Emperor: The Death of Kings E#2 (24 page)

They rose as one and stood to attention, with heads raised and backs straight.

Julius looked round at them and knew he was committed to his course. There was nothing in him to say turn back, but with the oath, his life would change until Mithridates was dead.

He spoke the words his father had taught him when the world was simple.

“Jupiter Victor, hear this oath. We pledge our strength, our blood, our lives to Rome. We will not turn. We will not break. We will not mind suffering or pain.

“While there is light, from here until the end of the world, we stand for Rome and the command of Caesar.”

They chanted the words after him, their voices clear and firm.

  CHAPTER
21
  

A
lexandria tried to watch without being obvious as Tabbic explained a technique to Octavian, his voice a constant low murmur accompanying each movement of his powerful hands. On the workbench in front of them, Tabbic had laid a thick piece of gold wire on a square of leather. Both ends of the wire were trapped in tiny wooden clamps, and Tabbic was gesturing to show how Octavian should move a narrow wooden block over the wire.

“Gold is the softest metal, boy. To make a pattern in the wire, all you have to do is press the marking block gently against it and run it back and forth, keeping your arm very straight, as I showed you. Try it.”

Octavian brought the block down slowly, letting the ridged teeth of the underside rest on the fragile-looking line of precious metal.

“That’s the way, now use a little more pressure. That’s it, back and forth. Good. Let’s see it, then,” Tabbic continued. Octavian lifted the block clear and beamed as he saw the regular series of beads that had been formed by the pressure. Tabbic peered at it, nodding.

“You have a light touch. Too much pressure will snap the wire and you have to go back to the beginning. Now I’ll free the clamps and turn it over for you to finish the beading. Line the block up carefully and be as gentle as you can this time; the joints will be thin as the hairs of your head.”

Tabbic caught Alexandria’s eye as he stretched his back, aching after bending so long at the low bench he had made for Octavian. She winked at him and he blushed slightly, clearing his throat gruffly to hide a smile. She knew he had begun to enjoy the lessons with Octavian. It had taken a long time for him to lose a portion of his mistrust for the little thief, but she had known from his work with her how much he enjoyed teaching his skill.

Octavian cursed as the narrow wire gave under his hand. Ruefully, he lifted the block to reveal three cut pieces. Tabbic brought his heavy eyebrows together and shook his head, gathering the broken pieces up carefully to be melted and rolled once more.

“We’ll try again later, or tomorrow. You nearly had it that time. When you can mark the full wire neatly, I’ll show you how to fix it as a rim for one of the ladies brooches.”

Octavian looked downcast, and Alexandria held her breath as she waited to see if he would throw one of the violent tantrums with which he’d plagued them for the first few weeks. When it didn’t come, she let the air out of her lungs with a slow rush of relief.

“All right. I’d like that,” he said slowly.

Tabbic turned away from him, searching through the packages of finished work that had to be taken back to their owners.

“I have another job for you,” he said, handing over a tiny pouch of leather, folded and tied. “This is a silver ring I repaired. I want you to run over to the cattle market and ask for Master Gethus. He runs the sales, so he won’t be hard to find. He should give you a sestertius for the work. You take the coin and run straight back here, stopping for nothing. Understand? I’m trusting you. If you lose the ring or the coin, you and I are finished.”

Alexandria could have laughed out loud at the little boy’s earnest expression. Such a threat would have been worthless for the first weeks of the apprenticeship. Octavian wouldn’t have minded being left alone. He had struggled mightily against the combined efforts of his mother, Tabbic, and Alexandria. Twice she’d had to search the local markets for him, and the second time she’d dragged him to the slave blocks to have him valued. He hadn’t run again after that, instead adopting a sullenness Alexandria thought might be permanent.

The change had come midway through the fourth week of work, when Tabbic showed him how to make a pattern on a sheet of silver with tiny droplets of the molten metal. Though the little boy had burned his thumb when he tried to touch it, the process had fascinated him and he’d missed his dinner that night, staying to watch the final piece being polished. His mother, Atia, had arrived at the shop with her tired face full of apology. Seeing the tiny figure still working with the graded polishing cloths had left her speechless, but Alexandria woke the next morning to find her clothes had been cleaned and mended neatly in the night. No other thanks were necessary between them. Though the two women saw each other only an hour or two each day before sleep, they had both found friendship of the kind that can surprise two reserved and private people, working so hard that they never realized they were lonely.

