Five years later.
Rome, spring 56 BC
'Curse you, Romulus. Come quickly! Or you'll get another hiding!'
Gemellus paused in his tirade. A short, fat man with a red face, the merchant was prone to terrible bouts of rage. Sweating heavily, he stood in the large, sunlit courtyard of his house, eyes swivelling frantically. He spotted movement near an ornamental statue positioned between the plants and trees and, moving surprisingly fast, he shoved a podgy ringed hand behind the grinning satyr.
Instead of Romulus, Gemellus pulled out a young girl of about thirteen in a torn tunic. The child was covered in grime, her clothes little more than rags, but her extraordinary beauty was still apparent. Long black hair covered finely boned features that would catch any man's eye. She squealed in pain, but Gemellus held tightly on to her ear.
'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 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 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 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 facade'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.'
'Gemellus, you say?'
'Yes, sir.'
The official considered whether to turn the boy away or not. Crassus had dealings with countless people, not least the merchants whose business kept the wheels of industry turning. Practically all of them owed him money. And for those who did not, Crassus would go to any lengths, make himself amenable to anyone he came across, just so long as he obtained what he wanted. There would be some advantage to be had from this.
'Wait here.'
The slave walked away, the note held at arm's length.
'Effeminate fool! Thinks he 's so bloody important.' The doorman snorted, shifting angrily on his stool. Behind him lay a sword, spear and wool blanket. It was where he lived and slept, much like Juba.
Relaxing slightly, Romulus looked round with awe. The flagstones leading off on each side, into the house proper, were of solid green marble.
Magnificent statues of the gods, better carved than he had ever seen, lined the hallways. It was a clear manifestation of enormous riches. Gemellus was well off, but this put his wealth into the shade.
Crassus' ways of making money were well known. Under Sulla he had profited hugely from the executions of proscribed nobles, buying up their seized properties cheaply. Other methods were similarly unsavoury. As most buildings in Rome were wooden, fires were common and large areas were regularly razed to the ground. Crassus would visit affected quarters with his private fire brigade, refusing to put out the flames unless the owners of burning tenements sold for knockdown prices on the spot. It allowed him to rebuild and sell for huge profits. While other equites admired the ruthless practice, citizens despised it. Rumours abounded that the nighttime blazes were not accidental, but the proceeds had added to Crassus' incredible wealth. He had only one other purpose in life: to become the Republic's leading citizen. To achieve this, Crassus needed massive public support. Military success was the best method of ensuring that in Rome and so he determined to forcibly expand the state 's borders once he became governor of Syria. His only problem was that the more popular Pompey wanted the job too.
The atrium walls in front of Romulus had been covered in stucco and then painted. Aware of his low status, he strained to see without moving more than his head. Hunting scenes covered one side of the well-lit room, while the other depicted Crassus leading armies in battle. He jumped as the doorman spoke.
'That's the master defeating Spartacus.'
Everyone knew the story of the Thracian gladiator who had taken up arms against the state. The slave rebellion had been the biggest threat to Rome since Hannibal a hundred and fifty years before.
Romulus opened his mouth to reply, but fell silent as a brown-haired man with an unsmiling round face passed. The stocky noble was in his early thirties, clad in a toga of the finest fabric. He glanced uninterestedly at them.
Romulus waited until the figure had disappeared through a door down the corridor. Slaves knew it did not pay to attract attention.
'Spartacus the Greek?' Since first hearing the story, Romulus had idolised the man who had defied all the rules to throw off his chains. It had given him hope, fuelled his own dream of seizing freedom. It was a dream he had never articulated, except to Juba.
The big doorman sighed. 'Such a leader.'
Romulus gasped. 'You knew Spartacus?'
'Quiet! You'll get me killed.'
Romulus moved closer to the slave, whose tattooed face had turned sad. There was a long silence before he began to whisper.
'I was in Capua the day Spartacus struck down the lanista. A gladiator was injured and could not fight. Flaminius began to beat him cruelly, as he often did at such times.'
Romulus was rooted to the spot.
'Spartacus watched for a moment, then walked up to Flaminius without a word. Cut off the bastard's head with one swing of his sword. "Who's with me?" he roared. Crixus was first.' His voice shook with pride. 'Then we all joined in.'
