The Gates of Rome. Conn Iggulden
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painfully stiff, they both worked and he set about wriggling them free. His young frame was supple and the burst of fresh pain was ignored in the wave of worry he felt for his friend. He had to be all right, he had to be. First though, Gaius had to get down.
One hand came free and he reached down to the ground, scrabbling in the dust and dead leaves with his fingertips. Nothing. The other hand came free and he widened his area of search, making his body swing in a slow circle. Yes, a small stone with a sharp edge. Now for the difficult part.
‘Marcus! Can you hear me? I’m going to get us down, don’t you worry. Then I’m going to kill Suetonius and his fat friends.’
Marcus swung gently in silence, his mouth open and slack. Gaius took a deep breath and readied himself for the pain. Under normal circumstances, reaching up to cut through a piece of heavy twine with only a sharp stone would have been difficult, but with his abdomen a mass of bruises, it felt like an impossible task.
Go.
He heaved himself up, crying out with the pain from his stomach. He jackknifed up to the branch and gripped it with both hands, lungs heaving with the effort. He felt weak and his vision blurred. He thought he would vomit and could do no more than just hold on for a few moments. Then, inch by inch, he released the hand with the stone and leaned back, giving himself enough room to reach the twine and saw at it, trying not to catch his skin where it had bitten into the flesh.
The stone was depressingly blunt and he couldn’t hold on for long. Gaius tried to let go before his hands slipped so he could control the fall back, but it was too hard.
‘Still got the stone,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Try again, before Suetonius comes back.’
Another thought struck him. His father could have returned from Rome. He was due back any day now. It was growing dark and he would be worried. Already, he could be out looking for the two boys, coming nearer to this spot, calling their names. He must not find them like this. It would be too humiliating.
‘Marcus? We’ll tell everyone we fell. I don’t want my father to know about this.’
Marcus creaked round in a circle, oblivious.
Five times more, Gaius spasmed up and sawed at the twine before it parted. He hit the ground almost flat and sobbed as his torn and tortured muscles twitched and jumped.
He tried to ease Marcus to the ground, but the weight was too much for him and the thump made him wince.
As Marcus landed, he opened his eyes at the fresh pain.
‘My hand,’ he whispered, his voice cracking.
‘Broken, I’d say. Don’t move it. We have to get out of here in case Suetonius comes back or my father tries to find us. It’s nearly dark. Can you stand?’
‘I can, I think, though my legs feel weak. That Tonius is a bastard,’ Marcus muttered. He did not try to open his swollen jaw, but spoke through fat and broken lips.
Gaius nodded grimly. ‘True – we have a score to settle there, I think.’
Marcus smiled and winced at the sting of opening cuts. ‘Not until we’ve healed a bit though, eh? I’m not up to taking him on at the moment.’
Propping each other up, the two boys staggered home in the darkness, walking a mile over the cornfields, past the slave quarters for the field workers and up to the main buildings. As expected, the oil lamps were still lit, lining the walls of the main house.
‘Tubruk will be waiting for us; he never sleeps,’ Gaius muttered as they passed under the pillars of the outer gate.
A voice from the shadows made them both jump.
‘A good thing too. I would have hated to miss this spectacle. You are lucky your father is not here, he’d have taken the skin off your backs for returning to the villa looking like this. What was it this time?’
Tubruk stepped into the yellow light of the lamps and leaned forward. He was a powerfully built ex-gladiator, who’d bought the position of overseer to the small estate outside Rome and never looked back. Gaius’ father said he was one in a thousand for organising talent. The slaves worked well under him, some from fear and some from liking. He sniffed at the two young boys.
‘Fall in the river, did we? Smells like it.’
They nodded happily at this explanation.
‘Mind you, you didn’t pick up those stick marks from a river bottom, did you? Suetonius, was it? I should have kicked his backside for him years ago, when he was young enough for it to make a difference. Well?’
‘No, Tubruk, we had an argument and fought each other. No one else was involved and even if there had been, we would want to handle it ourselves, you see?’
Tubruk grinned at this from such a small boy. He was forty-five years of age, with hair that had gone grey in his thirties. He had been a legionary in Africa in the Third Cyrenaica legion, and had fought nearly a hundred battles as a gladiator, collecting a mass of scars on his body. He put out his great spade of a hand and rubbed his square fingers through Gaius’ hair.
‘I do see, little wolf. You are your father’s son. You cannot handle everything yet though, you are just a little lad and Suetonius – or whoever – is shaping into a fine young warrior so I hear. Mind yourselves, his father is too powerful to be an enemy in the Senate.’
Gaius drew himself up to his full height and spoke as formally as he knew how, trying to assert his position.
‘It is luck then, that this Suetonius is in no way attached to ourselves,’ he replied.
Tubruk nodded as if he had accepted the point, trying not to grin.
Gaius continued more confidently: ‘Send Lucius to me to look at our wounds. My nose is broken and almost certainly Marcus’ hand is the same.’
Tubruk watched them totter into the main house and resumed his post in the darkness, guarding the gate on first watch, as he did each night. It would be full summer soon and the days would be almost too hot to bear. It was good to be alive with the sky so clear and honest work ahead.
The following morning was an agony of protest from muscles, cuts and joints; the two days after that were worse. Marcus had succumbed to a fever that the physician said entered his head through the broken bone of his hand, which swelled to astonishing proportions as it was strapped and splinted. For days he was hot and had to be kept in darkness, while Gaius fretted on the steps outside.
Almost exactly one week after the attack in the woods, Marcus was lying asleep, still weak, but recovering. Gaius could still feel pain as he stretched his muscles and his face was a pretty collection of yellow and purple patches, shiny and tight in places as they healed. It was time, though: time to find Suetonius.
As he walked through the woods of the family estate, his mind was full of thoughts of fear and pain. What if Suetonius didn’t show up? There was no reason to suppose that he made regular trips into the woods. What if the older boy was with his friends again? They would kill him, no doubt about it. Gaius had brought a bow with him this time, and practised drawing it as he walked. It was a man’s bow and too large for him, but he found he could plant the end in the ground and pull an arrow back enough to frighten Suetonius, if the boy refused to back down.
‘Suetonius, you are a pus-filled bag of dung. If I catch you on my father’s land, I will put an arrow through your head.’
He spoke aloud as he went along. It was a beautiful day to walk in the woods and he might have enjoyed it if it wasn’t for his serious purpose in being there. This time, too, he had his brown hair oiled tight against his head and clean, simple clothes that allowed him easy movements and an unrestricted draw.
He was still on his side of the estate border, so Gaius was surprised when he heard footsteps up ahead and saw Suetonius and a giggling girl appear suddenly on the wide track. The older boy didn’t notice him for a moment, so intent was he on grappling with the girl.
‘You’re