The Forgotten Legion

by Ben Kane

  Romulus darted into the tablinum, skidding across cool mosaic tiles. He paused just long enough to whisper his news to Fabiola, who had returned to peer into the garden.

  She grinned as he tore off again, pleased for her brother.

  Exiting the imposing reception room at speed, the boy nearly knocked over Quintus, the old slave who was sweeping round the rectangular pool that collected rainwater in the centre of the sunlit atrium.

  'Sorry!'

  Quintus smiled fondly. Aware of Gemellus' cruelty, Romulus often helped him when his chores grew too much. The salt mines awaited any in the house who could not work.

  Quickly regaining his balance, Romulus pelted towards the heavy wooden doors that guarded Gemellus' house from the outside world.

  Juba, the immense doorman, stood up when he saw Romulus approaching. He wore only a loincloth and his muscular body was covered in old scars. A bald head shone from the covering of grease the Nubian applied daily. Attracted by his size and fighting ability, Gemellus had bought Juba five years before. A man like this would keep trouble from the door and other slaves in check.

  The Nubian lifted an eyebrow.

  Romulus looked round, making sure nobody was within earshot. 'The master gave me a letter.' He blew out both cheeks and waddled closer, impersonating Gemellus. 'For Crassus, the famous general.'

  Juba laughed, revealing the stump of his tongue. Gemellus had ordered it cut out when he had purchased the doorman. It meant the Nubian always had to consult his master or the major-domo when someone was outside. This reduced the chance of thieves entering the domus.

  Romulus remembered watching with amazement as he walked into the house, still bleeding from the mouth. He was the first black man the boy had seen. And mutilation, poor food and frequent beatings had ensured that Juba hated their owner as much as Romulus did.

  Soon after arriving, the Nubian had carved him a wooden sword, delighting the eight-year-old with his first toy. In return Romulus had stolen a loaf of bread from the kitchen. From then on, nightly raids had kept the giant fed. Their friendship had grown from there. Previously, Fabiola had been his only ally. Although the twins were very close, Romulus had unconsciously craved male company, rough and tumble play. He began to seek Juba out every day and, glad of the boy's presence, the Nubian let him share his bare alcove by the door without complaint. Velvinna knew how important the relationship was and did not interfere. Romulus would never have the influence of his father. Or even meet him.

  Unless it was to exact revenge.

  The rape was something she had always planned to tell Romulus and Fabiola about when they were older. Thanks to his increasing popularity, depictions of a certain noble had recently begun appearing in temples and shrines. Velvinna had seen many examples and was now reasonably sure of the twins' father's identity. She longed to tell them both, especially Romulus. Thirteen years later, the desire for revenge still burned inside her. But it was important that they enjoyed childhood as much as possible – before it was taken away by whatever Gemellus might plan. Mixed feelings filled Velvinna as she saw the merchant gazing speculatively at the children and her prayers to the gods grew more fervent.

  Romulus knew none of this. Grinning broadly, he stood before two great portals at the entrance. They were seldom opened, except when important visitors arrived or Gemellus was holding a feast. Instead the inhabitants came and went through a postern gate in the middle of one door.

  Throwing back the iron bolt, Juba smiled and held up a stern finger.

  'I'll be careful!' Eagerly, Romulus eyed the curved blade shoved into the Nubian's wide leather belt. 'Can we practise again later?'

  Juba mimed the cut and thrust of a sword fight.

  Grinning broadly, Romulus ducked into the noisy street. A wave of heat hit him, assaulting his senses with its odours. As always in warm weather, the overwhelming smells were of human faeces and urine, fermenting on dung heaps in small dark alleyways.

  He wrinkled his nose with disgust.

  The narrow unpaved lane was crowded with people going about their business. Rome's working day began at sunrise, especially in summer when the extreme temperatures made life unbearable. The men and women Romulus saw pushing and shoving past were a mixture of every race in the Republic. Italians, Greeks, Spaniards. Nubians, Egyptians, Gauls, Judaeans, even the occasional Goth. Most were ordinary citizens or traders, trying to eke a living in the city designed for, and ruled by, the upper classes.

  Many had come here to seek fame and fortune.

  Few succeeded.

  But their lot was better than those who had arrived as slaves, destined merely to serve as tiny cogs in the huge machine that the Republic had become. Only the rich, born into a heritage stretching back five hundred years, truly enjoyed the splendour of the metropolis and the opportunities it afforded.

  A pair of heavily muscled men leaning against a wall opposite stood out, noticeable for their size and stillness. They were watching Gemellus' doorway like hawks. Thick leather wristbands, swords on belts and scarred arms meant only one thing. Trouble.

  Juba had pointed them out earlier through a peephole. When Romulus left the villa, one of the heavies hurried after, trying to stay inconspicuous.

