spoke fluently of minute problems and successes without once referring to notes. At last, he came to the end and waited in silence. After a moment, the blue eyes of the only man who’d ever employed him without owning him opened once again and fixed him with a look that had not been melted by the heat of the pool.

‘How is my wife?’

Tubruk kept his face impassive. Was there a point in telling this man that Aurelia had worsened still further? She had been beautiful once, before childbirth had left her close to death for months. Ever since Gaius had come into the world, she had seemed unsteady on her feet, and no longer filled the house with laughter and flowers that she would pick herself out in the far fields.

‘Lucius attends her well, but she is no better … I have had to keep the boys away some days, when the mood has come on her.’

Julius’ face hardened and a heat-fattened vein in his neck started twitching with the load of angry blood.

‘Can the doctors do nothing? They take my aureus pieces without a qualm, but she worsens every time I see her!’

Tubruk pressed his lips together in an expression of regret. Some things must simply be borne, he knew. The whip falls and hurts and you must quietly wait for it to fall no more.

Sometimes she would tear her clothes into rags and sit huddled in a corner until hunger drove her out of her private rooms. Other days, she would be almost the woman he had met and loved when he first came to the estate, but given to long periods of distraction. She would be discussing a crop and suddenly, as if another voice had spoken, she would tilt her head to listen, and you might as well have left the room for all she remembered you.

Another rush of hot water disturbed the slow-dripping silence and Julius sighed like escaping steam.

‘They say the Greeks have much learning in the area of medicine. Hire one of those and dismiss the fools who do her so little good. If any of them claim that only their skills have kept her from being even worse, have him flogged and dumped on the road back to the city. Try a midwife. Women sometimes understand themselves better than we do – they have so many ailments that men do not.’

The blue eyes closed again and it was like a door shutting on an oven. Without the personality, the submerged frame could have been any other Roman. He held himself like a soldier and thin white lines marked the scars of old actions. He was not a man to be crossed and Tubruk knew he had a ferocious reputation in the Senate. He kept his interests small, but guarded those interests fiercely. As a result, the powermongers were not troubled by him and were too lazy to challenge the areas where he was strong. It kept the estate wealthy and they would be able to employ the most expensive foreign doctors that Tubruk could find. Wasted money, he was sure, but what was money for if not to use it when you saw the need?

‘I want to start a vineyard on the southern reaches. The soil there is perfect for a good red.’

They talked over the business of the estate and, again, Tubruk took no notes, nor felt the need after years of reporting and discussing. Two hours after he had entered, Julius smiled at last.

‘You have done well. We prosper and stay strong.’

Tubruk nodded and smiled back. In all the talk, not once had Julius asked after his own health or happiness. They both knew that serious problems would be mentioned and small problems dealt with alone. It was a relationship of trust, not between equals, but between an employer and one whose competence he respected. Tubruk was no longer a slave, but he was a freedman and could never have the total confidence of those born free.

‘There is another matter, a more personal one,’ Julius continued. ‘It is time to train my son in warfare. I have been distracted from my duty as a father to some extent, but there is no greater exercise to a man’s talents than the upbringing of his son. I want to be proud of him and I worry that my absences, which are likely to get worse, will be the breaking of the boy.’

Tubruk nodded, pleased at the words. ‘There are many experts in the city, trainers of boys and the young men of wealthy families.’

‘No. I know of them and some have been recommended to me. I have even inspected the products of this training, visiting city villas to see the young generation. I was not impressed, Tubruk. I saw young men infected with this new philosophical learning, where too much emphasis is placed on improving the mind and not enough on the body and the heart. What good is the ability to play with logic if your fainting soul shrinks away from hardship? No, the fashions in Rome will produce only weaklings, with few exceptions, as I see it. I want Gaius trained by people on whom I can depend – you, Tubruk. I’d trust no other with such a serious task.’

Tubruk rubbed his chin, looking troubled.

‘I cannot teach the skills I learned as a soldier and gladiator, sir. I know what I know, but I don’t know how to pass it on.’

