‘I hear you are intending to begin battle school with them soon.’
‘They are not strong enough yet; they may not be this year, but I am not just a fitness instructor to them, after all.’
‘Have you given any thought to continuing their training after the year contract is up?’ Julius asked, hoping his casual manner masked his interest.
‘I will retire to the country next year. Nothing is likely to change that.’
‘Then these two will be your last students – your last legacy to Rome,’ Julius replied.
Renius froze for a second and Julius let no trace of his emotions betray themselves on his face.
‘It is something to think about,’ Renius said at last, before turning on his heel and going into the grey dawn light.
Julius grinned wolfishly behind him.
‘As officers, you will ride to the battle, but fighting from horseback is not our chief strength. Although we use cavalry for quick, smashing attacks, it is the footmen of the twenty-eight legions that break the enemy. Every man of the one hundred and fifty thousand legionaries we have in the field at any given moment of any day can walk thirty miles in full armour, carrying a pack that is a third his own weight. He can then fight the enemy, without weakness and without complaint.’
Renius eyed the two boys who stood in the heat of the noon sun, returned from a run and trying to control their breathing. More than three years he had given them, the last he would ever teach. There was so much more for them to learn! He paced around them as he spoke, snapping the words out.
‘It is not the luck of the gods that has given the countries of the world into the palms of Rome. It is not the weakness of the foreign tribes that leads them to throw themselves onto our swords in battle. It is our strength, greater and deeper than anything they can bring to the field. That is our first tactic. Before our men even reach the battle, they will be unbreakable in their strength and their morale. More, they will have a discipline that the armies of the world can blood themselves against without effect.
‘Each man will know that his brothers at his side will have to be killed to leave him. That makes him stronger than the most heroic charge, or the vain screams of savage tribes. We walk to battle. We stand and they die.’
Gaius’ breathing slowed and his lungs ceased to clamour for oxygen. In the three years since Renius had first arrived at his father’s villa, he had grown in height and strength. Approaching fourteen years of age, he was showing signs of the man he would one day be.
Burned the colour of light oak by the Roman sun, he stood easily, his frame slim and athletic, with powerful shoulders and legs. He could run for hours round the hills and still find reserves for a burst of speed as his father’s estate came into view again.
Marcus too had undergone changes, both physically and in his spirit. The innocent happiness of the boy he had been came and went in flashes now. Renius had taught him to guard his emotions and his responses. He had been taught this with the whip and without kindness of any kind for three long years. He too had well-developed shoulders, tapering down into lightning-fast fists that Gaius could not match any more. Inside him, the desire to stand on his own, without help from his line or the patronage of others, was like a slow acid in his stomach.
As Renius watched, both boys became calm and stood to attention, watching him warily. It was not unknown for him to suddenly strike at an exposed stomach, testing, always testing for weakness.
‘Gladii, gentlemen – fetch your swords.’
Silently, they turned away and collected the short swords from pegs on the training yard wall. Heavy leather belts were buckled around their waists, with a leather ‘frog’ attached, a holder for the sword. The scabbard slid snugly into the frog, tightly held by lacing so that it would remain immobile if the blade was suddenly drawn.
Properly attired, they returned to the attention position, waiting for the next order.
‘Gaius, you observe. I will use the boy to make a simple point.’ Renius loosened his shoulders with a crack and grinned as Marcus slowly drew the gladius.
‘First position, boy. Stand like a soldier, if you can remember how.’
Marcus relaxed into the first position, legs shoulder-width apart, body slightly turned from full frontal, sword held at waist height, ready to strike for the groin, stomach or throat, the three main areas of attack. Groin and neck were favourites as a deep cut there would mean the opponent bled to death in seconds.
Renius shifted his weight and Marcus’ point wavered to follow the movement.
‘Slashing the air again? If you do that, I’ll see it and pattern you. I only need one opening to cut your throat out, one blow. Let me guess which way you’re going to shift your weight and I’ll cut you in two.’ He began to circle Marcus, who remained relaxed, his eyebrows raised over a face blank of expression. Renius continued to talk.
‘You want to kill me, don’t you, boy? I can feel your hatred. I can feel it like good wine in my stomach. It cheers me up, boy, can you believe that?’
Marcus attacked in a sudden move, without warning, without signal. It had taken hundreds of hours of drill for him to eliminate all his ‘tells’, his telegraphing tensions of muscle that gave away his intentions. No matter how fast he was, a good opponent would gut him if he signalled his thoughts before each move.
Renius was not there when the stabbing lunge ended. His gladius pressed up against Marcus’ throat.
‘Again. You were slow and clumsy as usual. If you weren’t faster than Gaius, you’d be the worst I’d ever seen.’
Marcus gaped and, in a split second, the sun-warmed gladius was pressed against his inner thigh, by the big pulsing vein that carried his life.
Renius shook his head in disgust.
‘Never listen to your opponent. Gaius is observing, you are fighting. You concentrate on how I am moving, not the words I speak, which are simply to distract you. Again.’
They circled in the shadows of the yard.
‘Your mother was clumsy in bed at first.’ Renius’ sword snaked out as he spoke and was snapped aside with a bell ring of metal. Marcus stepped in and pressed his blade against the leathery old skin of Renius’ throat. His expression was cold and unforgiving.
‘Predictable,’ Marcus muttered, glaring into the cold blue eyes, nettled nonetheless.
He felt a pressure and looked down to see a dagger held in Renius’ left hand, touching him lightly on the stomach. Renius grinned.
‘Many men will hate you enough to take you with them. They are the most dangerous of all. They can run right onto your sword and blind you with their thumbs. I’ve seen that done by a woman to one of my men.’
‘Why did she hate him so much?’ Marcus asked as he took a pace away, sword still ready to defend.
‘The victors will always be hated. It is the price we pay. If they love you, they will do what you want, but when they want to do it. If they fear you, they will do your will, but when you want them to. So, is it better to be loved or feared?’
‘Both,’ Gaius said, seriously.
Renius smiled. ‘You mean adored and