Читать книгу Atilus the Gladiator - E. C. Tubb - Страница 8

CHAPTER FOUR

It was a large house situated to the north of town and set back some distance from the paved, straight line of the Appian Way. The walls were featureless, plain areas unbroken by windows, marked only by the outlines of a door to either side of which burned torches set in bronze cressets.

I arrived at the end of the first watch as the message had bidden, a delay which had given me time to learn a little about Cossus Bassius. He was a wealthy merchant dealing with the east and importing silk, spices, perfumes, and expensive glassware. A rich man and a cautious one. In the bushes surrounding the house I caught a glimpse of movement and heard the rustle of leaves. Darkness shrouded the area, the pools of light thrown by the torches doing little to relieve the gloom. Framed by them, I was a good target for any bowman, an easy mark for a thrown spear, but who, in this place, would want to take my life?

Even so, I was relieved when the door opened to my knock and a slave ushered me into the atrium where a woman came forward to meet me.

‘Atilus!’ Her hands reached out to touch my own. ‘Welcome to this house. It was gracious of you to accept my invitation.’

I recognised Racilia Rubinia, Bassius’ wife, from the description I had been given. She was in her early thirties, a woman of medium height, her figure somewhat full beneath her embroidered stola. Her hair, neatly arranged in a series of tight ringlets, framed her face with auburn curls. Her lips were full, the lower pouting with betraying sensuosity. Her eyes, deep-set, were a sparkling blue. About her hung the aroma of roses.

‘Domina.’ I bowed as courtesy demanded. ‘How may I serve you?’

‘Such directness!’ Her laughter tinkled as if it were water cascading from a fountain. ‘Here I am, a bored and restless woman who has asked you to spend a few hours in her company for the sake of harmless conversation, and immediately you demand to know what I want.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘Put it into as many words, that is true,’ she interrupted. ‘But the thought was there, as you must admit.’

‘How can I deny it?’ Smiling, I looked into her eyes as she stood before me, face uplifted. ‘And yet, Domina, it would be an honour to serve you in any capacity.’

‘A courtier,’ she mused. ‘I am pleasantly surprised. And a good-looking one at that. Is it true that you come from Britain?’

‘Yes.’

‘A barbarian and yet you don’t look like one.’ And then, without a change of tone, she said, ‘And were you once a slave owned by Publius Varus Severus?’

I said, tightly, ‘You seem to know a great deal about me.’

‘More than you think, Atilus. Now, shall we join the others?’

They reclined on couches in the open, inner courtyard, massed lamps casting a soft, yellow illumination over the table, which was heaped with a variety of dishes containing fruit, nuts, small cakes dusted with saffron and coated with honey. As I sat and washed my hands in the bowl proffered by a slave, others came forward carrying salvers piled with succulent dainties: portions of meat and fish, small birds boned and wreathed in pastry, tiny sausages, confections of dried and pounded fruits—a feast to tempt a jaded appetite.

The party was small, two men and a girl aside from Racilia and myself. She introduced me to the others, then sat beside the girl, Emillia. As we ate, slaves kept our goblets filled; they were lithe young men with luminous eyes dusted with kohl, Egyptians probably, and their presence told me much about the master of the house.

Aurelius Licinius gestured one aside as the boy went to pour him wine.

‘Welcome, Atilius,’ he said casually. ‘We saw you fight. That was a neat trick you pulled at the end.’

He was a middle-aged man with a thin, downturned mouth, the creases on his cheeks sharply defined between nose and lips. His toga was of the finest wool and the bracelets on his wrists were of thick gold. His hands, backed by dark, curling hair, were broad, the fingers stubby and bearing several rings, among them that of the equestrian order.

‘Leacus was a fool to have permitted it,’ said his companion, a younger man, scented, his hair dressed in the Grecian style. ‘A fighter should at all times be aware of his vulnerable points. He should be on constant guard against any attack no matter from which quarter it might come. Am I correct, Atilus?’

