The Road to Rome (21 page)

Uncaring that Caesar had returned, the veterans marched on Rome to demand their rights. Armed to the teeth, they were a brooding threat to the Republic’s stability. Nonetheless, Caesar had taken the Sixth to within a mile of their position and set up his own encampment. Knowing that they were greatly outnumbered had filled the Sixth with unease, but nothing happened on the first night. Although his own death was near, Romulus couldn’t help wondering what the general would do. Incredibly, by mid morning the next day it was all over. The delighted guards told Romulus and the others all about it.

Accompanied only by a few men, Caesar had entered the rebels’ tent lines in the cold of an autumn dawn. Inside, he had climbed the podium outside the headquarters. As news of his presence spread, a great crowd of mutineers gathered to hear what he had to say. According to the stunned men who’d been with him, Caesar had simply asked them what they wanted. A long list of grievances followed, culminating with the demand that all the veterans be discharged. In a neat manoeuvre that totally disarmed them, Caesar promised to release every man from service at once, and to honour their rewards in time. Crucially, he addressed the rebels as ‘citizens’ rather than ‘comrades’, showing them that they were no longer part of his army.

At once the shocked legionaries had begged their general to have them back, to help win the struggle in Africa. Caesar repeatedly demurred, even starting to leave, but their pleas grew more frantic. Promises were made that he would need no other troops to achieve victory. With masterful reluctance, he had accepted the service of all except the men of the Tenth. It, Caesar’s most favoured and rewarded legion, had disappointed him
most, so its soldiers had to be let go. With their huge pride in their unit called into question, the Tenth’s veterans had demanded that Caesar decimate them, as long as they were taken back into his army. In a final gesture of magnanimity, he had given in, welcoming the Tenth to his bosom like wayward children, and ending the rebellion at a stroke.

When he heard the story, Romulus’ admiration for Caesar soared. For months, Petronius had filled his ears with talk of Alesia, Pharsalus and other victories. In Pontus, he’d seen with his own eyes what Caesar could do, but this quality made him unique. Not only could Caesar lead armies into battle against terrible odds and win, he could lead men like no other. Crassus had been the polar opposite of this, commanding in an impersonal and uncharismatic manner. Even though he had only served under Caesar for a short time, Romulus was glad he had had that experience before he died.

Once the mutineers had been dealt with, there was no further delay. Caesar headed into the capital to meet with the Master of the Horse and the Senate. The Sixth was demobbed for the moment, its soldiers beating an instant path to the local taverns and brothels. After a few days, they would go home to their families. The prisoners were disposed of the same day too. With a dozen soldiers as escort, the centurion who had pronounced sentence on the two friends led the group into the city.

Petronius had never seen Rome before, and was amazed by the thick Servian walls, the sheer size of buildings and numbers of people. Romulus, on the other hand, felt a sense of dread as they walked the streets through which he had run errands as a boy. This was not how he wanted to return home. Even the sight of Jupiter’s massive temple atop the Capitoline Hill produced only a flicker of joy in his heart, and this small pleasure was drained away by passing the crossroads near Gemellus’ house. Despite the financial difficulties which Hiero had told him of, the merchant might still be living there. A dull resentment filled Romulus’ belly. He was only a hundred paces from the door of the man whom he’d dreamt for years of killing, and he was unable to do a thing about it.

Finally they neared the Ludus Magnus, the main gladiator school, and old fear made Romulus’ heart skip a beat. It was from this place that he and Brennus had fled, unnecessarily as it turned out. It had been Tarquinius who killed the fiery nobleman, not Romulus. By now, his initial fury at the haruspex’ revelation had crumbled to a lingering bitterness at what might
have been. It was hard to feel otherwise. Brennus could still have been alive if they hadn’t run, and they might both have earned the
rudis
. Yet Romulus was not naïve: underneath lay the knowledge that Tarquinius would have acted as he thought best – and according to the wind, or the stars. Had his accurate divinations not been a comfort through the ordeals of Carrhae and Margiana? After so long together, Romulus knew the haruspex well; he did not think Tarquinius was a man to act maliciously.

