The Forgotten Legion - Kane Ben. Страница 34

It did not matter where Tarquinius laid his head. Every night he was haunted by images of Caelius, his former master.

Eventually Rome draws you back. A desire for revenge.

Olenus had been correct. More than a decade after he had left Italy, Tarquinius returned, bent on one thing. Retribution. A price had to be exacted for the death of his mentor.

Deep in thought, Tarquinius did not hear the loud voice until it was practically upon him.

'Make way!' cried a huge bodyguard stalking in front of an imposing litter borne by four muscular slaves. Liberal strokes of a cane whipped the shoulders of anyone slow to obey him. 'Make way for Crassus, the conqueror of Spartacus!'

'I thought that was Pompey,' quipped a man nearby.

There were roars of amusement from those who heard. Crassus was still famously angry at the manner in which his rival Pompey had stolen the credit for crushing the slave rebellion fifteen years previously.

Drawing his gladius with a scowl, the bodyguard swung round to see who had made the insolent remark. Used to shouting insults, the citizen ducked his head, making himself anonymous in the crowd. While they had little say in what went on in their name, the people of Rome were free to make their opinions known. Politicians had to live with such taunts and the graphic, poorly spelt graffiti that was often daubed on the walls of public buildings or their own homes. The perpetrators were rarely caught. Venting his fury, the guard reached out and slapped the flat of his blade across the nearest street urchin's back. The loud yelp this produced brought a sour smile to his face.

Tarquinius watched keenly as the litter came to a halt at the foot of the steps. Inside was the man who had paid Caelius a fortune for the information about the bronze liver and Tarquin's sword. He was therefore indirectly responsible for Olenus' death. Those around the Etruscan also craned their heads to see. Crassus was one of the most prominent nobles in Rome and although less popular than Pompey, he was so rich that everyone at least admired him. Or envied him.

Lifting the cloth of the litter's side, the bodyguard indicated to his master that they had arrived. There was a brief pause and then a short, greyhaired man wearing a fine toga emerged. He stood to acknowledge the crowd for a moment, his piercing gaze judging their mood. Public approval was important to all those who wished to achieve high office. And Crassus did. Everyone knew that. The stranglehold that he, Pompey and Julius Caesar had on the reins of power was growing ever tighter. While the rivalry between the members of the triumvirate remained behind the scenes, the city was constantly awash with rumours. It seemed that each man wanted sole power. At virtually any cost.

'People of Rome,' Crassus began dramatically. 'I have come to the temple of great Castor to seek his blessing.'

There was a sigh of anticipation.

'I wish the great horseman himself to give me a sign,' announced Crassus. 'A divine seal of approval.'

He waited.

Tarquinius looked around, seeing the tension rise in men's faces. Crassus is learning to work the mob, he thought.

'For what, Master?' It was the man who had cracked the joke about Pompey. Even he wanted to know why Crassus had come to pay homage.

Pleased by the question, Crassus rubbed his beaked nose. 'A sign that I will gain great glory for Rome!'

This produced an instant cheer.

'As governor of Syria, I will expand the Republic's borders to the east,' said Crassus boldly. 'Crush the savages who mock us. Who threaten our civilised ways!'

Roars of agreement rose into the air.

This was a common theme. If Rome considered herself in peril, then woe betide those who were perceived to be responsible. The mightiest power on the Mediterranean in an age, Carthage had dared to wage war against the Republic two centuries before. It had taken three long wars, but eventually its cities had been ground into dust by the legions.

Tarquinius had to respect the casual arrogance of even the lowliest citizen. They were scared of nothing. And though most had no understanding of why Crassus craved the leadership of Syria, the idea of military glory appealed to all. It did not matter that there had actually been no insults made, no envoys killed in the east. Romans instinctively respected war. Since deepest antiquity, its people had fought for it every year, returning to their farms each autumn.

'And when I come back,' Crassus continued, 'I will double the distribution of grain!'

This produced an even better response. Thanks to the precipitous decline in the price of agricultural goods, most of the population were now landless and dependent on congiaria, handouts of food and money, for their survival. The current amount of grain allowed was not enough for a family to survive for a year and any promise to increase it would be met with instant approval.

Crassus smiled with satisfaction and mounted the steps to the entrance, the cries sweeping behind him in a great wave of sound. At the top, a grovelling priest waited to usher him inside. The clamour was gradually replaced by excited muttering as the crowd discussed what they had just witnessed.

Tarquinius understood exactly what was going on. The visit to the temple had been completely staged. This was the busiest time of day in the Forum. If Crassus had wished to say his prayers in private, he would only have needed to arrive a few hours earlier or later. The ante was obviously upping in the struggle for dominance. Keen to emulate the military successes of his rivals, Crassus was beginning to reveal his hand. Tarquinius lifted his eyes upwards, squinting in the bright sunshine. A fair breeze. Few clouds. Soon the air would change, bringing rain.

Crassus will travel east with an army, he thought. To Parthia and beyond.

And I will go with him.

'Tarquinius!'

He was so unused to hearing his own name that for a moment the haruspex did not react.

'Tesserarius!' cried the same voice.

Tarquinius stiffened and his eyes quickly focused on a familiar figure shoving his way through the onlookers. The unshaven man was about thirty-five, of average height, with hair close cut in the military style. A drink-stained tunic failed to conceal the wiry muscle of his arms and legs, while a belt with a short dagger proved the newcomer was a soldier. The Etruscan spun on his heel, but already his left arm had been taken in a firm grip.

'Forgotten all your old comrades?' sneered the man.

Feigning surprise, Tarquinius turned back. 'Legionary Marcus Gallo,' he said calmly, cursing his decision to remain inconspicuous. It meant that his own knife was out of reach in his pack. 'Finally been thrown out of the army for drunkenness?'

Gallo's lip curled. 'I'm on official leave. Deserter scum,' he hissed. 'Remember what they do to men like you? I'm sure the centurion would be delighted to demonstrate.' He glanced around blearily, clearly looking for his drinking companions.

They were nowhere to be seen – yet. But with so many people in the vicinity, attention had immediately been drawn by the accusation. Tarquinius' pulse quickened. He took a deep breath, asking for the gods' forgiveness. The Etruscan had little choice. Gallo's grip was like a vice on his arm. If he did nothing, he would be hanging on a cross by sunset, an example to all.

'You drunken fool!' Tarquinius cried, smiling broadly. 'Have you forgotten how I saved your miserable life in Pontus?'

The swift, humorous response was exactly what was needed. Frowns were replaced by laughs and most of those nearby looked away. Gallo scowled and opened his mouth to rebut Tarquinius' comment.

Before he could say a word, the haruspex stepped in close and drew the other's dagger with his right hand. Pretending that they were embracing like old friends, Tarquinius shoved the blade between Gallo's ribs, straight into his heart. The legionary's eyes bulged with surprise and his mouth gaped like a fish out of water. Tarquinius kissed him on the cheek as Gallo's grip fell away, allowing him to hold the mortally injured man upright with his left arm. In the close-packed throng, no one saw what was happening.