The Sword of Revenge (26 page)

‘I still don’t know what you require of me?’

‘Participate, Cholon, and when you feel you have something useful to say, or advice to give, then tell me.’

Cholon looked sideways at the sheet of papyrus, empty except for a few drawings scratched on the edges. ‘Do you really think that we can challenge the likes of Lucius and Quintus?’

‘Lucius Falerius wasn’t born powerful, Cholon, he made himself so, and as far as I can tell, his personal probity is beyond question. But he believes that the Senate should have untrammelled authority over the state. The knights should be content with what they have and our Italian allies should merely
provide troops to die on our behalf. Events in Spain are allowed to drift and the chief of the Duncani taunts our provincial governors.’

Titus saw the Greek’s eyes narrow at the mention of Brennos and continued without pause.

‘He either shuts his eyes, or his mind, to what goes on. Or perhaps he thinks that is the price that must be paid to retain senatorial power. I believe he is wrong, and I think that a successful impeachment of someone like Vegetius Flaminus could open up the whole tub of worms to proper inspection.’

‘Vegetius could be dead before you get to the Senate.’

Titus favoured the Greek with a grim look. ‘That is true, but believe me Cholon, there’s no shortage of candidates for condemnation.’

The dust rose behind the wheels as Titus manoeuvred his chariot through the Campus Martius. He would have to wait a while, until the space cleared, to put his horses through their proper paces, charging from one end of the field to the other, but this human obstacle course presented a good opportunity for a more precise training of his animals. He handled the traces deftly as he swung right and left through the wrestlers, boxers and those practising with weapons. Soon he was by the bank of the river and as he turned upstream a crowd, all intent on watching a fight, barred his
route. Titus could see, from his vantage point, young Marcellus, wearing a head guard. Sweat dripped off him, as the boy sought to nail his nimble opponent with a decent punch. The crowd around the dancing pair cheered him on, booing his opponent, who seemed disinclined to engage in a proper bout, merely concentrating on avoiding the blows aimed in his direction.

Titus hauled on the traces, bringing his chariot to a halt outside of the ring of spectators, his mobile platform affording him a perfect view. The boy was fighting a grown man, fully bearded, though the fellow was shorter than Marcellus by a head. He also had the air of a professional about him; the way he weaved and ducked proved that he knew his business and if he was being driven backwards it was not because of fear or pain. Titus realised that the opponent, back-pedalling furiously, was trying to tire Marcellus out, it being a hot afternoon, with the sun blazing down out of a cloudless sky. He could also see the old centurion, Macrobius, standing silently, watching his pupil; the look on his face was hard to place, seeming to be a mixture of disapproval and satisfaction.

The professional stopped dead and caught Marcellus with a blow on the pads that covered his ears. That was the prelude to a punch aimed at the boy’s stomach, which Marcellus only avoided by an ungainly backwards leap, leaving him off balance
for the next assault, as his opponent followed up quickly. He parried as best he could, but a fair number of punches got through and they were hard knocks; the man was not sparing the youngster, treating him as an equal. Marcellus kept his hands up, covering his face as he rode the sustained assault. Blows rained on his forearms and shoulders as he weaved untidily, till the man halted for a split second, setting himself up for a straight jab that would pierce the boy’s defences, as soon as he looked through his fists to see why his opponent had stopped.

Marcellus did not oblige him by waiting. One of his upraised arms shot out and his guard being too low, it caught the boxer unawares. The left-handed blow took him on the cheek, raising and turning his head to the side, exposing his bearded chin for the punch that followed, but he was too wise to wait. He did not fight the force of the blow; instead he rode it, letting the punch carry his head back out of danger so that Marcellus’s right hook missed the chin by a fraction. The man had got his feet right and he spun slightly, his own right hand swinging easily through Marcellus’s guard, to land a blow that knocked the boy clean off his feet.

The watching crowd rushed forward to help Marcellus up as Titus hauled on the traces and took his chariot round the outside, bringing it to a halt alongside Macrobius. The boy’s tutor had not
moved but his head did, for he was nodding and the purple-veined face was set in a look that boded ill for his pupil.

‘Who was he fighting, Macrobius?’ asked Titus.

The old man looked up. ‘Nicandros, a Greek professional.’