  The boy increased his pace, smirking at how easy it would be to lose his pursuer. Although he hated Gemellus, Romulus felt a loyalty to the household.

  Delivering the message as ordered was important.

  Turning a corner without looking, he was nearly run down by a pair of oxen pulling a cart loaded with pottery.

  'Mind where you're going, little bastard!' The drover waved a stick angrily, trying to bring his startled beasts under control. Loud crashes signalled breakages as some of the load came loose.

  Guiltily, Romulus disappeared into the throng. Shouts of rage followed but neither carter nor thug had a chance of catching him. During the day all traffic moved at snail's pace through the packed streets. Only the Via Sacra, a paved avenue leading from the Velia's heights to the Forum, was wide enough to take two wagons abreast. Elsewhere, houses were no more than ten feet apart; far less in many places. Sunlight was all but excluded, creating a gloomy warren of narrow lanes.

  He ducked down low, using other pedestrians as cover. Romulus was expert at squeezing his boyish frame between people, worming past without anyone noticing. Within a few dozen paces, he would be totally indistinguishable from the crowd.

  Gemellus' domus lay on the Aventine Hill, a mainly plebeian area just south of the centre. The trader had never seen fit to leave his roots behind, even when he could have moved close to the Forum Romanum itself. As in most parts of Rome, the dwellings of rich and poor were positioned side by side. Large houses with impassive stone walls and monumental gates sat beside insulae up to five storeys tall. These buildings contained the tenement flats in which most people lived.

  The alleys between paved streets remained as they had been since antiquity – covered with a mixture of mud and human waste. Far from main arteries into the centre, daily life here was a drudgery of using public fountains and toilets. Richer members of society living near larger ways were lucky enough to have household running water and sewage removal. Naturally Gemellus had both.

  The note began to burn Romulus' hand as he walked. What did it say?

  Why were armed men waiting outside the domus day and night? He thought of opening it, but there was little point. Romulus longed to read and write but like all the household slaves apart from Servilius, the merchant's bookkeeper, he was illiterate. Gemellus did not spend any money unless it yielded a profit. Romulus sighed. Perhaps he would learn something at his destination.

  His evasive move had pushed him along the Via Ostiensis, which led between the Palatine and Caelian Hills to the Via Sacra. This made the journey much longer, and at the next intersection Romulus elected to take the shorter route along the Clivus Publicius. The Servian wall wove in and out of view as the road rose and fell. A massive defensive barrier, it had once enclos
ed many of the sprawling suburbs, but as the population in these vici swelled inexorably, the wall had ceased to define the city's perimeter. Buildings now extended far beyond its protection – on to the edge of the Campus Martius, the plain to the northwest, and the land north of the Quirinal Hill. With Rome's power over the peninsula of Italy absolute for more than a hundred years, few worried about the danger of attack.

  At every crossroads stood members of the collegia, no longer just traders and artisans, but Clodius' men, armed and dangerous. Romulus knew better than to attract their attention and kept his gaze firmly on the rutted mud beneath his sandals. A few moments later, a funeral procession went past in the opposite direction, the family preceded by a public crier.

  'This citizen, Marcus Scaurus, has been surrendered to death,' the official intoned gravely. 'For those who find it convenient, it is now time to attend the funeral. He has been brought from his house and is being taken to the family tomb on the Via Appia.'

  Romulus stared at the musicians who followed, playing solemn music to set the tone for mourners. Scaurus' washed body, dressed in a pristine white toga, was being borne on a funeral couch by half a dozen men whose close resemblance meant they must be relations. Slaves carried burning torches, a custom maintained from the time when processions had taken place at night. An attractive woman in her forties walked slowly behind the body, crying. She was well dressed, face painted white with lead. Other family members and friends followed, dressed in grey togas and tunics, the Roman colour of mourning.

  Romulus walked on. Death was of no concern to him. Whilst he had no family tomb on the Via Appia, Romulus had no wish to be tossed into the stinking pits on the eastern slopes of the Esquiline Hill where slaves, paupers and criminals were buried with animal carcasses and the excess city waste. Ever since Romulus had become aware of his low status, he had been determined to gain freedom for himself and his family. Gemellus would not always be their master. But he had no idea how to achieve it. Simply having a rebellious spirit was not enough.

  Six muscular slaves carrying a litter were preceded by another with a stick, whipping those too slow to get out of the way. Off-duty gang members lounged outside a tavern, drinking wine. It was a sign of changing times. Historically such lowlife would not have dared appear so near the city centre. Even slaves knew about the recent political unrest and the ruthless manner in which the three nobles who formed the triumvirate had subjugated the Senate. And as the Republic grew weaker, crime and public disorder increased dramatically.