The realisation helped him to square his shoulders as he read what was inscribed on the stone over the main gate: ‘Ludus Magnus’. The first time Romulus had seen them, as an illiterate thirteen-year-old, he’d only guessed the two words’ meaning. Thanks to Tarquinius, though, he could now read them. It was odd that they were here, thought Romulus. There were four
ludi
in Rome, yet here he was, outside his old training ground. An ironic smile flickered across his lips as the centurion demanded entry.

A moment later, their hobnailed
caligae
echoed in the short corridor which led to the open square within the thick walls. It was mid-afternoon, and dozens of gladiators were engaged in physical training with each other and against the
pali
, the thick timber posts as tall as a man. Trainers armed with whips walked among them, pointing and shouting commands. With wicker shields and wooden weapons that were twice the weight of the real thing, the fighters danced around each other, thrusting and stabbing. Romulus recognised none of them, and his heart bled. Sextus, the little Spaniard, and Otho and Antonius, two other friendly gladiators, were probably all long dead. It was also likely to be true of Cotta, his trainer. He scanned the balconies for Astoria, Brennus’ Nubian lover, but there was no sign of her either, only the menacing shapes of the
lanista
’s archers, watching for any signs of trouble. It was not that surprising that Astoria wasn’t around, Romulus thought gloomily. Memor would have sold her to a brothel.

Romulus’ attention was drawn back to the present by other familiar classes of fighter – Thracians with their square shields and curved swords, and
murmillones
in their distinctive fish-crested helmets. There were even two pairs of
retiarii
sparring against the same number of
secutores
, his own former category of hunter. He stopped for a moment to watch. Instantly, there was a sharp prod in his back. ‘Get a move on,’ snarled one of the legionaries, poking him again with his
pilum
. ‘Follow the centurion.’

Romulus swallowed his anger and obeyed. Soon he and the others were lined up in front of a familiar figure, one whom he’d never thought to see again. Memor, the
lanista
. The years hadn’t changed him that much. Maybe his skin was a darker shade of brown, thought Romulus, and his shoulders slightly stooped, but the
lanista
’s mannerisms and the way he ordered the gladiators about were exactly the same as before. So was his sarcastic manner. Romulus’ stomach clenched. Would Memor recognise him?

‘What have we here?’ the
lanista
drawled. ‘Deserters?’

‘Cowards mostly,’ the centurion replied. ‘They ran away in the middle of a battle.’

Disapproving, Memor flicked his whip along the ground. ‘They’d be no damn good as gladiators then. Why weren’t the dogs crucified?’

‘The games celebrating Caesar’s recent victories are short of recruits,’ growled the centurion. ‘They are to be classed as
noxii
.’

Memor’s lip curled. ‘Not my usual line of business, that.’

Only because there’s no money in it for you, thought Romulus sourly.

‘Taking them on would be seen as a favour to Caesar himself,’ responded the other.

At once Memor was all beams and smiles. ‘Why didn’t you say? It would be my honour to prepare the sons of whores for death. I might even be able to make them perform well.’ He gave the prisoners an unpleasant stare. Oddly, it stayed longest on Romulus and Petronius. ‘Why are those two here?’

The centurion snorted. ‘One is a damn slave who had the cheek to join the legions.’

Memor’s bushy eyebrows rose. ‘And the other?’

‘His fool of a friend. Tried to defend the slave when he was exposed.’

‘Interesting,’ said Memor, pacing before the chained men in an appraising manner. His whip trailed after him, its weighted tip drawing a line in the sand. He came alongside Petronius, staring at him like a leopard looks at its prey.

The veteran met his gaze with contempt.

‘Still proud, eh?’ Memor grinned. ‘I can soon change that.’

Petronius had the wisdom not to answer.

Memor moved to stand before Romulus, who, keen not to be recognised, looked away. But the grizzled
lanista
grabbed his jaw and twisted his head
around, making Romulus feel thirteen years old again. His deep blue eyes met the black pits that were Memor’s, and they stared at each other for a long moment. ‘Which is the slave?’ Memor asked abruptly.

‘The one you’re looking at,’ replied the centurion.