‘Isn’t he a little young to be taking on professional boxers?’

The purple, cratered nose twitched angrily. ‘He wants to be a soldier. If you can assure me that all those he fights will be amateurs, I’ll stop training him now.’

‘What I meant, Macrobius, is that he’d be better off fighting boys his own age.’

The old warrior sniffed again, and the anger was tinged with just a trace of pride. ‘No point, Titus Cornelius. He just beats ’em.’

Nicandros, the professional, had helped get Marcellus to his feet and he was talking to the boy encouragingly, patting his hunched shoulders and assuring him that he had put up a good fight. Titus passed his traces to Macrobius and climbed down and as Marcellus saw him approach he pulled himself upright, fighting to stay steady. Nicandros looked up too and though he did not know the charioteer, he could see by his dress, and the way others deferred to him, that he was important.

‘I’ll take care to avoid this lad in five years, sir. If he was to come to Greece for the Olympiad, fully
grown, I’d back him to walk off with a branch of Zeus’s own olive tree.’

Titus put his hand under the boy’s chin and lifted the head. The eyes were still a bit glassy as Marcellus shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision, his face bearing the pain that accompanies defeat.

‘Tell me, Marcellus, has Macrobius taught you to handle a chariot yet?’ The boy shook his head very slowly. ‘Then I shall take it as my duty to do so.’ Marcellus gave Titus a weak smile. ‘I doubt I’d be much of a pupil today.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve had a hard blow, but it’s nothing that cold water won’t cure.’

Titus looked around the assembled faces questioningly. ‘Who are his friends?’ Several claimed the honour, putting up their hands, and Titus smiled, looking into Marcellus’s eyes as he gave them an order. ‘Then it falls to you, as his friends, to revive him. Chuck him in the Tiber.’

Eager hands grabbed at the young boxer and he was lifted bodily and borne towards the nearby river, where, with due ceremony, he was swung through the air three times, before being released to land with a great splash in the water.

‘Turn round, girl.’

The naked body, slim, olive-skinned and shining, spun slowly and Lucius Falerius noticed the uplift of the breasts and the erect nipples as she complied.
Her dark brown hair, freshly washed and still slightly damp, covered the whole of her back, all the way down to the rise of her firm buttocks. They were like two perfect orbs, with a straight dark line where they joined the legs. Gratifyingly, there was no excess flesh at the top of her thighs to spoil the rounded lines that extended from her narrow waist.

‘Turn again,’ the old man said dispassionately, and the girl obeyed, her eyes cast down in a maidenly fashion, her hands set likewise to cover the sparse hair on her mons pubis. Lucius’s voice took on a note of anger. ‘Take your hands out of the way and look at me.’

The girl obeyed quickly, fixing Lucius with her almond eyes, her full red lips parted to show even white teeth.

‘Is she a virgin?’

Lucius noticed the overseer from his Campanian farm hesitate; the fellow knew better than to lie to Lucius, but it was obvious he had been tempted to do so, assuming that, even if it had not been specified, it was what his employer required.

‘Well?’

‘Unfortunately, no!’

The man’s shoulders seemed to shrink into his body as a way of emphasising his regret but for all his apparent grovelling, he was damned if he was going to tell the senator the truth. According to the guards that had delivered her, Cassius Barbinus,
before he sent her away, had used her as he used everyone: without feeling. Lucius Falerius Nerva would not touch anything that Barbinus had taken, even a gifted slave, but his overseer thought her wasted where she was, on a farm that her master rarely visited. Besides, she was becoming a problem – not herself, for she was a meek creature – but the male slaves he oversaw, a rough lot, were openly lusting after the girl and his own wife, who had seen his eye wander to her swaying hips, had scolded him for his own interest. Much better for her to be here, in Rome, where she could, if Lucius permitted it, form an attachment to a more refined household slave, with the added benefit that it would make his own domestic life a little easier.

‘Do you not recall her, Eminence?’

‘Should I?’

‘She was a gift from Cassius Barbinus, sent to me two years ago. While she was his property she became attached to a boy her own age. It is thought matters might have gone too far.’

‘That would be typical of Barbinus. The man can’t even control his slaves.’ Lucius stepped forward and ran a hand over the smooth olive skin, and she shivered slightly at the touch. ‘The parents, both Greeks?’