'The rebellion lasted a long time, didn't it?'
'More than two years. And we kicked the shit out of every army Rome sent at us.'
'They say you marched north.'
'We were heading for Gaul.' A wistful smile crossed his face. 'Spartacus wanted to leave Italy. Then Crixus won him over with talk of overthrowing the Republic and things started to go wrong.'
'Crassus drove you south again.' It was common knowledge that the rebels had been pushed down into the narrow heel of the Italian peninsula and a defensive wall built to hold them in.
'They didn't defeat us, though!' retorted the doorman. 'Until Brundisium.' It was there that Crassus had smashed the slave army.
'I thought all those captured were. ' Romulus paused. The prisoners' fate had been the talk of the city, dashing the hopes of the slave population.
'Crucified.' He nodded sadly, tears glinting in his eyes. 'Poor bastards. On the sides of the Via Appia. All the way from Capua to Rome. Six thousand of them. Just so Crassus could claim back the glory from Pompey Magnus.'
The public had discovered long afterwards that Pompey had only mopped up a few thousand slaves fleeing the main battle. But in a masterly stroke, he had immediately written to the Senate, claiming victory over the whole rebellion. His opportunism had worked and he had been granted a full triumph through Rome. Crassus, apoplectic with rage, had ordered a prisoner crucified along every mile of the Republic's main road in response — gory proof of his success. It was rumoured the vultures had filled the sky above the road for weeks.
As Romulus stared, he noticed a thick scar running down the side of the slave 's face on to his neck.
The doorman grimaced, rubbing at the red welt. 'Got that the night before the final battle. Some of us fled when Spartacus gave his blessing, see? But we should have stayed. Died like men.'
'Does Crassus know?'
'What do you think?' he snapped.
'But to end up here?'
There was a sad shrug. 'I went on the run for a year and then killed a citizen in a drunken brawl. Got captured again and sold to a gladiator school in Rome. Crassus bought me after seeing a fight there.'
'At least you're still alive.'
'I might as well be dead.' The doorman's broad shoulders slumped.
Conversation ceased abruptly as the major-domo reappeared. His lip curled knowingly. 'Has Pertinax been telling his stories? Don't believe a word!' He handed Romulus a rolled parchment. 'See what your master says when he receives this!'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Let the boy out.'
Pertinax hastened to obey and Romulus ducked out of the postern door, which promptly slammed shut behind him.
Mind racing, he walked back, the reply clutched tightly in one hand. Who would have thought he would see inside the domus of the richest noble in Rome? And meet one of Spartacus' original men? Despite the major-domo's scorn, there had been a ring of truth to Pertinax' words.
Romulus couldn't wait to tell Fabiola and Juba. But first he had to get inside Gemellus' gate without the thugs stopping him. He grinned — it was a challenge he would relish.
Near the last crossroads before home, Romulus heard the noise of loud chanting. The street was thronged with even more people than usual and potentially that meant trouble. Keen to get back, he ducked into a narrow alleyway off the main street and worked his way around the junction, the cries of the crowd filling his ears.
'Who wants a trip east?' a man cried.
'Pompey!' came the response.
Romulus paused to listen. It sounded as if Clodius was up to his usual tricks. The leader of the collegia had been on a mission to humiliate Pompey for some time.
'But who should go instead?'
A great roar answered the master rabble-rouser. 'Crassus!'
Romulus kept moving, remembering Gemellus' complaint that tolerating the mobs was just another sign of the Republic's decline.
In the event, distracting the two heavies did not prove at all difficult.
Romulus simply waited until a cart was rolling past Gemellus' house. Using it as cover, he crouched down and ran alongside, leaving the men opposite completely unaware until he was by the door. The boy darted forward and rapped hard with his fist; the pair saw him, cursed and lumbered forward, reaching for their swords. But Juba was waiting and instantly emerged into the sunlight, his blade ready.
Few men in their right minds would take on the Nubian.
They skidded to a halt, leaving Romulus to saunter inside with his friend. He did not linger: delivering Crassus' reply was far more urgent than anything else. Smiling his thanks at the big doorman, he went in search of Gemellus.
The sound of voices carried to him through the tablinum and instinctively Romulus tiptoed across its mosaic floor. From a statue near the open doors, he could hear every word spoken in the garden. The twins had discovered early on that eavesdropping on Gemellus was most informative.