A frown creased Memor’s lined forehead. ‘Big nose, blue eyes. You’re strong too.’ He let go of Romulus’ chin and pulled up the right sleeve of his russet military tunic. Where a slave brand might have been, there was a linear scar, partially obscured by a tattoo of Mithras sacrificing the bull. To expert eyes, however, it was obvious that Romulus had been a slave once. Brennus’ excision had been that of a battlefield surgeon, quite unlike the skilled art of those who specialised in removing brands from wealthy freed slaves, and the tattoo Romulus had paid for in Barbaricum only sufficed to divert passing glances. Memor knew at once what he was seeing. Stepping back, he sized Romulus up. ‘By all the gods,’ he said, his face colouring with old anger. ‘Romulus? Isn’t that your name?’

Resigned, he nodded.

The centurion looked surprised. ‘You know him?’

Memor spat a violent oath. ‘The scumbag belongs to me! Eight years ago, he and my best gladiator got out one night and murdered a noble. Of course the bastards ran away. Disappeared completely, although I heard a rumour they’d joined Crassus’ expeditionary force.’

The centurion chuckled. ‘I don’t know about that, but he was certainly in one of Caesar’s legions.’

‘I
was
in Crassus’ army,’ muttered Romulus. ‘Thousands of us were taken captive after Carrhae. I managed to escape with a friend some months later.’

Petronius’ and the centurion’s faces were the picture of shock. Apart from Cassius Longinus and the remnants of his command, no further survivors from the disaster in Parthia had returned to Rome.

Memor spun back. ‘You and the big Gaul? Where is he?’

‘Not him,’ said Romulus heavily. ‘He’s dead.’

Disappointment filled the
lanista’s
features.

With his grief over Brennus’ death scraped raw once more, Romulus could still see Memor’s mind working. After all, he too had been an excellent gladiator – at only fourteen years old. Now he was a grown man, who had served in the army. An even better prospect. ‘Surely this one could
return to me rather than being killed off?’ Memor asked. He paused, then couldn’t help himself. ‘He’s my property after all.’

‘Don’t try your luck. The whoreson joined the army as a slave, which means he’s under my jurisdiction until he dies,’ snapped the centurion. ‘I don’t care if he’s fucking Spartacus himself. He and his friend go into the arena and they don’t come out.’

There was to be no way of making back the money he’d lost from Brennus’ and Romulus’ disappearance. Furious, Memor lifted his whip. ‘I’ll teach you,’ he hissed at Romulus.

‘Don’t damage them either,’ warned the centurion. ‘Caesar will be expecting a top-class spectacle, not just some cripples being mauled to death in double-quick time.’

Cheated of even this, Memor stepped back. ‘Shouldn’t be ungrateful, I suppose. It’ll be a pleasure to see you die,’ he said with a cruel smile. ‘I believe that the
bestiarii
have a fine selection available at the moment. Tigers, lions, bears and the like. Apparently there are even more exotic creatures too.’

The other prisoners gave one another fearful looks. Even Petronius shuffled his
caligae
to and fro. Romulus managed to keep his face blank. He was also scared, but he was damned if Memor would get to see it.

‘I’ll leave that decision up to you,’ offered the centurion, tossing the keys for the padlocks to Memor. ‘They’re on in two days.’ With a curt nod, he led the legionaries out of the yard.

‘Unchain them.’ Memor handed the keys to one of his men, a skinny Judaean with buck teeth and a scraggly beard. ‘Then find the worst cell you can. Tell the cook they are to get no food.’ Still in a bad mood, he stalked off.

Rubbing their skin where the neck rings had chafed, the prisoners followed the Judaean to a dank, windowless chamber with mould growing on the walls. It was barely big enough for two or three of them to sleep side by side, let alone eight. There were no bunks or blankets either. Smirking, Memor’s man walked off.

The two friends moved away from the doorway. There was no point spending any more time in the cell than they had to. Leaning back against the wall, they watched the gladiators, who, with the excitement over, had gone back to their training.

‘Two days until we go to Hades,’ muttered Petronius. ‘Not long.’

Fighting despair once more, Romulus nodded grimly.

Petronius thumped one fist into the other. ‘Why did that black-haired bastard have to interfere? If it hadn’t been for him, . . .’ he sighed.

‘We cannot understand the gods’ purpose,’ said Romulus. Even to his ears, the words sounded hollow.

‘Spare me your piety.’ Clearing his throat, Petronius spat on the sand. ‘We don’t deserve a fate like this.’

Romulus’ spirits hit a new low.

They were damned.