Julius frowned in annoyance, but didn’t press it. Tubruk never spoke lightly.

‘Then spend time making him fit and hard as stone. Have him run and ride for hours each day, over and over until he is fit to represent me. We will find others to teach him how to kill and command men in battle.’

‘What about the other lad, sir?’

‘Marcus? What about him?’

‘Will we train him as well?’

Julius frowned further and he stared off into the past for a few seconds.

‘Yes. I promised his father when he died. His mother was never fit to have the boy, it was her running away that practically killed the old man. She was always too young for him. The last I heard of her, she was little better than a party whore in one of the inner districts, so he stays in my house. He and Gaius are still friends, I take it?’

‘Like twin stalks of corn. They’re always in trouble.’

‘No more. They will learn discipline from now on.’

‘I will see to it that they do.’

Gaius and Marcus listened outside the door. Gaius’ eyes were bright with excitement at what he’d heard. He grinned as he turned to Marcus and dropped the smile as he saw his friend’s pale face and set mouth.

‘What’s wrong, Marc?’

‘He said my mother’s a whore,’ came the hissing reply. Marcus’ eyes glinted dangerously and Gaius choked back his first joking reply.

‘He said he’d heard it – just a rumour. I’m sure she isn’t.’

‘They told me she was dead, like my father. She ran away and left me.’ Marcus stood and his eyes filled with tears. ‘I hope she is a whore. I hope she’s a slave and dying of lung-rot.’ He spun round and ran away, arms and legs flailing in loose misery.

Gaius sighed and rejected the idea of going after him. Marcus would probably go down to the stables and sit in the straw and the shadows for a few hours. If he was followed too soon, there would be angry words and maybe blows. If he was left, it would all have gone with time, the change of mood coming without warning, as his quick thoughts settled elsewhere.

It was his nature and there was no changing it. Gaius pressed his head again to the crack between the door and the frame that allowed him to hear the two men talk of his future.

‘… unchained for the first time, so they say. It should be a mighty spectacle. All of Rome will be there. Not all the gladiators will be indentured slaves – some are freedmen who have been lured back with gold coins. Renius will be there, so the gossips say.’

‘Renius – he must be ancient by now! He was fighting when I was a young man myself,’ Julius muttered in disbelief.

‘Perhaps he needs the money. Some of the men live too richly for their purses, if you understand me. Fame would allow him large debts, but everything has to be paid back in the end.’

‘Perhaps he could be hired to teach Gaius – he used to take pupils, I remember. It has been so long, though. I can’t believe he’ll be fighting again. You will get four tickets then, my interest is definitely aroused. The boys will enjoy a trip into the city proper.’

‘Good – though let us wait until after the lions have finished with ancient Renius before we offer him employment. He should be cheap if he is bleeding a little,’ Tubruk said wryly.

‘Cheaper still if he’s dead. I’d hate to see him go out. He was unstoppable when I was young. I saw him fight in exhibitions against four or five men. One time they even blindfolded him against two. He cut them down in two blows.’

‘I saw him prepare for those matches. The cloth he used allowed in enough light to see the outlines of shapes. That was all the edge he needed. After all, his opponents thought he was blind.’

‘Take a big purse for hiring trainers. The circus will be the place to find them, but I will want your eye for the sound of limb and honour.’

‘I am, as always, your man, sir. I will send a message tonight to collect the tickets on the estate purse. If there is nothing else?’

‘Only my thanks. I know how skilfully you keep this place afloat. While my senatorial colleagues fret at how their wealth is eroded, I can be calm and smile at their discomfort.’ He stood and shook hands in the wrist grip that all legionaries learned.

Tubruk was pleased to note the strength still in the hand. The old bull had a few years in him yet.