‘That is the theory,’ I admitted dryly. ‘Sometimes, in practice, it isn’t always possible.’

‘And yet, surely, if a man could remain calm and detached at all times, it would not be too difficult?’ Cadius Publius helped himself to a sliver of fish and ate with the fastidious delicacy of a cat. ‘I have an interest in the arena as you may have gathered. It seems to me that, given a particular type of training, it would be possible to turn out a stream of champions. I would appreciate your comments.’

‘On what?’

‘On the type of training which would produce the result I have described.’

‘Cadius, for goodness sake let him eat!’ The girl spoke before I could answer. ‘He wasn’t invited here just to answer your boring questions.’

She had a small, round, almost chinless face which, together with the cosmetics she wore, gave her the appearance of a doll. Like her face, her voice was empty, and I gained the impression that she was an expensive toy, spoiled, cosseted, the daughter of some rich family designed for an advantageous marriage.

Compared to her thin voice, Racilia’s tones were the deep, rich notes of a bell.

‘You are right, Emillia. Atilus must be starving. Try some of these quails,’ she invited, turning towards me. ‘They are the speciality of my cook and a favourite of my husband.’

‘May I ask where he is, Domina?’

‘Away on business—as usual.’ Her voice held a casual indifference. ‘Some more wine?’

I sipped it slowly as the conversation flowed around the table. Cossos Brassius, I knew, was much older than my hostess, which meant that either he had married late or that she was his second wife. The latter, I guessed, and it had probably been a marriage of convenience. A man in his position would find it profitable to be connected to one of the ancient families, and the woman would have welcomed the merchant’s wealth.

A political and commercial union, and it explained the Egyptian slaves. Cossos Bassius must find little pleasure in the patrician he had wed, and she would not care about his association with boys.

I began to wonder why I had been summoned.

At first I thought it had simply been a matter of a frustrated woman wanting a little amusement. There had been many such before, matrons and others who had become sexually stimulated at the sight of blood and who were eager to offer themselves to a successful gladiator. Now, studying Racilia, I felt my first impression had been wrong. Her guests told against it. No matter how corrupt and degenerate Roman society had become, certain rituals were observed. Adultery was not openly flaunted. Lovers, whether slave or free, were rarely publicly acknowledged. A façade, of course, but a pretence which helped to maintain the dignity of those involved. Gossip carried the truth, but custom dictated that such scandal be ignored unless it grew beyond acceptable boundaries.

And how was it that she knew so much about me? It had been years since Publius Verus Severus had sold me to a lanista, and the reason why had been kept a close secret. Obviously, Racilia had made some investigations. Or perhaps she had been told. But, if so, by whom?

Aurelius, perhaps? I studied him as I helped myself to fruit. The man was a knight and would be close to the heart of the empire. In the society in which he moved, few secrets remained hidden for long and, even from a hint, deductions could be made. Cadius? I doubted it. He was too young and callow, too concerned in his own needs, and was a type I had met often before.

Now, washing his hands, he said, ‘Tell me, Atilus, when you fight, what is your major aim?’

‘To win.’

‘Of course, but I meant initially. When you first meet your opponent, what do you look for? His stance? I’ve heard that is important. The way he holds his weapons? That, too, must have significance.’ Cadius sipped at his wine and carefully dabbed his lips as he lowered the goblet.

I said, flatly, ‘Everything holds significance, but only one thing is essential. The determination to win.’

‘An attitude of mind?’ He pondered the thought as if it were new to him. ‘The killer instinct,’ he mused. ‘The determination to survive. But that is the attribute of a beast. A man, confronting it, would surely hold the advantage if he maintained control of his calm detachment. A combat is, in a sense, an art. The complex interchange of position and motion which should lead, inevitably, to the final, predetermined blow.’

The man was a fool, spouting theory, talking as if living men were pieces in a game. I had suffered such idiots before and, given patience, I would again in return for the hospitality, but it was never easy.

