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

Gemellus advanced through a short corridor into an open training area.

The large two-storey building was built with a hollow square in the centre, providing a whole world within four walls. It was full of gladiators training and sparring with each other.

Romulus watched, fascinated. The two nearest made up the classic pairing of retiarius versus secutor.

'You will be a fisherman.' Gemellus pointed at the man in a loincloth, armed only with a trident. The retiarius was waving a weighted net back and forth, readying himself to throw. The merchant spat in Romulus' face. 'Lowest form of fighter. Good prey for a hunter!'

The secutor crouched warily, oval shield held high, a short wooden sword ready in his right hand. Romulus took in the visored helmet, the greave on the left leg and the leather bands protecting the right arm. It all seemed very one-sided. The secutor was so heavily armoured compared to his opponent, whose only protection was armour on the right shoulder.

Suddenly the hunter began weaving from side to side. He lunged forward to the left, then immediately to the right. But the fisherman judged the perfect time to throw the net. The secutor went down, limbs flailing in the weighted mesh. In a flash, the retiarius was on him, wooden trident touching the throat. The defeated gladiator thrust up a hand, forefinger extended, pleading for mercy. Laughing, the retiarius hauled him to his feet and they started the process all over again.

Romulus felt a tiny surge of hope. He saw the merchant scowling at the unexpected turn of events.

Gemellus led the way around the edge of the training area to a thick timber post, against which other gladiators were practising.

'The palus,' whispered Ancus. 'If chosen to fight with a sword, that's where you'll spend your days.'

Romulus glanced at the two kitchen slaves. Still neither would meet his eyes, but he felt no anger towards them. If Ancus and Sossius had not followed Gemellus' orders, they would have swiftly followed Juba to the Campus Martius.

On one side of the palus was a short, grizzled figure in a richly cut tunic. The long grey hair contrasted with his lined, tanned skin. Alongside him stood a huge man carrying a whip. When he saw Gemellus approach, the lanista stopped shouting orders.

'Gemellus. I don't normally see you here.' He studied Romulus.

The merchant propelled him forward. 'What will you give me for this boy?'

'I need men here. Not children.'

The hulk with the whip grinned toothlessly.

'Look at the size of him,' protested Gemellus. 'And he's only thirteen!'

Cold eyes sized Romulus up. 'Can you fight with weapons?'

Romulus stared back. To have any chance of survival, there must be no fear visible. He nodded.

'That's why the little bastard is here,' interjected the merchant.

Memor rubbed the stubble on his chin. 'A thousand sestertii.'

Gemellus laughed. 'I'd get more on the slave block! He 's worth at least three. Look at those muscles!'

'I'm in a good mood this morning, Gemellus. Fifteen hundred.'

'Twenty-five hundred.'

'Stop wasting my time.'

'Two thousand?' There was still hope in the merchant's eyes.

'Eighteen hundred. Not a sestertius more.'

Gemellus had little choice but to accept. It was a better price than Romulus would fetch in the market. 'Very well.'

Memor snapped his fingers.

A scrawny little man with ink-stained fingers and a dirty tunic materialised, money bags in both hands.

The lanista counted the coins with care, in the manner of someone proud of his ability to do so. When finished, he handed a pouch to Gemellus.

'Beat him often. It's the only thing he understands.'

'My sister, Master?' Romulus asked pleadingly.

The merchant smiled. 'I'm going to sell the bitch to a whorehouse. Piece of ass like her will fetch a good price. And as for your whore of a mother – we'll see what the mines' overseer offers.'

Romulus glared at his former owner with utter hatred.

One day I will kill you, very slowly.

To the boy's surprise, Gemellus' eyes flickered away and he turned on his heel without another word. But Romulus had no time to savour the minor victory. A vice-like grip took hold of his chin.

'You're mine now.' Crisscrossed with old scars, Memor's face was uncomfortably close. The smell of cheap wine was overpowering. 'In the Ludus Magnus, men learn to be killed. Till the end of your life, the fighters here will be your new familia. You eat. You train. You sleep. You shit with them. Clear?'

'Yes.'

'Do what I say quickly and there 'll be no beating, like that fat bastard suggested.' Memor's jaw hardened. 'Don't do what I say and, by Hercules, you'll regret it. I know ways of hurting most cannot even imagine.'

Romulus did not let his gaze waver.

'Before everyone present, take the oath of the gladiator!'

Memor's bellow had stopped every fighter in the yard. This was a ritual they had all been through.

'Do you swear to endure the whip? The branding iron? And do you swear to endure death by the sword?'

Romulus swallowed, but when he spoke his voice was steady. 'I swear it.'

The circle of hard faces relaxed a little. If nothing else, the new addition was courageous.

'Brand the boy and strike off those chains,' Memor ordered the clerk. 'Find a blanket and a space to sleep. And return him to me swiftly!'

'Come on, lad.' The voice was not unkind. 'The iron won't hurt that badly.'

Carefully, Romulus surveyed the dirt of the training yard and the ludus' thick stone walls. Like it or not, this was now home. His survival would be a decision of the gods alone. He followed the thin clerk, his head held high.

Chapter VI: The Ludus Magnus

Forum Boarium, Rome, 56 BC

'Bren-nus! Bren-nus!'

The chanting was deafening.

The Gaul stood over his vanquished opponent, listening to the familiar noise. Over five years, the blond-haired warrior had become one of the mightiest gladiators Rome had ever seen. And the crowd loved him.

Warm afternoon sun lit up the entire circle of sand contained within temporary wooden stands. That morning the grains had been a rich golden colour, raked by slaves into uniform smoothness. But after more than an hour of savage combat, the surface had been kicked into disarray. Bloodstains spread around dead men lying scattered all over the arena. The air was filled with moans and cries of the injured.

It was late spring and the citizens watching were happy. The set piece between two teams had been gripping and all the participants were now dead or maimed – except the prize fighter who had led each side.

The organisers of such fights were lanistae, owners of the gladiator schools in Rome who met on a regular basis to arrange spectacles with real mass appeal. When the rich and powerful wanted to stage a contest, they could offer a range of options from basic single combats to tailor-made arrangements. It depended on the depth of the purse of the editor – the sponsor – and how impressive a display was required.

The clash between Narcissus and Brennus had been something the public – even the lanistae – had craved for a long time. Within months of his arrival in Rome, the huge Gaul had defeated every gladiator of repute. After that, there was no entertainment in watching Brennus cut weaker men to pieces. Fights were supposed to take time, impressing the crowd with skill and endurance. Memor had quickly limited Brennus' appearances even though his popularity demanded ever more exposure.

Today the sponsor wanted real quality and had personally asked for the Gaul. The lanista had had to look far and wide for a worthy opponent. Eventually he 'd found Narcissus the Greek in Sicily, where the formidable murmillo had earned a similar reputation to Brennus.