"Nothing of value ever is," Julius replied quietly.
They looked at each other calmly for a moment and both nodded. The interview was at an end. The old warrior shook hands with a brief touch of dry skin in a quick, hard grip and left. Julius remained standing, gazing at the door that closed behind his exit.
Tubruk thought the training methods were dangerous and had mentioned an incident where the boys could have drowned without supervision. Julius grimaced. He knew that to mention the worry to Renius would be to sever their agreement. Preventing the old murderer from going too far would rest with the estate manager.
Sighing, he sat down and thought about the problems he faced in Rome. Cornelius Sulla had continued to rise in power, bringing some towns in the south of the country into the Roman fold and away from their merchant controllers. What was the name of that last? Pompeii, some sort of mountain town. Sulla kept his name in the mind of the vacuous public with such small triumphs. He commanded a group of senators with a web of lies, bribery, and flattery. They were all young and brought a shudder to the old soldier as he thought of some of them. If this was what Rome was coming to, in his lifetime...!
Instead of taking the business of empire seriously, they seemed to live only for sordid pleasures of the most dubious kinds, worshipping at the temple of Aphrodite and calling themselves the "New Romans." There were few things that still caused outrage in the temples of the capital, but this new group seemed intent on finding the limits and breaking them, one by one. One of the people's tribunes had been found murdered, one who opposed Sulla whenever possible. This would not have been too remarkable in itself; he had been found in a pool, made red by a swiftly opened vein in his leg, a not-uncommon mode of death. The problem was that his children too had been found killed, which looked like a warning to others. There were no clues and no witnesses. It was unlikely the murderer would ever be found, but before another tribune could be elected, Sulla had forced through a resolution that gave a general greater autonomy in the field. He had argued the need himself and was eloquent and passionate in his persuasion. The Senate had voted and his power had grown a little more, while the power of the Republic was nibbled away.
Julius had so far managed to stay neutral, but as he was related by marriage to another of the power players, his wife's brother Marius, he knew eventually that sides would have to be chosen. A wise man could see the changes coming, but it saddened him that the equalities of the Republic were felt as chains by more and more of the hotheads in the Senate. Marius too felt that a powerful man could use the law rather than obey it. Already he had proven this by making a mockery of the system used to elect consuls. Roman law said that a consul could only be elected once by the Senate and must then step down from the position. Marius had recently secured his third election with martial victories against the Cimbri tribes and the Teutons, whom he had smashed with the Primigenia legion. He was still a lion of the emerging Rome, and Julius would have to find the protection of his shadow if Cornelius Sulla continued to grow in power.
Favors would be owed and some of his autonomy would be lost if he threw his colors into the camp of Marius, but it might be the only wise choice. He wished he could consult his wife and listen to her quick mind dissect the problem as she used to do. Always she could see an angle on a problem, or a point of view that no one else could see. He missed her wry smile and the way she would press her palms against his eyes when he was tired, bringing a wonderful coolness and peace...
He moved quietly through the corridors to Aurelia's rooms and paused outside the door, listening to her long, slow breaths, barely audible in the silence.
Carefully, he entered the room and crossed over to the sleeping figure, kissing her lightly on the brow. She didn't stir and he sat by the bed, watching her.
Asleep, she seemed the woman he remembered. At any moment, she could wake and her eyes would fill with intelligence and wit. She would laugh to see him sitting there in the shadows and pull back the covers, inviting him in to the warmth of her.
"Who can I turn to, my love?" he whispered. "Who should I support and trust to safeguard the city and the Republic? I think your brother Marius cares as little for the idea as Sulla himself." He rubbed his jaw, feeling the stubble.
"Where does safety lie for my wife and my son? Do I throw in my house to the wolf or the snake?"
Silence answered him and he shook his head slowly. He rose and kissed Aurelia, imagining just for one moment more that, if her eyes opened, someone he knew would be looking out. Then he left quietly, shutting the door softly behind him.
When Tubruk walked his watch that evening, the last of the candles had guttered out and the rooms were dark. Julius still sat in his chair, but his eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell slowly, with a soft whistle of air from his nose. Tubruk nodded to himself, pleased he was getting some rest from worry.
The following morning, Julius ate with the two boys, a small breaking of the fast with bread, fruit, and a warm tisane to counter the dawn chill. The depressive thoughts of the day before had been put aside and he sat straight, his gaze clear.
"You look healthy and strong," he said to the pair of them. "Renius is turning you into young men."
They grinned at each other for a second.
"Renius says we will soon be fit enough for battle training. We have shown we can stand heat and cold and have begun to find our strengths and weaknesses. All this is internal, which he says is the foundation for external skill." Gaius spoke with animation, his hands moving slightly with his words.
Both boys were clearly growing in confidence, and Julius felt a pang for a moment that he was not able to see more of their growth. Looking at his son, he wondered if he would come home to a stranger one day.
"You are my son. Renius has trained many, but never a son of mine. You will surprise him, I think." Julius looked at Gaius's incredulous expression, knowing the boy was not used to praise or admiration.