It also taught them plenty about his murky business deals. Although much of what he overheard meant little to him, Romulus took every opportunity to learn more about the world outside the high walls.
The merchant was deep in conversation with his bookkeeper. Servilius was a thin Egyptian with protuberant eyes and receding hair and the only slave Gemellus trusted. Excellent with money, Servilius was despised by the other slaves, who could not understand his unswerving loyalty to his owner.
'Continue.' Gemellus sounded unusually good-humoured.
Servilius cleared his throat. 'My cousin in Alexandria mentioned a possible business venture in his last letter. A very profitable one.' He paused. 'But it would not be without risk, Master.'
'Nothing is these days,' growled the merchant. 'Tell me more.'
'Menes has dealt with a Phoenician bestiarius by the name of Hiero,' Servilius began, 'who proposes to lead an expedition into the deep south, near the headwaters of the Nile. There he will capture all manner of beasts for the arena.'
Romulus could sense Gemellus' interest and craned his head, desperate not to miss a word. The job of the bestiarii was very dangerous and appealed to him immensely.
'Lions, leopards and elephants,' announced the bookkeeper, warming to his task. 'Antelope and unearthly creatures with long necks and legs. The bestiarius even claims he can catch huge armoured monsters with lethal horns on their noses.'
'Is Menes tempted to invest?'
Servilius coughed awkwardly. 'He is providing two-thirds of the financial backing, Master.'
There was no reply for a moment.
'Each one would be worth its weight in gold,' exclaimed Gemellus. The trade in wild animals for gladiatorial contests was fast becoming one of the most lucrative in Rome.
'I thought you might be interested, Master.'
'How much capital is Hiero looking for?'
'For the last third share,' Servilius said, sucking in his breath, 'one hundred and twenty thousand sestertii.'
Romulus' mouth opened. It was more than he could even imagine.
'Fortuna's tits!' cursed Gemellus. 'Where will I get credit like that these days? I'm up to my neck in debt already.'
'Crassus, Master?'
Startled by the name and the nature of Gemellus' dilemma, Romulus jumped. He had had no idea that the merchant was in financial difficulties. It was then that he heard the sound of someone coming down the corridor, probably a kitchen slave with a cool drink for their master. He could not risk being caught, so he squared his shoulders and stepped into the garden, making as much noise as possible.
Gemellus' face darkened further when he saw who it was. Servilius immediately busied himself with his ledger, the giant tome that contained all the merchant's financial details.
'What took you so long?' Gemellus peered at the sundial. 'It's been two hours!'
Not daring to reply, Romulus held out the parchment.
Gemellus scanned it silently. The only noise was the bookkeeper's stylus scratching out figures behind him.
Romulus waited, knowing a beating would follow regardless of what Crassus had written.
Closing his eyes, Gemellus crumpled the note and dropped it to the floor. The rate of interest demanded by Crassus for an extension of his loans was completely extortionate. He did not need that hanging over his head as well.
Full of anger, the merchant beat Romulus harder than usual, but the boy took the punishment without a sound. The unexpected outing and the conversation with Pertinax had been well worth it.
Fabiola watched from behind a bush, biting her lips to avoid crying out at the sight. It would only have earned Romulus an even worse hiding. Her hatred of Gemellus grew day by day. Not only did he rape her mother every night, he regularly beat her brother black and blue. Only the fear of what would happen to her family prevented Fabiola from trying to kill their master.
It was two days before the bruises began to settle and an opportunity arose to confide in Juba. Every time Romulus went to talk to him, someone happened to be present.
Gemellus was ingratiating himself with every banker and moneylender he knew, trying to raise capital for a proposed business venture. Romulus suspected it was to do with Servilius' suggestion. But word must have spread about his huge debts, because visitors came and went, shaking their heads regretfully. The merchant's temper grew even worse. Household slaves crept about, trying not to be noticed. Eventually Gemellus could take no more and stormed off to the Lupanar, his favourite brothel. The bookkeeper was told he would be gone at least a day.
Hearing the master was gone, Romulus ran immediately to Juba, wooden sword in hand. The Nubian listened intently to the story, nodding approval when Spartacus was mentioned. His eyebrows rose with surprise to hear Pertinax had fought with the rebel Thracian.
