Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

Octavian looked for one of the sellers, to ask for Gethus. He wanted to pass over the mended ring and get back to Tabbic's shop faster than the adults would believe.

As he wove around the shifting mass of people, he entertained himself by imagining Tabbic's surprise at his speedy return.

A hand grabbed suddenly at his neck and the little boy was lifted off his feet with a lurch, his feet slipping. He let out a blast of shocked wind at the interruption to his thoughts, struggling wildly in instinct against his attacker.

“Trying to steal someone's cow, are you?” a hard, nasal voice sounded by his ear.

He jerked his head around, groaning as he saw the heavy features of the butcher's boy he'd crossed before. What had he been thinking? Like a fool, he'd dropped his usual guard for predators and they'd caught him without the slightest effort.

“Let me go! Help!” he yelled.

The older boy smacked him hard across the nose, making it bleed.

“Shut up, you. I owe you a beating anyway, in return for the one I got for not stopping you last time.” The burly arm was wrapped around Octavian's neck, squeezing his throat as he was dragged backward into an alleyway. He strained to get away, but it was hopeless and the rushing crowd didn't even look in his direction.

There were three other boys with the butcher's apprentice. All of them had the long-armed rangy growth of children used to hard physical work. They wore aprons stained with fresh blood from their labors at the market, and Octavian panicked, almost fainting with terror at their cruel expressions. The boys jeered and punched at him as they turned a corner in the alley. There, the din of the market was cut off by the high walls of tenements that leaned out above, almost meeting the ones opposite and creating an unnatural darkness.

The butcher's boy threw Octavian into the sluggish filth that was ankle deep in the alleyway, a combination of years of refuse and human waste thrown from the narrow windows above. Octavian scrambled to one side to escape, but one of them kicked him hard enough to shove him back into place, lifting the small body and grunting with the impact. Octavian screamed with pain and fear as the other two joined the first, kicking with hard feet at whatever part of him they could reach.

After a minute, the three boys rested with their hands on their knees, panting from effort. Octavian was barely conscious, his body curled into a tight ball of misery, barely distinguishable from the dirt he lay in.

The butcher's boy pulled back his lips into a sneer, raising his fist and laughing coarsely as Octavian flinched from him.

“Serves you right, you little Thurin bastard. You'll think twice before stealing from my master next time, won't you?” He took careful aim and kicked Octavian in the face, whooping as the small head was rocked back. Octavian lay senseless with his eyes open and his face half submerged. Some dirty water flowed between his lips and, even unconscious, he began to cough and choke weakly. He didn't feel the fingers that searched him or hear the pleased shout when the older boys found the silver ring in its protective pouch.

The butcher's boy whistled softly as he tried on the metal band. The stone was a simple dome of heavy jade, held to the metal with tiny silver claws.

“I wonder who you stole this from?” he said, glancing at the prone figure. Each of them kicked the boy once more on behalf of the owner of the ring, then they walked back to the market, thoroughly pleased with the upturn in their fortunes.

Octavian woke hours later, sitting up slowly and retching for minutes as he tested his legs to see if they could hold him. He felt weak and too sore to move for a long time, crouched over and spitting elastic strands of dark blood onto the ground. When his head cleared enough, he searched his pocket for the ring, then the ground all around him. Finally, he was forced to admit that he had lost it, and fresh tears cut through the dirt and crusted blood on his face. He staggered back to the main road and sheltered his eyes against the painful sunlight. Still crying, on unsteady feet, he made his way back to Tabbic's shop, his mind blank with despair.

Tabbic tapped his foot on the wood of the shop floor, anger in every line of his frowning face.

“By hell, I'm going to kill the brat for this. He should have been back ages ago.”

“So you've been saying for the last hour, Tabbic. Perhaps he was delayed or couldn't find Master Gethus,” Alexandria replied, keeping her voice neutral.

Tabbic thumped a fist on the worktop. “Or perhaps he's sold the ring and run away, more likely!” he growled. “I'll have to make it good, you know. Jade stone, as well. It'll cost me a day of work and most of an aureus in materials to make Gethus a new one. No doubt he'll claim his dying mother gave it to him and want compensation on top of that. Where is that boy?”

The thick wooden door to the shop creaked open, letting in a swirl of dust from the street. Octavian stood there. Tabbic took one look at his bruises and torn tunic and crossed over to him, his anger vanishing.

“I'm sorry,” the little boy cried as Tabbic guided him deeper into the shop. “I tried to fight them, but there was three and no one came to help me.” He yelped as Tabbic probed his heaving chest, looking for broken bones. The metalsmith grunted, whistling air through his closed teeth.

“They did a fair job on you, right enough. How's your breathing?”

Octavian wiped his running nose gingerly with the back of a hand.

“It's all right. I came back as quick as I could. I didn't see them in the crowd. Usually I keep a lookout for them, but I was hurrying and…” he broke off into sobs and Alexandria put her arm around him, waving Tabbic away.

“Go on with you, Tabbic. He doesn't want an examination. He's had a bad time and he needs care and rest.”

Tabbic stood clear as she took the boy into the back room and up the stairs to his home above the shop. Alone, he sighed and rubbed his grizzled face with a hand, scratching at the gray stubble that had come through since his morning shave. Shaking his head, he turned to his bench and began selecting the tools he would need to remake the ring for Gethus.

He worked in silence for a few minutes, then paused and looked back at the narrow stairs as a thought struck him.

“I'll have to make you a decent knife, my lad,” he muttered to himself, before taking up the tools once more. After a while, as he was sketching the setting with chalk, he murmured, “And teach you to use the thing, as well.”

Brutus stood on the Campus Martius, with the eagle standard of Primigenia in the ground at his side. He had been pleased to see that some of the other recruiting legions had to use banners of woven cloth, whereas the old standard Marius had made had been found for him. Hammered gold over copper, it caught the morning sun and he hoped it would catch the eye of more than a few of the crowd of boys who had been gathering since before dawn. Not all of them would be signing on with a legion. Some had come just to watch, and for those the food-sellers had set up stalls before first light. The smells of grilled meat and vegetables made him hungry, and he thought of getting an early lunch, jingling the coins in his pouch as he eyed the crowd around the line of standards.

He'd expected it to be easier. Renius looked every inch a lion of the old Rome, and the ten men they'd brought with them were impressive in new armor, polished to a high sheen for the admiration of the crowd. Yet Brutus had been forced to watch as all along the line, hundreds of young Romans signed up to be legionaries without one of them coming near his post. A few times, smaller groups had gathered, pointing and whispering, then moved on. He'd been tempted to grab a couple of the lads and find out what they'd said, but he held his temper. With noon close, the crowd had halved and, as far as he could see, Primigenia was the only standard not to be surrounded by windfalls from the new generation.