"I will try to. Marcus will surprise him too, I expect."
Julius did not look at the other boy at the table, although he felt his eyes. As if he were not present, he answered, wanting the point to be remembered and annoyed at Gaius's attempt to bring his friend into the conversation.
"Marcus is not my son. You carry my name and my reputation with you. You alone."
Gaius bowed his head, embarrassed and unable to hold his fathers strangely compelling gaze. "Yes, Father," he muttered, and continued to eat.
Sometimes he wished there were other children, brothers or sisters to play with and to carry the burden of his father's hopes. Of course, he would not give up the estate to them, that was his alone and always had been, but occasionally he felt the pressure as an uncomfortable weight. His mother especially, when she was quiet and placid, would croon to him that he was all the children she had been allowed, one perfect example of life. She often told him that she would have liked daughters to dress and pass on her wisdom to, but the fever that had struck her at his birth had taken that chance away.
Renius came into the warm kitchen. He wore open sandals with a red soldier's tunic and short leggings that ended on his calves, stretched tight over almost obscenely large muscles, the legacy of life as an infantryman in the legions. Despite his age, he seemed to burn with health and vitality. He halted in front of the table, his back straight and his eyes bright and interested.
"With your permission, sir, the sun is rising and the boys must run five miles before it clears the hills."
Julius nodded and the two boys stood quickly, waiting for his dismissal.
"Go—train hard," he said, smiling. His son looked eager, the other—there was something else there in those dark eyes and brows. Anger? No, it was gone. The pair raced off and the two men were once again left alone. Julius indicated the table.
"I hear you are intending to begin battle school with them soon."
"They are not strong enough yet; they may not be this year, but I am not just a fitness instructor to them,
after all."
"Have you given any thought to continuing their training after the year contract is up?" Julius asked, hoping his casual manner masked his interest.
"I will retire to the country next year. Nothing is likely to change that."
"Then these two will be your last students—your last legacy to Rome," Julius replied.
Renius froze for a second and Julius let no trace of his emotions betray itself on his face.
"It is something to think about," Renius said at last, before turning on his heel and going into the gray dawn light.
Julius grinned wolfishly behind him.
CHAPTER 6
As officers, you will ride to the battle, but fighting from horseback is not our chief strength. Although we use cavalry for quick, smashing attacks, it is the footmen of the twenty-eight legions that break the enemy. Every man of the 150,000 legionaries we have in the field at any given moment of any day can walk thirty miles in full armor, carrying a pack that is a third his own weight. He can then fight the enemy, without weakness and without complaint."
Renius eyed the two boys who stood in the heat of the noon sun, returned from a run and trying to control their breathing. More than three years he had given them, the last he would ever teach. There was so much more for them to learn! He paced around them as he spoke, snapping the words out.
"It is not the luck of the gods that has given the countries of the world into the palms of Rome. It is not the weakness of the foreign tribes that leads them to throw themselves onto our swords in battle. It is our strength, greater and deeper than anything they can bring to the field. That is our first tactic. Before our men even reach the battle, they will be unbreakable in their strength and their morale. More, they will have a discipline that the armies of the world can bloody themselves against without effect.
"Each man will know that his brothers at his side will have to be killed to leave him. That makes him stronger than the most heroic charge, or the vain screams of savage tribes. We walk to battle. We stand and they die."
Gaius's breathing slowed and his lungs ceased to clamor for oxygen. In the three years since Renius had first arrived at his father's villa, he had grown in height and strength. Approaching fourteen years of age, he was showing signs of the man he would one day be.
Burned the color of light oak by the Roman sun, he stood easily, his frame slim and athletic, with powerful shoulders and legs. He could run for hours round the hills and still find reserves for a burst of speed as his father's estate came into view again.
Marcus too had undergone changes, both physically and in his spirit. The innocent happiness of the boy he had been came and went in flashes now. Renius had taught him to guard his emotions and his responses. He had been taught this with the whip and without kindness of any kind for three long years. He too had well-developed shoulders, tapering down into lightning-fast fists that Gaius could not match anymore. Inside him, the desire to stand on his own, without help from his line or the patronage of others, was like a slow acid in his stomach.
As Renius watched, both boys became calm and stood to attention, watching him warily. It was not unknown for him to suddenly strike at an exposed stomach, testing, always testing for weakness.
"Gladii, gentlemen—fetch your swords."
Silently, they turned away and collected the short swords from pegs on the training yard wall. Heavy leather belts were buckled around their waists, with a leather "frog" attached, a holder for the sword. The scabbard slid snugly into the frog, tightly held by lacing so that it would remain immobile if the blade was suddenly drawn.
Properly attired, they returned to the attention position, waiting for the next order.
"Gaius, you observe. I will use the boy to make a simple point." Renius loosened his shoulders with a crack and grinned as Marcus slowly drew the gladius.
"First position, boy. Stand like a soldier, if you can remember how."
Marcus relaxed into the first position, legs shoulder-width apart, body slightly turned from full frontal, sword held at waist height, ready to strike for the groin, stomach, or throat, the three main areas of attack. Groin and neck were favorites, as a deep cut there would mean the opponent bled to death in seconds.
