The Gladiator - Scarrow Simon - Страница 39
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'Hey!' Julia called out from the other side of the desk. 'Would you mind keeping your attention on the job?' She tapped the slate in front of her with a stylus.' My father wants the revised figures tonight, and we still have to account for the supplies on those wagons that turned up at noon.'
'Sorry.' Cato flashed a smile. 'Just thinking.'
He picked up the inventory of the first wagon and prepared to add up the ticks for each sack and announce the total to Julia to note down.
There was a sudden sharp rap on the door, and Cato turned round.
'Come in!'
The door opened, and one of Sempronius's clerks entered. 'Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the senator wants to see you at once.'
'At once?' Cato glanced at Julia and saw her frown. 'Very well, I'll come.'
He pushed his chair back and stood up, pausing a moment. 'We'll continue later on.'
Julia nodded wearily.
Cato followed the clerk out of the office. He wondered why Sempronius had summoned him so peremptorily. They were not due to meet until the evening briefing. At the end of the corridor, the door to the senator's office was open and the clerk stopped to knock on the frame.
'Centurion Cato, sir.'
'Very well, show him in.'
The clerk stood to one side and Cato strode past him into the office. Sempronius was sitting at his desk. To one side stood an officer.
Cato recognised him as one of Marcellus's centurions. The man was in armour, and a bloodstained rag was tied round his sword arm. His face was covered with stubble and he looked exhausted and strained.
Sempronius glanced at Cato with a drawn expression. 'I have sent for Macro. He should join us shortly. Meanwhile, do you know Centurion Micon?'
Sempronius indicated the other officer, and Cato looked at him briefly and nodded as he crossed the room and stood in front of the desk. 'I take it you have a report from Prefect Marcellus?'
Micon looked to the senator for guidance.
'Just tell him,' Sempronius said wearily. 'Tell him everything.'
Cato turned to Centurion Micon, as the other man cleared his throat. 'Yes, sir. Centurion Marcellus is dead.'
'Dead?'
'Yes, sir.' Micon nodded wearily.' Him and all his men.'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Parthian glanced up as he held the needle and lamb's-gut thread poised over the wound. A sword cut had laid open the gladiator's thigh. Fortunately the wound was shallow and clean and had bled nicely to keep it clear of dirt and grit. The muscle was superficially torn and would mend without causing any handicap.
The gladiator was standing in front of him, stripped down to a loincloth. His torso bore several scars, some of which looked like they might have killed or crippled a lesser man. Although he had been strong and fit before he had be come a slave, two years of hard training had left him with a superb physique. The Parthian had never seen the like in all his days tending the warriors of his master's bodyguard.
It had been a good life, he reflected briefly, before the border skirmish that had led to his capture and then being sold on as a surgeon to the family of a wealthy Greek merchant. Since then, it had been an endless succession of slaves with boils, sprained ankles and wrists, and venereal diseases amongst the girls of a brothel the merchant owned in Athens. The Parthian had been travelling with his master when the earthquake had struck Crete. He had been outside the inn where the Greek and his retinue had been staying when the earth roared and rumbled beneath him, throwing him to the ground.
When the earthquake had passed and he stood up, there was nothing left of the inn, and not a sound came from beneath the heap of rubble.
The Parthian had taken the chance to flee into the hills, where he wandered for two days, growing steadily hungrier, until he came across the gladiator and his band of slaves. At first he was content to accept the scraps of food that were freely given to him, and resolved to travel to the coast and find a ship heading east on which he could stow away. But then he had come to know the gladiator. There was something about him that reminded the Parthian of his master back home. An inextinguishable aura of authority and determination that would brook no obstacle. Once the gladiator had learned of his medical expertise, the Parthian was asked to remain with the slaves and tend to their needs. For the first time in his life he had been offered a choice, and as he pondered the novelty of deciding his own fate, he saw the gladiator watching steadily, waiting for his reply. At that moment he knew that his choice had been made.
In the days that had followed, the gladiator's band of followers had swelled as more slaves flocked to his side, begging to be given the chance to take up arms against their former masters. The gladiator had taken them all, selecting those who were fit to be part of his growing war band. The rest were sent to the large, flat-topped hill that served as their base. Already the approaches to the summit had been protected by earthworks and palisades, and thousands of slaves lived on the hill in a variety of crude shelters, or even in the open air. Despite the hardships and the ever-present fear of Roman soldiers and recapture, they were happy and savoured every day that they remained at liberty.
The Parthian leaned closer to the wound and examined it briefly.
Three stitches would suffice to reattach the severed muscle. Another nine or ten stitches would be enough to close the wound, the Parthian decided. He glanced up.
'This is going to hurt. Are you ready, Ajax?'
'Do it now '
As the gladiator stood still, the surgeon leaned forward and probed into the wound, drawing the two ends of the muscle together. Then he pierced the tissue, pressed the needle through and sewed his stitches, before cutting off the spare thread and knotting it securely.
He glanced up. 'All right?'
Ajax nodded, keeping his steely gaze on the vista below him. He stood on the cliff above the defile, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun. The sun had risen an hour earlier, and the first shafts of light had shone down the length of the defile, illuminating the corpses of Roman soldiers sprawled and heaped along the narrow path. In amongst them were the bodies of horses and hundreds of the slaves who had closed in to finish off the Romans caught in the ambush. It had been a bloody fight, Ajax recalled vividly. The desperate courage of his men against the training, armour and weapons of the Romans. The last of the enemy had been hunted down and killed just before dawn. Now his men were picking the bodies clean of anything that would serve the needs of his growing army. Before, they had a miscellany of swords, knives, scythes, spears, pitchforks and clubs. Now they had proper kit, and Ajax knew how to use it. Several of his followers had once been gladiators themselves, and had already started to train the best of the slaves in the ways of combat. Soon, they in turn would train other slaves, and before the month was out, Ajax would have thousands of men under arms, and nothing would stand in the way of his revolt.
He winced as the surgeon pinched the open mouth of the wound together and pushed the needle through his skin, deftly pulling the thread tight before returning the needle back through the flesh in the opposite direction. The pain was hot and made every nerve in his leg shriek with agony, but he kept his jaw clamped shut and fought down the temptation to show that he was suffering. Pain was pro of of life, his first trainer had told him at the gladiator school outside Brindisium. The bearing of pain was also the measure of a man, the trainer had continued as he had walked down the line of new recruits, striking every man in the face as he passed in each direction.
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