joined in.
‘Is he that one you mentioned, Tonius? Look at his angry little face!’
‘If I see you here again, I’ll put an arrow through you,’ Gaius said quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. He pulled the shaft back a few inches. ‘Leave now or I will strike you down.’
Suetonius had stopped smiling as he weighed up his chances.
‘All right then, parvus lupus, I’ll give you what you seem to want.’
Without warning, he rushed at him and Gaius released the arrow too quickly. It struck the tunic of the older boy, but fell away without piercing. Suetonius yelled in triumph and stepped forward with his hands outstretched and his eyes cruel. Gaius whipped the bow up in panic, hitting the older boy on the nose. Blood spurted and Tonius roared in rage and pain, his eyes filling with tears. As Gaius raised the bow again, Tonius seized it with one hand and Gaius’ throat with the other, carrying him back six or seven paces with the sheer fury of his charge.
‘Any other threats?’ he growled as his grip tightened. Blood poured from his nose and stained his praetexta tunic. He wrenched the bow away from Gaius’ grasp and set about him with it, raining blows, but all the time keeping hold of his throat.
‘He’s going to kill me and pretend it was an accident,’ Gaius thought desperately. ‘I can see it in his eyes. I can’t breathe.’
He pummelled at the larger boy with his own fists, but his reach was not enough to do any real damage. His vision lost colour, becoming like a dream; his ears ceased to hear sound. He lost consciousness as Tonius threw him down onto the wet leaves.
Tubruk found Gaius on the path about an hour later and woke him by pouring water onto his bruised and battered head. Once again, his face was a crusted mess. His barely scabbed eye had filled with blood, so that his vision was dark on that side. His nose had been rebroken and everything else was a bruise.
‘Tubruk?’ he murmured, dazed. ‘I fell out of a tree.’
The big man’s laugh echoed in the closeness of the dense woods.
‘You know, lad, no one doubts your courage. It’s your ability to fight I’m not too sure about. It’s time you were properly trained before you get yourself killed. When your father is back from the city, I’ll raise it with him.’
‘You won’t tell him about … me falling from the tree? I hit a lot of branches on the way down.’ Gaius could taste blood in his mouth, leaking back from the broken nose.
‘Did you manage to hit the tree at all? Even once?’ Tubruk asked, looking at the scuffed leaves and reading the answers for himself.
‘The tree has a nose like mine, I’d say.’ Gaius tried to smile, but vomited into the bushes instead.
‘Hmmm. Is this the end of it, do you think? I can’t let you carry on and see you crippled or dead. When your father is away in the city, he expects you to begin to learn your responsibilities as his heir and a patrician, not an urchin involved in pointless brawls.’ Tubruk paused to pick up a battered bow from the undergrowth. The string had snapped and he tutted.
‘I should tan your backside for stealing this bow as well.’
Gaius nodded miserably.
‘No more fights, understand?’ Tubruk pulled him to his feet and wiped away some of the mud from the track.
‘No more fights. Thank you for coming to get me,’ Gaius replied.
The boy tottered and almost fell as he spoke and the old gladiator sighed. With a quick heave, he lifted the boy up to his shoulders and carried him down to the main house, shouting, ‘Duck!’ when they came to low branches.
Except for the splinted hand, Marcus was back to his usual self by the following week. He was shorter than Gaius by about two inches, brown-haired and strong-limbed. His arms were a little out of proportion, which he claimed would make him a great swordsman when he was older because of the extra reach. He could juggle four apples and would have tried with knives if the kitchen slaves hadn’t told Aurelia, Gaius’ mother. She had screamed at him until he promised never to try it. The memory still made him pause whenever he picked up a blade to eat.
When Tubruk had brought the barely conscious Gaius back to the villa, Marcus was out of bed, having crept down to the vast kitchen complex. He’d been in the middle of dipping his fingers into the fat-smeared iron pans when he heard the voices and trotted past the rows of heavy brick ovens to Lucius’ sickroom.
As always when they hurt themselves, Lucius, a physician slave, tended to the wounds. He looked after the estate slaves as well as the family, binding swellings, applying maggot poultices to infections, pulling teeth with his pliers and sewing up cuts. He was a quiet, patient man who always breathed through his nose as he concentrated. The soft whistle of air from the elderly physician’s lungs had come to mean peace and safety to the boys. Gaius knew that Lucius would be freed when his father died, as a reward for his silent care of Aurelia.
Marcus sat and munched on bread and black fat as Lucius set the broken nose yet again.
‘Suetonius beat you again then?’ he asked.
Gaius nodded, unable to speak or to see through watering eyes.
‘You should have waited for me, we could have taken him together.’
Gaius couldn’t even nod. Lucius finished probing the nasal cartilage and made a sharp pull, to set the loose piece in line. Fresh blood poured over the day’s clotted mixture.
‘By the bloody temples, Lucius, careful! You almost had my nose right off then!’
Lucius smiled and began to cut fresh linen into strips to bind around the head.
In the respite, Gaius turned to his friend. ‘You have a broken, splinted hand and bruised or cracked ribs. You cannot fight.’
Marcus looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps. Will you try again? He’ll kill you if you do, you know.’
Gaius gazed at him calmly over the bandages as Lucius packed up his materials and rose to leave.
‘Thanks, Lucius. He won’t kill me because I’ll beat him. I simply need to adjust my strategy, that’s all.’
‘He’s going to kill you,’ repeated Marcus, biting into a dried apple, stolen from the winter stores.
A week later to the day, Marcus rose at dawn and began his exercises, which he believed would stimulate the reflexes needed to be a great swordsman. His room was a simple cell of white stone, containing only his bed and a trunk with his personal possessions. Gaius had the adjoining room and, on his way to the toilet, Marcus kicked the door to wake him up. He entered the small room and chose one of the four stone-rimmed holes that led to a sewer of constantly running water, a miracle of engineering that meant there was little or no smell, with the night soil washing out into the river that ran through the valley. He removed the capstone and pulled up his night shift.
Gaius had not stirred when he returned, and he opened the door to chide him for his laziness. The room was empty and Marcus felt a surge of disappointment.
‘You should have taken me with you, my friend. You
