‘Tell me about the cliffs again,’ I asked. ‘The white ones. You said that they’re bigger than the tallest building in Rome, but I don’t believe you. Convince me.’
The man laughed and waved away my suggestion. I tried a new tactic.
‘You don’t like maths either, do you?’
He said nothing, but the battle he fought to control his smile was answer enough.
‘So why did you learn it?’
Silence, but I was getting close.
‘How did you learn it?’
Nothing, but I knew the man – a good man – and now I dealt my killing blow.
‘Who taught it to you?’
Cynbel took in an intake of breath. He narrowed his eyes and looked at me, and I thought I saw some pride in them for my guile – we both knew that there was no way this honourable soul could pass over giving due recognition to those to whom he owed a debt.
‘His name was Demetrius,’ Cynbel began, giving in. ‘When I was a slave, newly taken from Britain, we found ourselves in the same household. I was there to labour in the kitchens and the gardens. To work, and to look attractive and exotic for my owner’s guests.’
I tried to imagine what a younger Cynbel would have looked like. He was still broad of chest and his hair was almost as red as flame. He had told me once that he had seen war, which was as far as he would go to explain his enslavement., but his mind had always yearned to work the land.
‘Demetrius was twice my age, maybe older. He had been made a slave in Egypt, and had even lived in Rome. He was wise, and experienced. He told me that, as a slave, I had a simple choice. I could accept my position, and work to become indispensable, or I could wallow in self-pity, and I would be passed from master to master, likely to finish my days in a mine or field when I was no longer of any value.
‘I chose to accept,’ Cynbel told me. ‘I chose to learn.’
‘Demetrius taught you maths?’
‘Maths, philosophy, Latin. You must understand that at this time, my grasp of language was almost non-existent. Before I could learn anything else, I had to learn the Roman tongue, but from there everything became easier. After a few years, I myself began to teach other slaves in the household.
‘And then, one day, Demetrius heard one of our master’s guests talk of how he was looking for a tutor to take with him to Dalmatia, where he was to take up a government appointment.’
‘My father?’ I asked quickly.
‘No.’ Cynbel shook his head, and I sat back a little in disappointment – my father’s past was as unknown to me as was my own future, and I yearned to know more of it. ‘But Demetrius brought me forwards,’ Cynbel went on, ‘and our master was delighted. You must remember, he had bought me as just a tool, but now he could sell me as a teacher. He made a profit. I was sad to leave the home, of course, and to say farewell to Demetrius, but I knew that this was a step to becoming a freedman one day. By accepting my fate as a slave, I had actually made progress towards my freedom.’
‘Do you think my father will free you?’ I asked pointedly.
‘Not if you keep tricking me into stories instead of lessons.’ He smiled. ‘What’s wrong?’ he then asked, frowning, because I was not smiling with him.
‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘Nothing.’
And then I thanked the man. I thanked him outwardly for his story, but inside my heart I thanked him for something far greater – the reason that I had been staring out of the window. The reason that I yearned for Cynbel’s freedom as if it were my own.
I thanked him for the love of his daughter.
5
I could barely stand still.
Save for a skeleton guard force and a few detachments policing the nearby towns, the entire might of the Eighth Legion stood in ranks of iron upon the parade square, almost five thousand armoured warriors united as part of the most lethal infantry formation ever to walk the earth. We were the weapon of empire. Rome’s blade. To see such power – and to know that I was a part of it – filled my veins with energy and excitement at the thought of what we could achieve. We were an unstoppable force. An irresistible tide.
My morning had not begun with such grandeur in mind. The night before, after turning my back on the brothel, I had been roused from my sleep several times as the young soldiers of my section staggered in drunk from their revelry. I shared an eight-man bunk room with the men that I commanded, part of a building that held ten identical spaces for the sections of our century. Each section was also provided with an equipment room, and at the end of the building was a larger quarters for the centurion, and a lesser one for his optio. It was a standard template laid out across the Empire, and I felt as at home in the barrack room with its stale farts and snoring as I could have done anywhere else in the world. The truth was, I welcomed the interruptions to my sleep, as the realm of dreams was not a happy place for me. After I had given in to memory that night and thought of my childhood days on the Dalmatian coast, I had needed the help of a wineskin to put me into a deep slumber. Though already in my bed, I was probably as drunk as the soldiers who crept giggling into the room to collapse on their bunks. Upon waking ready to wash and shave for the day ahead, I had felt as though Hannibal’s elephants had been stampeding inside my skull.
That had all changed when the order had come to form up as a cohort, and to march to the open square to parade as a legion. Such moments of total gathering were rare, and there was not one among us who did not grasp the significance of this assembly.
It was time for war.
I had barely kept my smile hidden from my section. I wanted the young soldiers to think that this was just another day for me. Not one of them was over twenty years old, a fresh draft from Italy having replaced the old heads in the legion. They were awed by me because I had seen combat. I knew that it was just one pathetic skirmish, but to them I was Scipio. I had no intention of breaking that illusion by showing myself as excited as a child at the prospect of campaigning.
As we had marched to the parade square, our sandalled feet tramping the dirt with vigour and purpose, I had chanced to catch the eye of Octavius with his own section. It was all I could do to keep the roar of pure joy from bursting from my lungs, but in my head I screamed: This is it! This is our war! Our time!
Gods, but I was fucking ready.
And so was the rest of the legion. I could feel it in the air. We were a crouching lion, ready to pounce and tear, claw and kill. We were a sharpened blade, ready to puncture, slice, gut and maim. We were young, we were willing and we were ready.
We were soldiers.
‘Thank you,’ I found myself uttering before I could stop myself. ‘Thank you.’
I don’t know if I was thanking the gods, the Emperor or my comrades. I just knew that, for the first time in years, I felt truly happy.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
And then I saw him.
He rode out on a horse so dark and magnificent that for a moment the splendid beast eclipsed the man who sat astride it. He was almost a reflection of the animal itself, the limbs that protruded from his gleaming armour strong and vital, their power obvious even at the distance from which I viewed him. There are some in life who are gifted with a presence that heralds their arrival on scene with greater drama than any host of musicians and standard-bearers could ever achieve. Marcus was one such man. Here was another.