The Forgotten Legion - Kane Ben (читать книги онлайн полностью без сокращений txt) 📗

The door opened abruptly. A doorman as big as Juba, but with intricate tattooed spirals on his tanned face, emerged. 'What is it?' His fierce gaze fixed Romulus to the spot.

He pulled out the note. 'I have a message for Crassus, from my master.'

The slave checked out the street, then jerked his head. 'Inside.'

Romulus stepped across the threshold, into the house of the richest man in Rome. The huge figure slammed the door shut, throwing the bolts. He yanked on a rope hanging from the ceiling then sat back in his alcove, glaring. Clad in a rough tunic, his arms covered in old scars, the pigtailed slave was some kind of Goth.

Romulus stood rigid, not daring to move.

A moment later the slap of sandals came down the tiled corridor. A thin man with a neatly tonsured head appeared, dressed in a clean white toga.

He seemed vaguely annoyed. This was not the time of day to be disturbing Rome's ruling class.

'Yes?' The high-pitched voice was imperious.

'A note for Crassus, sir,' said Romulus, handing it over.

The major-domo studied the now greasy parchment with disgust. 'Looks like something picked from the sewer,' he sniffed.

'It got a little dirty on the way, sir.' Romulus stared at the floor, trying to hide a scowl.

'Who is your master?'

'Gemellus the merchant. From the Aventine.'

'Gemellus, you say?'

'Yes, sir.'

The official considered whether to turn the boy away or not. Crassus had dealings with countless people, not least the merchants whose business kept the wheels of industry turning. Practically all of them owed him money. And for those who did not, Crassus would go to any lengths, make himself amenable to anyone he came across, just so long as he obtained what he wanted. There would be some advantage to be had from this.

'Wait here.'

The slave walked away, the note held at arm's length.

'Effeminate fool! Thinks he 's so bloody important.' The doorman snorted, shifting angrily on his stool. Behind him lay a sword, spear and wool blanket. It was where he lived and slept, much like Juba.

Relaxing slightly, Romulus looked round with awe. The flagstones leading off on each side, into the house proper, were of solid green marble.

Magnificent statues of the gods, better carved than he had ever seen, lined the hallways. It was a clear manifestation of enormous riches. Gemellus was well off, but this put his wealth into the shade.

Crassus' ways of making money were well known. Under Sulla he had profited hugely from the executions of proscribed nobles, buying up their seized properties cheaply. Other methods were similarly unsavoury. As most buildings in Rome were wooden, fires were common and large areas were regularly razed to the ground. Crassus would visit affected quarters with his private fire brigade, refusing to put out the flames unless the owners of burning tenements sold for knockdown prices on the spot. It allowed him to rebuild and sell for huge profits. While other equites admired the ruthless practice, citizens despised it. Rumours abounded that the nighttime blazes were not accidental, but the proceeds had added to Crassus' incredible wealth. He had only one other purpose in life: to become the Republic's leading citizen. To achieve this, Crassus needed massive public support. Military success was the best method of ensuring that in Rome and so he determined to forcibly expand the state 's borders once he became governor of Syria. His only problem was that the more popular Pompey wanted the job too.

The atrium walls in front of Romulus had been covered in stucco and then painted. Aware of his low status, he strained to see without moving more than his head. Hunting scenes covered one side of the well-lit room, while the other depicted Crassus leading armies in battle. He jumped as the doorman spoke.

'That's the master defeating Spartacus.'

Everyone knew the story of the Thracian gladiator who had taken up arms against the state. The slave rebellion had been the biggest threat to Rome since Hannibal a hundred and fifty years before.

Romulus opened his mouth to reply, but fell silent as a brown-haired man with an unsmiling round face passed. The stocky noble was in his early thirties, clad in a toga of the finest fabric. He glanced uninterestedly at them.

Romulus waited until the figure had disappeared through a door down the corridor. Slaves knew it did not pay to attract attention.

'Spartacus the Greek?' Since first hearing the story, Romulus had idolised the man who had defied all the rules to throw off his chains. It had given him hope, fuelled his own dream of seizing freedom. It was a dream he had never articulated, except to Juba.

The big doorman sighed. 'Such a leader.'

Romulus gasped. 'You knew Spartacus?'

'Quiet! You'll get me killed.'

Romulus moved closer to the slave, whose tattooed face had turned sad. There was a long silence before he began to whisper.

'I was in Capua the day Spartacus struck down the lanista. A gladiator was injured and could not fight. Flaminius began to beat him cruelly, as he often did at such times.'

Romulus was rooted to the spot.

'Spartacus watched for a moment, then walked up to Flaminius without a word. Cut off the bastard's head with one swing of his sword. "Who's with me?" he roared. Crixus was first.' His voice shook with pride. 'Then we all joined in.'

'The rebellion lasted a long time, didn't it?'

'More than two years. And we kicked the shit out of every army Rome sent at us.'

'They say you marched north.'

'We were heading for Gaul.' A wistful smile crossed his face. 'Spartacus wanted to leave Italy. Then Crixus won him over with talk of overthrowing the Republic and things started to go wrong.'

'Crassus drove you south again.' It was common knowledge that the rebels had been pushed down into the narrow heel of the Italian peninsula and a defensive wall built to hold them in.

'They didn't defeat us, though!' retorted the doorman. 'Until Brundisium.' It was there that Crassus had smashed the slave army.

'I thought all those captured were . . .' Romulus paused. The prisoners' fate had been the talk of the city, dashing the hopes of the slave population.

'Crucified.' He nodded sadly, tears glinting in his eyes. 'Poor bastards. On the sides of the Via Appia. All the way from Capua to Rome. Six thousand of them. Just so Crassus could claim back the glory from Pompey Magnus.'

The public had discovered long afterwards that Pompey had only mopped up a few thousand slaves fleeing the main battle. But in a masterly stroke, he had immediately written to the Senate, claiming victory over the whole rebellion. His opportunism had worked and he had been granted a full triumph through Rome. Crassus, apoplectic with rage, had ordered a prisoner crucified along every mile of the Republic's main road in response – gory proof of his success. It was rumoured the vultures had filled the sky above the road for weeks.

As Romulus stared, he noticed a thick scar running down the side of the slave 's face on to his neck.

The doorman grimaced, rubbing at the red welt. 'Got that the night before the final battle. Some of us fled when Spartacus gave his blessing, see? But we should have stayed. Died like men.'

'Does Crassus know?'

'What do you think?' he snapped.

'But to end up here?'

There was a sad shrug. 'I went on the run for a year and then killed a citizen in a drunken brawl. Got captured again and sold to a gladiator school in Rome. Crassus bought me after seeing a fight there.'

'At least you're still alive.'

'I might as well be dead.' The doorman's broad shoulders slumped.

Conversation ceased abruptly as the major-domo reappeared. His lip curled knowingly. 'Has Pertinax been telling his stories? Don't believe a word!' He handed Romulus a rolled parchment. 'See what your master says when he receives this!'