'I would have joined Spartacus if I'd been old enough,' said Romulus fiercely. He had not been born until a year after the slave uprising ended.
Juba tapped his chest, signifying agreement.
'Show me more moves! I must learn to fight like a gladiator.'
The Nubian smiled and moved into the hallway. Ensuring Romulus was paying attention, Juba turned sideways to present less of a target, holding his sword out just above the waist, shield at chest level. He indicated that Romulus do the same. They stood side by side, repeating the same actions until Juba was happy.
'Shield up. Thrust. Step back,' the boy muttered. 'Shield up. Thrust.
Step back.'
Next Juba handed over the shield. Romulus slipped his left arm into the smooth leather grips, hefting the unfamiliar weight. The Nubian showed him how to protect chest and face, keeping his weapon ready for an opportunity to strike.
After a moment, they began to spar in slow motion, Juba taking care not to strike Romulus' wooden sword too hard with his own of iron. The knocking of blades echoed down the hall, and soon Fabiola arrived to watch.
'What if the master catches you?' Her face was a picture of concern. 'Stop it, Romulus. I'll tell Mother!'
'Go away! I'm learning to fight like Spartacus!'
His sister watched with a mixture of pride and fear. 'It's too dangerous. Please stop!'
Suddenly the idea of holding a real sword to Gemellus' neck came to him. Romulus redoubled the attack on Juba, who fell back, a wide grin splitting his ebony features.
It would be the last time he ever practised with the Nubian. When they had finished, Romulus returned to the family's small cell, bursting with excitement. Images of freeing all the household slaves and killing Gemellus now filled his mind. It terrified and exhilarated him.
Chores over, that night Velvinna listened to her son recount Pertinax' tale yet again.
'Be careful, Romulus,' she said, her voice full of pride. 'Nobody must see you with a sword, especially Servilius. Gemellus will not stand for it.'
'Don't worry, Mother.' Romulus' eyelids drooped with tiredness as Velvinna pulled the blanket over his shoulders. 'Nobody knows.'
Exhaustion brought him sleep at once, and dreams of being a soldier in Spartacus' army.
Romulus was rudely awoken the next morning when cold links of metal fastened around both wrists. Confused, he found they had been bound with a light chain. The boy sat up and gazed round the room, terror replacing the alarm. Fabiola and his mother were motionless in their beds, staring at Gemellus.
The merchant stood in the doorway, flanked by Ancus and Sossius, two burly kitchen slaves. Neither would meet Romulus' eye. Most of the household had known him since he was a baby.
'Try and use a sword under my roof? Little bastard!' Gemellus spat. 'Then stab me in my sleep, no doubt. I've been soft far too long. It's the gladiator school for you. Today.' A smile flickered across his lips. 'Learn how to fight there.'
Romulus knew instantly that his life as a common slave had come to an end.
'No, Master, please.' Velvinna threw herself at Gemellus' feet.
Fabiola sat bolt upright, her face stricken. This was just what she had feared.
'Get up, bitch.' Gemellus hauled Velvinna up by the hair. She cried out in pain, but the merchant backhanded her across the cheek and she fell back on to the cot, sobbing.
'Take him.' Gemellus gestured.
The end of the chain extended several feet beyond Romulus' wrists. With a powerful yank, Ancus pulled him out of bed and on to the floor.
Tears filled Fabiola's eyes.
'My son!' Velvinna screamed.
'Useless whore. You'll never see him again,' sneered Gemellus. 'I'll be back for his sister later.'
'Don't worry, Mother.' The words rang hollow, but Romulus did not know what else to say.
She wailed and cried even louder. Everyone knew what entering gladiator school meant.
'Let's go. I can't listen to this.' Gemellus turned and led his men out of the room.
'It wasn't me who told on you!' Fabiola's voice was frantic. 'Romulus!'
'Take care of Mother!'
As Romulus opened his mouth to shout again, Gemellus gestured at Sossius, who turned back and slammed the door shut.
More sounds of distress echoed down the hallway as he was marched off, clad only in his loincloth. Romulus knew Fabiola would not lie. They were far too close. One of the others must have seen Juba training him and informed to curry favour. Servilius?