Gaius scrambled away from the door and ran down to see Marcus in the stables. Before he had gone more than a little way, he paused and leaned against a cool, white wall. What if he was still angry? No, surely the prospect of circus tickets – with unchained lions no less! – surely this would be enough to burn away his sorrow. With renewed enthusiasm and the sun on his back, he charged down the slopes to the outbuildings of teak and lime plaster that housed the estate’s supply of workhorses and oxen. Somewhere, he heard his mother’s voice calling his name, but he ignored it, as he would a bird’s shrill scream. It was a sound that washed over him and left him untouched.

The two boys found the body of the raven close to where they had first seen it, near the edge of the woods on the estate. It lay in the damp leaves, stiff and dark, and it was Marcus who saw it first, his depression and anger lifting with the find.

‘Zeus,’ he whispered. ‘Tubruk said he was sick.’ He crouched by the track and reached out a hand to stroke the still glossy feathers. Gaius crouched with him. The chill of the woods seemed to get through to both of them at the same time and Gaius shivered slightly.

‘Ravens are bad omens, remember,’ he murmured.

‘Not Zeus. He was just looking for a place to die.’

On an impulse, Marcus picked up the body again, holding it in his hands as he had before. The contrast saddened both of them. All the fight was gone and now the head lay limply, as if held only by skin. The beak hung open and the eyes were shrivelled, hollow pits. Marcus continued to stroke the feathers with his thumb.

‘We should cremate him – give him an honourable funeral,’ said Gaius. ‘I could run back to the kitchens and fetch an oil lamp. We could build a pyre for him and pour some of the oil over it. It would be a good send-off for him.’

Marcus nodded and placed Zeus carefully on the ground.

‘He was a fighter. He deserves something more than just being left to rot. There’s a lot of dry wood around here. I’ll stay to make the pyre.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ Gaius replied, turning to run. ‘Think of some prayers or something.’

He sprinted back to the estate buildings and Marcus was left alone with the bird. He felt a strange solemnity come upon him, as if he was performing a religious rite. Slowly and carefully, he gathered dry sticks and built them into a square, starting with thicker branches that were long dead and building on layers of twigs and dry leaves. It seemed right not to rush.

The woods were quiet as Gaius returned. He too was walking slowly, shielding the small flame of an oily wick where it protruded from an old kitchen lamp. He found Marcus sitting on the dry path, with the black body of Zeus lying on a neat pile of dead wood.

‘I’ll have to keep the flame going while I pour the oil, so it could flare up quickly. We’d better say the prayers now.’

As the evening darkened, the flickering yellow light of the lamp seemed to grow in strength, lighting their faces as they stood by the small corpse.

‘Jupiter, head of all the gods, let this one fly again in the underworld. He was a fighter and he died free,’ Marcus said, his voice steady and low.

Gaius readied the oil for pouring. He held the wick clear, avoiding the little flame and poured on the oil, drenching the bird and the wood in its slipperiness. Then he touched the flame to the pyre.

For long seconds, nothing happened except for a faint sizzling, but then an answering flame spread and blazed with a sickly light. The boys stood and Gaius placed the lamp on the path. They watched with interest as the feathers caught and burned with a terrible stink. The flames flickered over the body and fat smoked and sputtered in the fire. They waited patiently.

‘We could gather the ashes at the end and bury them, or spread them around in the woods or the stream,’ Gaius whispered.

Marcus nodded in silence.

To help the fire, Gaius poured on the rest of the oil from the lamp, extinguishing its small light. Flames grew again and most of the feathers had been burned away, except for those around the head and beak, which seemed obstinate.

Finally, the last of the oil burned to nothing and the fire sank to glowing embers.

‘I think we’ve cooked him,’ whispered Gaius. ‘The fire wasn’t hot enough.’

Marcus took a long stick and poked at the body, now covered in wood ash but still recognisably the raven. The stick knocked the smoking thing right out of the ashes and Marcus spent a few moments trying to roll it back in without success.

‘This is hopeless. Where’s the dignity in this?’ he said angrily.

‘Look, we can’t do any more. Let’s just cover him in leaves.’

The two boys set about gathering armfuls and soon the scorched raven was hidden from view. They were silent as they walked back to the estate, but the reverent mood was gone.