‘Atilus?’ Racilia was watching me. ‘Your goblet must be empty.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘More wine for my guest!’

The slave was closer than I knew. Turning, I knocked his arm and spilled a shower of ruby drops over my tunic. Terrified, he backed away, mouth open, strangled noises coming from his throat. Noises, not words, for him they were impossible. The boy had no tongue.

‘Atilus! Your tunic!’ Racilia rose, her cheeks flushed with anger. She clapped her hands and, as a hulking figure appeared, snapped, ‘You! Take that thing away! Beat him until he can no longer stand! Do it immediately!’

Bowing, the major-domo led the shivering wretch away.

Thoughtfully I chewed a grape. A slave, whipped, was nothing, an occupational hazard of his station in life, but if I crossed her, would she remember that I was free? Even if she did, there were many ways in which an offended woman could take her revenge. Assassins could be hired and false accusations made. The word of a gladiator would count for little against that of a patrician.

Mute slaves and guards hidden in the bushes around the house. Both belonged to those engaged in dangerous business, and my unease grew as, rising, Aurelius Licinius cleared his throat.

‘An excellent meal, Racilia. Now I think it time we had a little talk. Atilus, I’m sure you will be interested in what I have to show you in the tablinium.’

It was a large room normally used for the master of the house to greet his visitors, a place for private conversations and for study. Shelves along the walls were heaped with scrolls and tablets, the records of Cossos Bassius’ activities, and a table held a clutter of maps and reports from various agents.

Sweeping them aside, Aurelius settled his bulk on the polished wood. Racilia had accompanied us, leaving Cadius and the girl to their own devices. Faintly I heard the sound of a lyre.

‘He plays well,’ said Aurelius absently. ‘That, at least, should gain him favour with Nero.’

‘Which shows the extent to which Rome has fallen,’ snapped the woman. ‘Actors and musicians in the positions of importance which belong by right to those born to rule. Poets declaiming verse instead of military commanders discussing strategy. Money squandered on effete arts instead of being used to strengthen our frontiers.’ Restlessly she moved about the room, touching a phallus carved in ebony and inlaid with mother of pearl, the handle of a riding whip, a statuette of a couple locked in an amorous embrace. Odd things to find in such a room, but I’d guessed that its owner was an odd man.

I said, quietly, ‘You were going to show me something?’

‘This!’ Aurelius thrust his hand into his toga and withdrew it, filled with the weight of a purse. Opening it he spilled a shower of gold on the table. ‘A hundred gold pieces, Atilus, and there could be another four. How long would it take you to earn that in the arena?’

In Rome, not long—a man of reputation could claim a high fee for a single combat. In the provinces, the way things were, too long. I remained silent, looking at the gold, conscious of the others and their calculating eyes.

‘Take it, Atilus,’ urged Racilia. ‘It’s yours.’

‘To compensate for a soiled tunic?’

‘As a gift from a friend.’ Aurelius was bland. ‘Let us call it a delayed appreciation of a service you performed in the past. An errand you ran—and a mouth which you kept closed. Surely you remember?’

An incident five years old now and, yes, I remembered. A journey I had undertaken at night while still a slave to a house in Rome where a woman had waited to give me a certain vial. Locusta, the notorious manufacturer of poisons who had sat like a spider in a web in a house close to the Tiber. And, while I could never prove it, I was convinced that the vial had reached Agrippinilla’s hand.

Poison delivered to the mother of Nero, now the Emperor of Rome. A woman consumed by a burning ambition to rule but, being a woman, she could never openly do that; through her son she had power now in fact if not in name. Her husband, the Emperor Claudius, had been an obstacle to be removed. It could have been no coincidence that he had died shortly afterwards, to be deified by the Senate.