Slaves had no choice in their lives; they could be bought and sold at will. But Romulus had never imagined leaving Gemellus' possession — he had known no other life. He was torn between fear and excitement at what was happening. While the prospect of becoming a fighter was thrilling, he would probably never see his family again. Romulus looked back one last time, Velvinna's sobs tearing at his heart, wishing his weapons practice with Juba had been quieter. But the man holding the chain was twice his size.
Stories were frequently told in the kitchen about famous gladiators who fought barbarians and wild beasts in the arena. Romulus had always enjoyed listening to the tales, but had never been inside a training school and seen the reality. For a moment, his heart began to race, full of romantic ideas about being one of the people 's heroes.
Sensing something, Gemellus cuffed him across the head. 'A boy like you will be dead inside a month.'
Romulus' heart sank. Of course. What chance would a thirteen-yearold have against professional gladiators?
'You'll need to prove yourself damn quick.'
They had reached the alcove by the front door. Romulus saw with alarm that the Nubian was not in the usual spot.
'Think I'd keep anyone who teaches others to fight?' Gemellus laughed. 'The brute 's on his way to the Campus Martius right now.'
He gaped at the merchant, confused.
'To be crucified.'
Romulus lunged at Gemellus, eyes full of murderous rage.
Ancus pulled reluctantly on the chain, stopping the attack before it even started. Romulus stumbled and fell heavily, all too aware he could do nothing to save Juba.
Gemellus kicked him in the belly. 'Born a slave!' Another kick followed. 'Die a slave. Now get up.'
The door creaked open and the merchant led the way outside. No one paid any heed to the little party. It was common practice to shackle slaves outside the home.
Romulus remembered little of the walk. Still winded, he followed numbly, mind awash with grief and guilt at Juba's fate, whose only crime had been teaching him how to use a sword. Now he was responsible for a man's death. For the sale of Fabiola. What would happen to his mother? How long would he last in the savage world of the arena?
All four lives had been turned upside down overnight. Romulus blinked away tears. Show the bastard no weakness. Be strong, like Fabiola. He took a deep breath in, concentrating hard, trying to release the guilt. Jupiter protect me. Look after my family.
By the time Gemellus reached a set of iron gates set into an archway, Romulus had regained some control of his emotions. Red-eyed, shoulders broad, he was determined to remain courageous.
A square stone was set into the bricks over the entrance, inscribed with two words. Although he could not read, Romulus knew their meaning. It was the Ludus Magnus, largest of the four gladiator schools in Rome and a supplier of men for Milo's gangs.
The bare-headed guard outside wore a battered chain mail shirt reaching to mid-thigh. Leaning against the wall behind was a long spear. A short stabbing sword was ready on the man's belt; a sturdy rectangular shield decorated with a strange emblem hung from his left arm.
'State your business.'
'I want to sell this brat to Memor.'
He looked Romulus up and down. 'Bit young, isn't he?'
'What has it to do with you?' Gemellus snapped. 'Let us inside!'
Sullenly the guard pulled open the nearest gate a fraction, just enough space to enter. As soon as they had passed inside, it clanged shut.
Romulus' pulse quickened at the finality of the sound. Many of the inmates were criminals, hence the sentry. For most, entry to the ludus was a death sentence, a career that only the very best survived for more than a year or two. His dreams of glory had been ludicrous, but he could not suppress a shiver of excitement.
Gemellus advanced through a short corridor into an open training area.
The large two-storey building was built with a hollow square in the centre, providing a whole world within four walls. It was full of gladiators training and sparring with each other.
Romulus watched, fascinated. The two nearest made up the classic pairing of retiarius versus secutor.
'You will be a fisherman.' Gemellus pointed at the man in a loincloth, armed only with a trident. The retiarius was waving a weighted net back and forth, readying himself to throw. The merchant spat in Romulus' face. 'Lowest form of fighter. Good prey for a hunter!'
The secutor crouched warily, oval shield held high, a short wooden sword ready in his right hand. Romulus took in the visored helmet, the greave on the left leg and the leather bands protecting the right arm. It all seemed very one-sided. The secutor was so heavily armoured compared to his opponent, whose only protection was armour on the right shoulder.
