The Death of Kings

Renius would have beaten them into shape for him, he thought. That was a start. He had to think what Renius would do. Gaditicus and the others from Accipiter had followed him this far, hardly believing how easy it had been after the first settlement. Julius wondered how many Romans in all the hundreds of retirement farms had sons who could be taught to fight. There was an army out there and all that was needed was for someone to find them and remind them of the call of blood.

He stopped next to the troublemaker, and saw how the eyes met his with polite enquiry and not a trace of fear or respect. He towered over most of them, his limbs long and lithely muscled, shining with sweat. The biting flies that tormented the officers of Accipiter seemed not to trouble him at all and he stood like a statue in the heat. The man reminded him of Marcus to some extent. He looked every inch a Roman, but even the Latin he spoke was a corrupted mix of African dialect and phrases. Julius knew his father had died and left him a farm which he had neglected to the point of ruin. Left alone, he would have been killed in a fight or joined the pirates when the last of the money and wine ran out.

What was the man’s name? Julius prided himself on learning them quickly as he had once seen Marius could do for every man under his command, yet under the cool stare, he couldn’t think of it at first. Then it came to him. He had told them to call him Ciro, giving no other. He probably didn’t even know it was a slave name. What would Renius do?

‘I need men who can fight,’ he said, looking into the brown eyes that returned his glare so steadily.

‘I can fight,’ Ciro replied, his confidence obvious.

‘I need men who can keep their temper in a crisis,’ Julius continued.

‘I can …’ Ciro began.

Julius slapped him hard across the face. For a moment, anger flared in the dark eyes, but Ciro held himself still, the muscles of his bare chest twitching like a great cat. Julius leaned close to him.

‘Do you want to take up a sword? Cut me down?’ he whispered harshly.

‘No,’ Ciro replied, and the calm was back once more.

‘Why not?’ Julius asked, wondering how to reach him.

‘My father … said a legionary had to have control.’

Julius stayed where he was, though his thoughts spun wildly. There was a lever here.

‘You didn’t have control in the settlement where we found you, did you?’ he said, hoping he had guessed correctly about Ciro’s relationship with the villagers. The big man said nothing for a long time and Julius waited patiently, knowing not to interrupt.

‘I wasn’t … a legionary then,’ Ciro said.

Julius eyed him, looking for the insolence he had come to expect. It was missing and silently he cursed the Senate for wasting men like these, who dreamed of being legionaries while wasting their lives in a strange land.

‘You are not a legionary,’ Julius said slowly and saw the mouth begin to twist in response to the rejection, ‘but I can make you one. You will learn brotherhood with me and from me, and you will walk the streets of the distant city with your head high. If anyone stops you, you will tell them you are a soldier of Caesar.’

‘I will,’ Ciro said.

‘Sir.’

‘I will, sir,’ he said and stood tall.

Julius stood back to address the recruits, standing with the waiting officers of Accipiter.

‘With men like you, what can’t we achieve? You are the children of Rome and we will show you your history and your pride. We will teach you the gladius and battle formations, the laws, the customs, the life. There will be more to come and you will train them, showing what it means to be of Rome. Now we march. The next village will see legionaries when they see you.’

The line of pairs was ragged and out of step, but Julius knew that would improve. He wondered if Renius would have seen the need in the new men, but dismissed the thought. Renius wasn’t here. He was.

Gaditicus waited with him, falling in beside as they brought up the rear of the column.

‘They follow you,’ he noted.

Julius turned quickly to him. ‘They must, if we are ever to crew a ship and take back our ransoms.’

Gaditicus snorted softly, clapping his hand on Julius’ armour.

Julius faltered and stopped. ‘Oh no,’ he whispered. ‘Tell them we’ll catch them up. Quickly!’

Gaditicus gave the order and watched as the double file of Romans marched away along the path. They were quickly out of sight around a bend and Gaditicus turned to Julius enquiringly. He had gone pale and shut his eyes.

‘Is it the sickness again?’ Gaditicus asked.

Julius nodded weakly.

‘Before … the last fit, I tasted metal in my mouth. I can taste it now.’ He hawked and spat, his expression bitter. ‘Don’t tell them. Don’t …’

Gaditicus caught him as he fell and held him down as his body jerked and twisted, his sandals cutting arcs in the undergrowth with the violence of their movement. The biting flies seemed to sense his weakness and swarmed around them. Gaditicus looked around for something to jam between Julius’ teeth, but the cloth they had used on Accipiter was long gone. He wrenched up a heavy leaf and managed to get the fibrous stalk across Julius’ mouth, letting it fall in as the mouth champed. It held and Gaditicus bore down with all his weight until the fit was over.

Finally, Julius was able to sit up and spit out the stalk he’d almost bitten through. He felt as if he had been beaten unconscious. He grimaced as he saw his bladder had released and thumped his fists into the earth in fury, scattering the flies before they darted back at his exposed skin.