Renius shifted his weight, and Marcus's point wavered to follow the movement.
"Slashing the air again? If you do that, I'll see it and pattern you. I only need one opening to cut your throat out, one blow. Let me guess which way you're going to shift your weight and I'll cut you in two." He began to circle Marcus, who remained relaxed, his eyebrows raised over a face blank of expression. Renius continued to talk.
"You want to kill me, don't you, boy? I can feel your hatred. I can feel it like good wine in my stomach. It cheers me up, boy, can you believe that?"
Marcus attacked in a sudden move, without warning, without signal. It had taken hundreds of hours of drill for him to eliminate all his "tells," his telegraphing tensions of muscle that gave away his intentions. No matter how fast he was, a good opponent would gut him if he signaled his thoughts before each move.
Renius was not there when the stabbing lunge ended. His gladius pressed up against Marcus's throat.
"Again. You were slow and clumsy as usual. If you weren't faster than Gaius, you'd be the worst I'd ever seen."
Marcus gaped and, in a split second, the sun-warmed gladius was pressed against his inner thigh, by the big pulsing vein that carried his life.
Renius shook his head in disgust. "Never listen to your opponent. Gaius is observing, you are fighting. You concentrate on how I am moving, not the words I speak, which are simply to distract you. Again."
They circled in the shadows of the yard.
"Your mother was clumsy in bed at first." Renius's sword snaked out as he spoke and was snapped aside with a bell ring of metal. Marcus stepped in and pressed his blade against the leathery old skin of Renius's throat. His expression was cold and unforgiving.
"Predictable," Marcus muttered, glaring into the cold blue eyes, nettled nonetheless.
He felt a pressure and looked down to see a dagger held in Renius's left hand, touching him lightly on the stomach. Renius grinned.
"Many men will hate you enough to take you with them. They are the most dangerous of all. They can run right onto your sword and blind you with their thumbs. I've seen that done by a woman to one of my men."
"Why did she hate him so much?" Marcus asked as he took a pace away, sword still ready to defend.
"The victors will always be hated. It is the price we pay. If they love you, they will do what you want, but when they want to do it. If they fear you, they will do your will, but when you want them to. So, is it better to be loved or feared?"
"Both," Gaius said seriously.
Renius smiled. "You mean adored and respected, which is the impossible trick if you are occupying lands that are only yours by right of strength and blood. Life is never a simple problem from question to answer. There are always many answers."
The two boys looked baffled and Renius snorted in irritation.
"I will show you what discipline means. I will show you what you have already learned. Put your swords away and stand back to attention."
The old gladiator looked the pair over with a critical eye. Without warning, the noon bell sounded and he frowned, his manner changing in an instant. His voice lost the snap of the tutor and, for once, was low and quiet.
"There are food riots in the city, did you know that? Great gangs that destroy property and stream away like rats when someone is brave enough to draw a sword on them. I should be there, not playing games with children. I have taught you for two years longer than my original agreement. You are not ready, but I will not waste any more of my evening years on you. Today is your last lesson." He stepped over to Gaius, who stared resolutely ahead.
"Your father should have met me here and heard my report. The fact that he is late for the first time in three years tells me what?"
Gaius cleared his dry
throat. "The riots in Rome are worse than you believed."
"Yes. Your father will not be here to see this last lesson. A pity. If he is dead and I kill you, who will inherit the estate?"
Gaius blinked in confusion. The man's words seemed to jar with his reasonable tone. It was as if he were ordering a new tunic.
"My uncle Marius, although he is with the Primigenia legion—the First-Born. He will not be expecting—"
"A good standard, the Primigenia, did well in Egypt. My bill will be sent to him. Now I will indulge you as the current master of the estate, in your father's absence. When you are ready, you will face me for real, not a practice, not to first blood, but an attack such as you might face if you were walking the streets of Rome today, among the rioters.
"I will fight fairly, and if you kill me you may consider yourself to have graduated from my tutelage."
"Why kill us after all the time you have—" Marcus spluttered, breaking discipline to speak without permission.
"You have to face death at some point. I cannot continue to train you, and there is a last lesson to be learned about fear and anger."
For a moment, Renius looked unsure of himself, but then his head straightened and the "Snapping Turtle," as the slaves called him, was back, his intensity and energy overpowering.
"You are my last pupils. My reputation as I go into retirement hangs on your sorry necks. I will not let you go improperly trained, so that my name is blackened by your deeds. My name is something I have spent my life protecting. It is too late to consider losing it now."
"We would not embarrass you," Marcus muttered, almost to himself.
Renius rounded on him. "Your every stroke embarrasses me. You hack like a butcher attacking a bull carcass in a rage. You cannot control your temper. You fall for the simplest trap as the blood drains from your head! And you!" He turned to Gaius, who had begun to grin. "You cannot keep your thoughts from your groin long enough to make a Roman of you. Nobilitas? My blood runs cold at the thought of boys like you carrying on my heritage, my city, my people."
The Gates of Rome Page 8