Suddenly the hunter began weaving from side to side. He lunged forward to the left, then immediately to the right. But the fisherman judged the perfect time to throw the net. The secutor went down, limbs flailing in the weighted mesh. In a flash, the retiarius was on him, wooden trident touching the throat. The defeated gladiator thrust up a hand, forefinger extended, pleading for mercy. Laughing, the retiarius hauled him to his feet and they started the process all over again.
Romulus felt a tiny surge of hope. He saw the merchant scowling at the unexpected turn of events.
Gemellus led the way around the edge of the training area to a thick timber post, against which other gladiators were practising.
'The palus,' whispered Ancus. 'If chosen to fight with a sword, that's where you'll spend your days.'
Romulus glanced at the two kitchen slaves. Still neither would meet his eyes, but he felt no anger towards them. If Ancus and Sossius had not followed Gemellus' orders, they would have swiftly followed Juba to the Campus Martius.
On one side of the palus was a short, grizzled figure in a richly cut tunic. The long grey hair contrasted with his lined, tanned skin. Alongside him stood a huge man carrying a whip. When he saw Gemellus approach, the lanista stopped shouting orders.
'Gemellus. I don't normally see you here.' He studied Romulus.
The merchant propelled him forward. 'What will you give me for this boy?'
'I need men here. Not children.'
The hulk with the whip grinned toothlessly.
'Look at the size of him,' protested Gemellus. 'And he's only thirteen!'
Cold eyes sized Romulus up. 'Can you fight with weapons?'
Romulus stared back. To have any chance of survival, there must be no fear visible. He nodded.
'That's why the little bastard is here,' interjected the merchant.
Memor rubbed the stubble on his chin. 'A thousand sestertii.'
Gemellus laughed. 'I'd get more on the slave block! He 's worth at least three. Look at those muscles!'
'I'm in a good mood this morning, Gemellus. Fifteen hundred.'
'Twenty-five hundred.'
'Stop wasting my time.'
'Two thousand?' There was still hope in the merchant's eyes.
'Eighteen hundred. Not a sestertius more.'
Gemellus had little choice but to accept. It was a better price than Romulus would fetch in the market. 'Very well.'
Memor snapped his fingers.
A scrawny little man with ink-stained fingers and a dirty tunic materialised, money bags in both hands.
The lanista counted the coins with care, in the manner of someone proud of his ability to do so. When finished, he handed a pouch to Gemellus.
'Beat him often. It's the only thing he understands.'
'My sister, Master?' Romulus asked pleadingly.
The merchant smiled. 'I'm going to sell the bitch to a whorehouse. Piece of ass like her will fetch a good price. And as for your whore of a mother — we'll see what the mines' overseer offers.'
Romulus glared at his former owner with utter hatred.
One day I will kill you, very slowly.
To the boy's surprise, Gemellus' eyes flickered away and he turned on his heel without another word. But Romulus had no time to savour the minor victory. A vice-like grip took hold of his chin.
'You're mine now.' Crisscrossed with old scars, Memor's face was uncomfortably close. The smell of cheap wine was overpowering. 'In the Ludus Magnus, men learn to be killed. Till the end of your life, the fighters here will be your new familia. You eat. You train. You sleep. You shit with them. Clear?'
'Yes.'
'Do what I say quickly and there 'll be no beating, like that fat bastard suggested.' Memor's jaw hardened. 'Don't do what I say and, by Hercules, you'll regret it. I know ways of hurting most cannot even imagine.'
Romulus did not let his gaze waver.
'Before everyone present, take the oath of the gladiator!'
Memor's bellow had stopped every fighter in the yard. This was a ritual they had all been through.
'Do you swear to endure the whip? The branding iron? And do you swear to endure death by the sword?'
Romulus swallowed, but when he spoke his voice was steady. 'I swear it.'
The circle of hard faces relaxed a little. If nothing else, the new addition was courageous.
'Brand the boy and strike off those chains,' Memor ordered the clerk. 'Find a blanket and a space to sleep. And return him to me swiftly!'
'Come on, lad.' The voice was not unkind. 'The iron won't hurt that badly.'
Carefully, Romulus surveyed the dirt of the training yard and the ludus' thick stone walls. Like it or not, this was now home. His survival would be a decision of the gods alone. He followed the thin clerk, his head held high.