Lucius Junius Gallio, the brother of Seneca, Nero’s tutor, had made a joke about it based on the custom of public executioners of dragging the bodies of those executed in the prison to the Forum with large hooks, and from there into the river. Lucius had claimed that Claudius had been raised into heaven with a hook, and Nero himself had added to the jest, saying the mushrooms were the food of the gods since Claudius, by eating them, had become a god himself.

Mushrooms poisoned with the stuff I had obtained from Locusta—and now Agrippinilla was sending me gold!

I didn’t touch it. Instead I said, my voice slow as if baffled. ‘Remember what? I ran no errand for anyone. I was just a fighter, a gladiator-slave.’

‘And a discreet one.’ Racilia released her breath with a sigh, and I guessed that I had passed a test of some kind. ‘But you were more than that, Atilius. For a time you were Nero’s bodyguard. Once, at least, you saved his life before he became Emperor.’ Her voice changed a little. ‘And you know how he rewarded you.’

‘He granted me the rudis and my freedom.’

‘After you’d earned it,’ she said quickly. ‘Popular demand forced his hand and you know it. He gave you nothing he wouldn’t have given to another.’

‘But he gave it.’

‘Atilus, don’t play with us,’ she said impatiently. ‘Nero is a monster and you know it. Unless he is stopped, he will ruin Rome. He cares nothing for tradition and the sanctity of the past. Just remember what he did to the games. He banned the use of war-captives and even forced senators and knights to fight as if they had been common gladiators. All he thinks about are plays and concerts, dramas and recitals, singing and dancing. Did such things win us what we have? Does watching a play breed a good soldier? Is the strength of Rome to be wasted until we are no better than decadent Greeks? We have a painted fool sitting on Palatine and we must get rid of him before he destroys us all!’

‘Racilia!’

Aurelius was startled, not expecting the outburst, but the colour of her hair should have warned him. The Rubrius were notorious for their short tempers and lack of restraint.

I remembered that Rubria was the eldest of the Vestal Virgins and that Julia, the High Priestess, was an intimate of Agrippinilla, a woman I was certain wished me dead and for fear of whom I had stayed away from Rome.

Now, apparently, she had changed. I was no longer a voice to be stilled but a hand to be used. She, or those involved in her ambition, sought my friendship, and it was easy to guess what would happen should I refuse to give it. Trapped in the house, I could vanish without trace.

On the table the gold shone with a rich, yellow warmth. The stuff which could provide comfort and luxury. Money to buy passage to Greece or Egypt, Syria or Spain. To Britain even, anywhere far enough away from those who had let ambition dull their minds. Money I dared not refuse. Later, when the chance came, I would decide what to do. For now I had no choice.

Aurelius relaxed as I swept up the coins. Racilia, more discerning, said, ‘No questions, Atilus?’

‘Like these coins, Domina, silence can be golden.’

‘No curiosity, then?’

‘About what?’ Turning I met her eyes, my own bland. ‘You have been most generous in regard to my stained tunic, and I appreciate both the meal and your gift. It isn’t often that a gladiator’s skill is so highly rewarded by a gracious patron.’

I saw her frown at my apparent dullness, then the crease between her eyes vanished as she recognised the opening I offered, the one I prayed she would take. As yet nothing had been said which could harm her or her companions. I could leave, the recipient of a gift, and there would be an end. An end to my involvement with plots and intrigue and the trouble they would bring. And there was a plot, every instinct warned me of it, why else the gold and the mention of things best forgotten?

‘You are shrewd, Atilus,’ said Racilia. ‘But the money was not for your tunic. Neither was it a gift. It is your fee for protecting me on my journey to Rome.’

‘Rome?’

‘We leave at dawn,’ she said. ‘Everything has been arranged. You will, naturally, stay here tonight.’

‘And my slave?’

‘He will be sent for. We shall talk later, Atilus, now let us return to the others. I am sure that Cadius will want to talk about various fighters you have known and the skills they employ.’ Racilia smiled, a woman triumphant. ‘And I’m sure that we shall enjoy the journey to Rome.’