‘Yes. I was told the father’s from Thrace, the mother Macedonian.’

Lucius nearly asked about the Thracian; famous
for their strength and fortitude, especially in the sun, they were usually employed in Sicily growing wheat. Then he remembered, just in time, that he had sold his property on the island. The need to do so made him frown angrily, so unlike him was it to lose touch. The barracking he had given his fellow-senators over the Parthian gifts, was, he realised now, unwise. His overseer mistook the look generated by such thoughts and spoke hastily.

‘There are other girls on the farm who are virgins, Excellency, though none as pretty as this.’

‘I don’t want a virgin!’ Lucius took the girl’s chin in his hand, thumb one side, index finger the other. The grip was firm without being painful. ‘I own you, girl, body and soul, do you realise that?’ The girl nodded with difficulty. ‘Please me and you will be well rewarded, thwart my wishes and you’ll lose your looks down a lead mine. You will come here, to my house, as a normal household slave. The tasks I set you will not be too arduous and for that your duties will be light. Do you understand?’

Again the girl nodded. The overseer had told her all about the betrothal, so she knew that the daughter of Appius Claudius was not yet ten years old. The wedding, between her and Marcellus Falerius, would not take place for several years.

‘My son is a handsome fellow and I think he will treat you kindly. If you do likewise then he will not see the need to expend his energies in the brothel. In
time, he will have a wife, then I will send you back to the farm, with permission to take a man and bear children.’ The girl, who had once dreamt of marriage and children on the farm where she was raised, tried hard to hide a smile; perhaps this old man would send her back there. ‘What’s your name?’

She whispered in reply. ‘Sosia, master.’

‘Well, you’re a pretty specimen, Sosia, pretty enough to make an old man wish he was twenty years younger.’

‘Where is my son? I sent for him half an hour ago.’

The household steward bowed slightly. ‘He’s not yet returned from the Campus Martius, master.’

Lucius looked up at the evening sky. ‘Don’t be a fool, it’s nearly dark.’

‘He has taken to stopping off at the Trebonius house on the way home.’ The steward noticed the brow of his master furrow and spoke hastily, lest blame be attached to him. ‘Or so his body slave informs me.’

‘He sees the Trebonius boy all day, man. They attend school together, never mind their games.’

‘It is not the boy he goes to see, master. I believe he has become attached to Gaius Trebonius’s sister, Valeria.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Several weeks, master,’ the steward lied; it was
many months, instead of mere weeks.

The voice was like the lash of a whip, making the fellow cringe. ‘And you did not see fit to inform me of this?’

‘I’ll send for him right away, master.’

‘Go yourself!’

‘But, master…’

Lucius stepped forward and grabbed the man by the hair, shaking him violently. ‘Yes, idiot. They’ll think that you’ve been reduced to a mere household dogsbody, a paltry messenger boy, and every slave on the Palatine will laugh at you for weeks. Be warned, messenger, that is what will come to pass if you keep information about anything from me, let alone the whereabouts of my son.’

Valeria rubbed her hand over Marcellus’s forearm, still bruised from the blows he had fended off in his boxing bout, as he finished relating to her the latest news from the frontier of Hispania Ulterior. Being privy to the reports passed on to his father, he was probably the best informed youth in Rome, eagerly listened to by his contemporaries, avid for news of war wherever it occurred, but none had the passion of Valeria and no one demanded that he outline each detail with such diligent insistence. Another insurrection had broken out, this time caused by a tribe called the Averici. Mounted on small ponies, they were very mobile, the worst kind of enemy the
disciplined Romans could face. As usual, such an uprising was backed, indeed fostered, by the Duncani, who lay in wait for any Roman legate stupid enough to pursue the lightly armed cavalry into the hills.

The Averici seemed particularly callous, not content just to kill but instead inclined to torture and rape on a scale not seen in Spain for decades. Originally, when setting out to relate such tales, Marcellus had tried to shock Valeria with his graphic descriptions. Not now; he still provided her with the gory details, but it was to see the way she reacted, the way she tensed and released her breath, that drove him, sometimes, to colour stories that were quite horrific enough without embellishment.