*      *      *

Octavian whistled as he trotted through the crowds at the cattle market. When the farmers brought their animals into the city for bidding and slaughter, it was a busy place, rich with the warm scents of manure and blood. Everyone seemed to be shouting to each other, making complicated gestures with their hands to bid when they couldn’t be heard.

Octavian looked for one of the sellers, to ask for Gethus. He wanted to pass over the mended ring and get back to Tabbic’s shop faster than the adults would believe.

As he wove around the shifting mass of people, he entertained himself by imagining Tabbic’s surprise at his speedy return.

A hand grabbed suddenly at his neck and the little boy was lifted off his feet with a lurch, his feet slipping. He let out a blast of shocked wind at the interruption to his thoughts, struggling wildly in instinct against his attacker.

“Trying to steal someone’s cow, are you?” a hard, nasal voice sounded by his ear.

He jerked his head around, groaning as he saw the heavy features of the butcher’s boy he’d crossed before. What had he been thinking? Like a fool, he’d dropped his usual guard for predators and they’d caught him without the slightest effort.

“Let me go! Help!” he yelled.

The older boy smacked him hard across the nose, making it bleed.

“Shut up, you. I owe you a beating anyway, in return for the one I got for not stopping you last time.” The burly arm was wrapped around Octavian’s neck, squeezing his throat as he was dragged backward into an alleyway. He strained to get away, but it was hopeless and the rushing crowd didn’t even look in his direction.

There were three other boys with the butcher’s apprentice. All of them had the long-armed rangy growth of children used to hard physical work. They wore aprons stained with fresh blood from their labors at the market, and Octavian panicked, almost fainting with terror at their cruel expressions. The boys jeered and punched at him as they turned a corner in the alley. There, the din of the market was cut off by the high walls of tenements that leaned out above, almost meeting the ones opposite and creating an unnatural darkness.

The butcher’s boy threw Octavian into the sluggish filth that was ankle deep in the alleyway, a combination of years of refuse and human waste thrown from the narrow windows above. Octavian scrambled to one side to escape, but one of them kicked him hard enough to shove him back into place, lifting the small body and grunting with the impact. Octavian screamed with pain and fear as the other two joined the first, kicking with hard feet at whatever part of him they could reach.

After a minute, the three boys rested with their hands on their knees, panting from effort. Octavian was barely conscious, his body curled into a tight ball of misery, barely distinguishable from the dirt he lay in.

The butcher’s boy pulled back his lips into a sneer, raising his fist and laughing coarsely as Octavian flinched from him.

“Serves you right, you little Thurin bastard. You’ll think twice before stealing from my master next time, won’t you?” He took careful aim and kicked Octavian in the face, whooping as the small head was rocked back. Octavian lay senseless with his eyes open and his face half submerged. Some dirty water flowed between his lips and, even unconscious, he began to cough and choke weakly. He didn’t feel the fingers that searched him or hear the pleased shout when the older boys found the silver ring in its protective pouch.

The butcher’s boy whistled softly as he tried on the metal band. The stone was a simple dome of heavy jade, held to the metal with tiny silver claws.

“I wonder who you stole this from?” he said, glancing at the prone figure. Each of them kicked the boy once more on behalf of the owner of the ring, then they walked back to the market, thoroughly pleased with the upturn in their fortunes.

Octavian woke hours later, sitting up slowly and retching for minutes as he tested his legs to see if they could hold him. He felt weak and too sore to move for a long time, crouched over and spitting elastic strands of dark blood onto the ground. When his head cleared enough, he searched his pocket for the ring, then the ground all around him. Finally, he was forced to admit that he had lost it, and fresh tears cut through the dirt and crusted blood on his face. He staggered back to the main road and sheltered his eyes against the painful sunlight. Still crying, on unsteady feet, he made his way back to Tabbic’s shop, his mind blank with despair.

*      *      *

Tabbic tapped his foot on the wood of the shop floor, anger in every line of his frowning face.

“By hell, I’m going to kill the brat for this. He should have been back ages ago.”

