The Forgotten Legion - Kane Ben - Страница 25
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Brennus turned away. He still believed that brave men went to Elysium, the warriors' paradise. He found the Roman ritual with Charon disgusting and had sworn it would not happen to him. And the option of allowing himself to be slain, ending the torture, went totally against his nature. Deep inside, Brennus clung to a tiny strand of hope. It meant continuing to kill men he had no quarrel with, but the pragmatic warrior had come to regard competitions as defending his own life. Kill or be killed, he thought bitterly. Hunting with Brac, lying with his wife and playing with his child were all distant memories now. They seemed almost unreal.
He tried to bring back an image of Ultan's face, the sound of his voice.
The druid had never said anything about journeying to this. After five years, it was hard not to lose faith in the gods. In Belenus, who had guided him since childhood.
Ultan had spoken of the destiny awaiting him as something incredible. This could not be it. Brennus steeled his resolve, ignoring the arena's noise. The Gaul did not know how, but he would escape captivity.
I am the last Allobroge, he thought. I will face death as a free man. With a sword in my hand.
'Put some effort into it!' The trainer knew how to encourage Romulus. 'Imagine it's Gemellus!'
The young man had lived up to the anger and promise shining in his eyes when he'd first been brought in. Cotta had seen many slaves enter the school, wretches whose will broke under the iron discipline. But Romulus held a burning rage inside, fuelled by the guilt about Juba and his family.
Romulus shifted his grip on the hilt and swung hard against the palus. The wooden sword and shield were both far heavier than the real thing. His arm juddered as the weapon connected with the thick stake.
'More like it. Now do it again.' Cotta smiled briefly. 'You can rest tonight.' He moved away to watch two other gladiators.
'Shield up. Forward thrust. Step back.' Romulus repeated the words just as he had with Juba, only a few months before. Thoughts of the Nubian came less and less. The ludus' harsh regime had driven almost everything other than survival from Romulus' mind. Only the most precious memories of his mother and Fabiola appeared readily now. Those and his guilt about that last fateful day. Life might have been so different if he had not asked Juba to train him with a sword.
The image of Gemellus was burnt indelibly into his soul.
'Wait. Watch. Turn. Backhand slash.' Deftly Romulus spun and hacked the palus, imagining the merchant's face crease in agony as the blade struck.
'Good work.'
His trainer was a former mercenary who had been captured by the Romans fifteen years previously. Military training had helped him survive longer than most. Finally granted his freedom, Cotta had stayed on at the Ludus Magnus. Romulus had been awestruck when he heard the story of Cotta's last combat. Overcoming more than six opponents, it had been a trial of extraordinary endurance. The dictator Marius had been so impressed that he had freed the secutor on the spot.
A Libyan of average height, Cotta was still fit and lean, although well over forty. His left arm was half paralysed, a legacy of the day he had won the rudis, a wooden sword symbolising freedom. He was feared and respected by almost all gladiators in the ludus. Even Memor stopped to watch occasionally when the grey-haired veteran was training his men.
'I've liked you ever since the branding,' said Cotta. 'Most scream when the iron hits.'
Romulus looked at the red, puckered marks on his upper right arm, reading 'L M' and marking him as the property of the Ludus Magnus. The pain of the red-hot metal had been almost unbearable, yet somehow he had managed not to cry out, ignoring the agony and the stench of searing flesh. Like his vow of obedience, the process had been a vital test of courage.
'Something told me to pick you,' the old gladiator said approvingly. 'A cut above the usual rabble.'
Romulus was lucky to have Cotta, to be training as a heavily armed secutor. He had a much better chance of surviving than a lowly retiarius, the most likely choice for a thirteen-year-old. When they arrived in the ludus, men were picked for each fighting class by size, strength and skill with weapons. Few would have seen enough potential in Romulus. It took months of hard instruction to produce a trained gladiator, ready for combat. He mouthed a swift prayer of thanks to Jupiter, promising to make an offering later at the shrine in his cell.
'Memor wants you ready in a month. Stand a good chance by practising like that.' Cotta jerked a thumb at the group of retiarii in the far corner of the yard. 'He 'll probably put you up against a fisherman. And not a novice either.' He winked. 'That'd be far too easy. More sport for the crowd watching a rookie secutor fighting a crafty old retiarius.'
Romulus redoubled his efforts with the palus, knocking chips off with each blow. He knew the self-educated Libyan spent more time with him than the other new gladiators. Sensing Romulus' thirst for knowledge, Cotta had also been giving him regular lessons in military tactics. It was immensely empowering to learn the details of battles such as Cannae, when Hannibal had annihilated eight Roman legions, and Thermopylae, where three hundred Spartans had held off a million Persians. There were recent tales too, stirring accounts of Caesar's incredible victories against the Gaulish tribes. Romulus now knew the basics of warfare and how great minds could often beat overwhelming odds. While his body was contained within the walls of the ludus, his mind, fed by Cotta's classes, roamed far beyond. Now, more than ever, he longed to be free.
'I will be ready, Master Cotta,' he muttered. 'I swear it.'
The old gladiator smiled as he walked away, yelling instructions.
After five months of intensive exercise, Romulus' frame was heavily muscled and his black hair had grown long. A thin leather band held it back, exposing a tanned face. The boy was becoming a handsome young man. He was already as tall as some of the gladiators, and as fast, even if he lacked combat experience.
When Cotta let him finish at last, Romulus' arms were burning. He let the shield fall wearily to his side and trudged off the dirt practice ground.
All but one side of the square building was given up to cells accommodating the trainers and fighters, while the other contained the baths, kitchens, mortuary and armoury. On the second floor lay the offices, sick bay and Memor's luxurious quarters. Apart from prostitutes and rich clients, few ever set foot inside the lanista's domain.
It was only a dozen steps to the tiny room he shared with three other gladiators. There was barely space in it for their beds and a shrine to the gods. Sextus was the most friendly inmate, a short, tough Spaniard who seldom spoke. Lentulus was nearer his own age, a Goth with two years' experience and a fierce temper. The last was Gaius, a broad-shouldered retiarius with little brain, whose flatulence was the main topic of conversation in the cell.
Fortunately Romulus' roommates had no taste for young men, and he had slept undisturbed since arriving. From the glances some fighters gave him, Romulus knew that he would be raped if they ever cornered him. He had already had several lucky escapes. He was particularly careful never to go to the toilet area alone and wore a sharp dagger on his belt at all times. Although Memor did not allow swords or larger weapons in the cells, knives were tolerated. The lanista's archers had nothing to fear from these.
The walls of the poorly lit room ran with damp. Anyone who slept by them constantly had wet bedding. And as he was the newest inmate, the worst spot belonged to Romulus. He bore his obligation silently, knowing it was part of the ritual of acceptance. Each morning, he dutifully carried his straw mattress outside to dry while the others laughed. Every evening he reversed the performance.
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