  Clad in rough tunics and carrying swords and knives, the thugs whistled and yelled obscenities at any woman, old or young. But as the litter passed, they fell silent, still wary of attracting the attention of the great and noble. Romulus lingered for a moment, studying the hardware on display. Weapons fascinated him. Despite the risk of severe punishment, training with Juba was his favourite pastime.

  Shops lining the street had wares stacked on display in front of them, greatly reducing the space for traffic. Potters sat at moving wheels, fashioning tableware. Blacksmiths hammered on their anvils, making iron tools. Amphorae of wine were laid out in rows on beds of straw. A butcher wielded a cleaver while his wife waved a frying pan full of sausages.

  Saliva filled Romulus' mouth as he smelt the cooking pork, seldom on the menu for Gemellus' slaves.

  'Got an as to spare?' cried the woman, recognising him. He had occasionally been sent here to buy meat.

  Romulus' gaze dropped. He rarely got to hold a copper coin, let alone possess one.

  She glanced sidelong at her husband before handing over half a sausage with a smile.

  His eyes lit up at the unexpected kindness.

  'Bring me a big order next time,' she said loudly.

  Romulus munched happily as he ran past a money-changer sitting cross legged in an alcove. Little piles of coins were laid out in front of him; behind stood a hulking Goth bodyguard. In every available space sat cripples and beggars, their quavering voices competing with shopkeepers' cries.

  Romulus had no idea how long the wait at Crassus' house would be. If the errand took too long for Gemellus' liking, he would receive a beating, so the faster it was done, the better. His pace increased.

  Soon he reached the temple of the Great Mother, Cybele. It was one of many shrines to gods scattered across the city. The Romans had always welcomed foreign deities, even those of conquered peoples. That way subject nations more easily accepted the Republic's yoke.

  Romulus' breath quickened in fear. Gemellus had threatened to sell him to Cybele's devotees many times. The alien goddess, with her strangely garbed priests and their blaring horns and bizarre practices, was held in high regard by most. But he did not care for the Magna Mater.

  'To prove total devotion, the priests castrate themselves,' Gemellus had smirked.

  That menace had only added to Romulus' hatred of the merchant. For many years, he had dreamt of killing him. Indelible images of the fat man's visits to his mother filled his mind. He would never forgive Gemellus for what he did to her each and every night.

  'Close your eyes, children,' Velvinna would hiss when the door inched open.

  Terrified, the twins had done their best to obey. But once the loud creaking had begun, it was hard not to look. Over many years, they had never heard their mother make a sound while Gemellus grunted on top of her.

  Romulus stared at the enormous building coming into view on the Capitoline Hill. It was dedicated to Jupiter, the most important Roman deity, a god whose auspices were sought before war. The temple gazed down impassively from its vantage point, the most important structure built by the founders of Rome, the Etruscans. The façade's six massive columns were topped by a triangle of decorated terracotta and framed three doors to the cellae, sacred rooms dedicated to the triad of Juno, Minerva and Jupiter. Consuls sacrificed oxen here at the beginning of their term of office and the first meeting of the Senate took place inside each year. Triumphal marches always ended on the Capitoline Hill; its importance to the Roman people was immeasurable.

  Jupiter, Greatest and Best! Give me one chance to kill Gemellus before I die. It was Romulus' silent daily prayer.

  Finally, he reached the imposing stone wall marking the outside of Crassus' mansion. Like all houses of the wealthy, it presented a blank face to the outside world. Only a pair of large doors with carved lions' heads either side broke the smooth surface. Romulus stepped up to the entrance and lifted a heavy iron knocker carved in the shape of Jupiter's head. He rapped three times, then stepped smartly back, intimidated by the deep sound.

  The door opened abruptly. A doorman as big as Juba, but with intricate tattooed spirals on his tanned face, emerged. 'What is it?' His fierce gaze fixed Romulus to the spot.

  He pulled out the note. 'I have a message for Crassus, from my master.'

  The slave checked out the street, then jerked his head. 'Inside.'

  Romulus stepped across the threshold, into the house of the richest man in Rome. The huge figure slammed the door shut, throwing the bolts. He yanked on a rope hanging from the ceiling then sat back in his alcove, glaring. Clad in a rough tunic, his arms covered in old scars, the pigtailed slave was some kind of Goth.

  Romulus stood rigid, not daring to move.

  A moment later the slap of sandals came down the tiled corridor. A thin man with a neatly tonsured head appeared, dressed in a clean white toga.

  He seemed vaguely annoyed. This was not the time of day to be disturbing Rome's ruling class.

  'Yes?' The high-pitched voice was imperious.

  'A note for Crassus, sir,' said Romulus, handing it over.

  The major-domo studied the now greasy parchment with disgust. 'Looks like something picked from the sewer,' he sniffed.

  'It got a little dirty on the way, sir.' Romulus stared at the floor, trying to hide a scowl.

  'Who is your master?'

  'Gemellus the merchant. From the Aventine.'