vision as his body began to scream for air. His own hands seemed to weaken and he despaired for a second. His right hand came off the throat, almost without his conscious thought and began to hammer the grunting face. The white lights were streaked with flashes of black and his vision began to narrow into a dark tunnel, but he kept striking over and over. The face below him was a messy red pulp, but the hands on his throat were merciless.
Then they fell away, without drama, lying limp on the ground. Marcus sobbed in air and rolled off to one side. His heart was beating at an impossible speed and he felt light-headed, almost as if he was floating. He pulled himself onto his knees and his fingers scrabbled without strength for the hilt of his sword in ever-widening circles.
Finally, they closed on the leather grip and he breathed a silent prayer of thanks. He could hear Renius and Peppis calling for him below, but had no breath to answer. Staggering, he took a few steps back to the man and froze as he saw the eyes were open and looking at him, the heavy chest heaving as raggedly as his own.
Rasping words grated past the man's smashed lips, but they were Greek and Marcus couldn't understand them. Still panting, he pressed the sharp tip of the gladius against the man's chest and shoved down hard. Then his grip slipped off the hilt and he collapsed in a sprawl, turning weakly to empty his stomach onto the ground.
By the time Marcus climbed stiffly back to the path, Peppis had recovered Renius' sword and the gladiator was holding a pad of cloth to the wound in Apollo's shoulder. The big horse was shivering visibly with shock, but was on his feet and aware. Peppis had to hold Lancer's reins tightly as the horse stepped and skittered, wide nostrils and eyes showing his fear at the smell of blood.
‘Are you all right, lad?’ Renius asked.
Marcus nodded, unable to speak. His throat felt crushed and air seemed to whistle with each breath. He pointed at it and Renius beckoned him closer so he could take a look. He made the movement slow, so as not to alarm the horses.
‘Nothing permanent,’ he judged a moment later. ‘Big hands, judging by the prints.’
Marcus could only gasp weakly. He hoped Renius couldn't smell the sour vomit odour that seemed to surround him in a cloud, but guessed he could and chose not to mention it.
‘They made a mistake attacking us,’ Peppis observed, his little face serious.
‘Yes, they did, boy, though we were lucky as well,’ Renius replied. He looked at Marcus. ‘Don't try to speak, just help the boy strap the equipment to your horse. Apollo will be lame for a week or two. We'll ride in turns unless those bandits have mounts nearby.’
Lancer whinnied and an answering snort came from further down the mountain. Renius grinned.
‘Luck is with us again, I see,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Did you search the body?’
Marcus shook his head and Renius shrugged.
‘Not worth climbing up again. They wouldn't have had much and a bow's no use to a man with one arm. Let's get going. We can get off this rock by sunset if we keep a fast pace.’
Marcus began removing Apollo's packs, taking the reins. Renius patted his shoulder as he turned away. The action was worth far more than words.
After a month of long days and cold nights, it was good to see the legion camp from far away across the plain. Even at that distance, thin sounds carried. It seemed like a town on the horizon, with eight thousand men, women and children engaged in the simple day-to-day tasks necessary to keep such a large body of men in the field. Marcus tried to imagine the armouries and smithies, built and taken apart with each camp. There would be food kitchens, building supply dumps, stonemasons, carpenters, leather-workers, slaves, prostitutes and thousands of other civilians who lived and were paid to support the might of Rome in battle. Unlike the tent rows of Marius' legion, this was a permanent camp, with a solid wall and fortifications surrounding the main grounds. In a sense, it was a town, but a town constantly prepared for war.
Renius pulled up and Marcus drew alongside on Lancer, tugging on the reins to halt the third horse they had named Bandit after his last owner. Peppis sat awkwardly on Bandit's riding blanket, his mouth open at the sight of the encamped legion. Renius smiled at the boy's awe.
‘That's it, Marcus. That is your new home. Do you still have the papers Marius gave you?’
Marcus patted his chest in response, feeling the folded pack of parchment under the tunic.
‘Are you coming in?’ he asked. He hoped so. Renius had been a part of his life for so long that the thought of seeing the man riding away while he rode up to the gates alone was too painful to express.
‘I'll see you and Peppis to the Praefectus castrorum – the quartermaster. He will tell you which century you will join. Learn the history quickly; each has its own record and pride.’
‘Any other advice?’
‘Obey every order without complaint. At the moment you fight like an individual, like one of the savage tribes. They will teach you to trust your companions and to fight as a unit, but the learning does not come easily to some.’
He turned to Peppis. ‘Life will be hard for you. Do as you are told and when you are grown you will be allowed to join the legion. Do nothing that shames you. Do you understand?’
Peppis nodded, his throat dry from fear of this alien life.
‘I will learn. So will he,’ Marcus said.
Renius nodded and clicked his tongue at his horse to move on. ‘That you will.’
Marcus felt an obscure satisfaction at the clean, orderly layout of streets, complete with rows of long, low buildings for the men. He and Renius had been greeted warmly at the gate as soon as he had shown his papers and proceeded on foot to the Prefect's quarters, where he would pledge years of his life in the field service of Rome. He took confidence from Renius as the man strode confidently through the narrow roads, nodding in approval at the polished perfection of the soldiers who marched past in squads of ten. Peppis trotted behind them, carrying a heavy pack of equipment on his back.
The papers had to be shown twice more as they approached the small, white building from which the camp Prefect ran the business of a Roman town in a foreign land. At last they were allowed entry and a slim man dressed in a white toga and sandals came into the outer rooms to meet them as they passed through the door.
‘Renius! I heard it was you in the camp. The men are already talking about you losing your arm. Gods, it is good to see you!’ He beamed at them, the image of Roman efficiency, suntanned and hard, with a strong grip as he greeted each of them in turn.
Renius smiled back with genuine warmth.
‘Marius didn't tell me you were here, Carac. I am glad to see you well.’
‘You haven't aged, I swear it! Gods, you don't look a day over forty. How do you do it?’
‘Clean living,’ Renius grunted, still uncomfortable with the change Cabera had wrought.
The Prefect raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but let the subject drop.
‘And the arm?’
‘Training accident. The lad here, Marcus, cut me and I had it taken off.’
The
