The Forgotten Legion tflc-1

by Ben Kane

  'Where 's your brother, vixen?' He looked around, expecting to see Romulus nearby. Normally the twins were like each other's shadow.

  'I don't know, Master!' Fabiola struggled even harder.

  'You are lying!'

  'He's supposed be in the kitchen, Master.'

  'Like you. But the little bastard's not!' replied the merchant triumphantly. 'So where is he?'

  This time, the girl did not answer.

  Gemellus slapped Fabiola's face. 'Find him, or I'll whip you both.'

  She did not cry. No matter what Gemellus did, she always looked defiant.

  Infuriated, the merchant swept a meaty paw at Fabiola but lost his grip.

  She dodged easily under another wild swing and ran past the openfronted rooms and banqueting halls forming the sides of the courtyard.

  'Tell that useless brat to hurry!' His voice echoed through the house. Angrily, Gemellus eased his bulk on to the edge of a carved marble fountain positioned in the shade against the back wall of the colonnaded garden.

  A mosaic reservoir decorated its back; the intricate patterns were designed to be seen as visitors entered and gazed across the atrium, through the open doors of the tablinum.

  He trailed a few fingers in the water to wet his brow. Fountains and sanitation were luxuries only the very rich could afford. Gemellus wondered how much longer it would be possible to keep up his extravagant lifestyle. The merchant had no wish to return to his impoverished roots in the insulae.

  A shadow cast by the sundial in the middle of the courtyard told Gemellus that it was nearly hora quarta. Noon was still more than two hours off, but the spring air was already as hot as Hades. He cursed loudly, wiping his face with a fold of his grimy tunic. Life was difficult enough without pursuing Velvinna's brats around the villa. Political uncertainty in the Republic and floods of foreign imports had changed the economic climate from bad to worse. Weakened by years of poor leadership and corruption, the Senate had capitulated three years before and allowed Crassus, Pompey and Caesar to form a triumvirate. The move had placed almost complete control of the Republic in the hands of just three men, yet it had done little for stability.

  The machinations of an ambitious but disgraced noble by the name of Clodius Pulcher had not helped either. Shunned by the Senate, he had cleverly cultivated popularity in the slums. All Clodius wanted was power, and he would do anything to achieve it. Soon he had a huge base of support amongst the poor, to whom he promised much. Clodius' wily tactics had culminated in his converting from patrician to plebeian, specifically so he could become a tribune.

  Recognising a potentially powerful ally, the consul Julius Caesar had allowed Clodius' request to become a plebeian, a man of the people. Duly elected as a tribune, the maverick politician had begun by reforming the collegia, the old trade groups which had always existed at every crossroads in Rome. Naturally the heavies he had hired were fiercely loyal to him alone. Within weeks, the streets had belonged to Clodius; he had even turned on Caesar, his former sponsor.

  But Caesar had more on his mind than mob politics. His share of the spoils was to be granted consular powers over three of the Republic's provinces. He quickly departed for the most lucrative, determined to make a name for himself as a general. Caesar travelled to Gaul.

  Clodius kept on good terms with Crassus, wary of his political ability. But he was scared of nobody else. Pompey had been his next target. Soon the great man had been publicly abused in the Forum Romanum itself, even blockaded inside his own house. In retaliation, Pompey had sponsored Titus Milo, another tribune, who quickly recruited his own groups of thugs, even hiring professional gladiators to make up the numbers.

  Fierce gang warfare had now been raging for over a year, affecting trade badly. Gemellus regularly had to bribe both sides to ensure that his merchandise entered and left Rome safely. His profit margins were plummeting. And after decades of unerring success in business, Gemellus' trial investment the previous summer in Egyptian goods had been disastrous. Freak storms had sunk twelve ships transporting the precious cargo of ivory, tortoiseshell and papyrus. The losses had created a huge hole in the merchant's riches, and everything he 'd since touched had turned to dust. It was becoming hard not to believe the old superstition that living on the Aventine always brought bad luck.

  He had delayed selling Fabiola and Romulus for too long. Even though the twins would fetch much more in a few years, Gemellus needed thousands of sestertii immediately. Interest on his debts was extortionate, frightening. He shuddered to think what the brutes working for those Greek moneylenders would do if he didn't keep up the weekly payments. So far, only the size of the arrears had prevented Gemellus from coming to serious harm. He'd be no use floating in the Tiber.

  His thoughts turned back to Fabiola. The merchant had been lusting after her for some time, but he 'd controlled himself, knowing virgins fetched far higher prices. Instead of an average twelve to fifteen hundred sestertii for a slave, Gemellus would get at least three times that for Fabiola in one of the city's brothels. Romulus wouldn't fetch as much, but a gladiator trainer would still pay more than he would get in the slave market.

  Wearing only a grubby loincloth, Romulus slipped into the garden, interrupting Gemellus' reverie. He was the spitting image of his sister, but larger and with black hair cut short. An aquiline nose was the most prominent feature of his face. Like Fabiola's, his blue eyes had a subdued, determined look.

  'Master?' he said, wishing he were big enough to give Gemellus the thick ear that his sister now had. They were fiercely loyal to each other.

  Gemellus was surprised the young slave had appeared so quickly. Despite frequent beatings, it was common for the twins to ignore orders. He would have them both manacled soon, before ideas of escape entered their minds.

  'Come over here,' he snapped, noting Romulus' height and strong brown limbs. He was big for his thirteen and a half years. Memor, the grizzled lanista at Rome's main gladiator school, would surely pay at least two thousand sestertii for him. Or maybe both could be sold to the Lupanar, the high-class brothel where he intended to take Fabiola. The sexual tastes of its clientele were known to be broad.

  The merchant gripped Romulus' shoulder. 'I need a note taken to the house of Crassus.'

  'The great general?'

  'The same.'

  The boy's eyes widened.

  'Do you know where he lives?'

  Like most slaves, Romulus was rarely trusted out alone in case he ran away. But there had been enough occasions for him to learn the city's basic layout and its most important houses. He nodded eagerly.

  Life inside these thick walls was one of extreme drudgery. Having worked since the age of seven, Romulus was expert at sweeping the kitchen floor, chopping wood for the ovens, unblocking drains and other menial tasks. But much of the time he was bored. Most of his jobs could be finished in just a few hours. To be ordered to the domus of one of Rome's foremost men was a thrilling break in routine.

  Gemellus reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded parchment sealed with wax. He frowned, worried that his largest creditor would refuse the plea he had composed.

  'Make sure nobody follows you.' The Greeks' thugs had been watching every adult slave for days and they must not discover he owed money to others. 'Understand?'

  'Yes, Master.'

  'Wait for a reply.' Gemellus dismissed him. 'Be quick!'

  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 h
ouse 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 enclosed 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 h
is 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.