“So you’ve been saying for the last hour, Tabbic. Perhaps he was delayed or couldn’t find Master Gethus,” Alexandria replied, keeping her voice neutral.

Tabbic thumped a fist on the worktop. “Or perhaps he’s sold the ring and run away, more likely!” he growled. “I’ll have to make it good, you know. Jade stone, as well. It’ll cost me a day of work and most of an aureus in materials to make Gethus a new one. No doubt he’ll claim his dying mother gave it to him and want compensation on top of that. Where
is
that boy?”

The thick wooden door to the shop creaked open, letting in a swirl of dust from the street. Octavian stood there. Tabbic took one look at his bruises and torn tunic and crossed over to him, his anger vanishing.

“I’m sorry,” the little boy cried as Tabbic guided him deeper into the shop. “I tried to fight them, but there was three and no one came to help me.” He yelped as Tabbic probed his heaving chest, looking for broken bones. The metalsmith grunted, whistling air through his closed teeth.

“They did a fair job on you, right enough. How’s your breathing?”

Octavian wiped his running nose gingerly with the back of a hand.

“It’s all right. I came back as quick as I could. I didn’t see them in the crowd. Usually I keep a lookout for them, but I was hurrying and . . .” he broke off into sobs and Alexandria put her arm around him, waving Tabbic away.

“Go on with you, Tabbic. He doesn’t want an examination. He’s had a bad time and he needs care and rest.”

Tabbic stood clear as she took the boy into the back room and up the stairs to his home above the shop. Alone, he sighed and rubbed his grizzled face with a hand, scratching at the gray stubble that had come through since his morning shave. Shaking his head, he turned to his bench and began selecting the tools he would need to remake the ring for Gethus.

He worked in silence for a few minutes, then paused and looked back at the narrow stairs as a thought struck him.

“I’ll have to make you a decent knife, my lad,” he muttered to himself, before taking up the tools once more. After a while, as he was sketching the setting with chalk, he murmured, “And teach you to use the thing, as well.”

*      *      *

Brutus stood on the Campus Martius, with the eagle standard of Primigenia in the ground at his side. He had been pleased to see that some of the other recruiting legions had to use banners of woven cloth, whereas the old standard Marius had made had been found for him. Hammered gold over copper, it caught the morning sun and he hoped it would catch the eye of more than a few of the crowd of boys who had been gathering since before dawn. Not all of them would be signing on with a legion. Some had come just to watch, and for those the food-sellers had set up stalls before first light. The smells of grilled meat and vegetables made him hungry, and he thought of getting an early lunch, jingling the coins in his pouch as he eyed the crowd around the line of standards.

He’d expected it to be easier. Renius looked every inch a lion of the old Rome, and the ten men they’d brought with them were impressive in new armor, polished to a high sheen for the admiration of the crowd. Yet Brutus had been forced to watch as all along the line, hundreds of young Romans signed up to be legionaries without one of them coming near his post. A few times, smaller groups had gathered, pointing and whispering, then moved on. He’d been tempted to grab a couple of the lads and find out what they’d said, but he held his temper. With noon close, the crowd had halved and, as far as he could see, Primigenia was the only standard not to be surrounded by windfalls from the new generation.

He gritted his teeth. The ones who had already joined would attract more to those eagles. By now, he imagined people asking what was wrong with Primigenia that no one wanted to join it. Hands would cover mouths and they would whisper with puerile excitement of the traitor legion. He cleared his throat and spat on the sandy soil. The testing finished at sundown and there was nothing to do but stand and wait for it to end, hoping perhaps to pick up a few stragglers as the light faded. The thought made him burn with embarrassment. He knew if Marius were there, he would have been walking amongst the young men, cajoling, joking, and persuading them to join his legion. Of course, back then there had been a legion to join.

Brutus resumed his sullen appraisal of the crowd, wishing he could make them understand. Three young men wandered toward his standard and he smiled at them as welcomingly as he could.

“Primigenia, is it?” one of them said.

Brutus watched as one of them hid a smile. They were here for sport, he guessed. For a fleeting instant, he considered knocking their heads together, but he controlled himself, sensing the eyes of his ten men on him. He could feel Renius bristle at his side, but the older man kept his peace.