had learned that things had recently come to a head when Jovian hadn’t been able to pay the previous quarter’s arrears on his loan. They were now at risk of losing their farm, their home here in Capua, and all of their property, slaves included. Carbo only knew of the drama facing the family because he’d eavesdropped on part of his parents’ worried conversation the night before. Jovian was pinning all his hopes on securing a stay of execution today. Furious at his own powerlessness, Carbo shoved the sword forward again, hilt first. ‘Take it!’
Unable to protest further, Paccius took a firm hold of the bone handgrip. ‘Grasp it so. Remember, it takes real force to stick it in a man’s belly. Like this.’ He thrust his right arm forward in a powerful, calculated manner and pulled it back to his side. He repeated the move several times. ‘Clear?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Let me see you do it,’ said Paccius, handing the gladius back.
With grim concentration, Carbo held the sword close to his right side. With a grunt, he copied Paccius’ move, imagining that he was sinking the iron blade into the guts of a Pontic warrior or a Cilician pirate. Along with the former Marian leader Sertorius in Iberia, these were Rome’s main enemies. Better still, he imagined, would be to bury it in the flesh of his father’s largest creditor, whoever he was. ‘Like that?’
Paccius pursed his lips in approval. ‘That’s better. Do it again.’
Carbo obeyed eagerly, plunging the weapon back and forth in a flurry of blows.
‘Slow it down. Conserve your energy. Striking your opponent in the belly once should be enough to put him down. There are few men who’ll stay standing after half their guts have been sliced apart.’ Contorting his face in mock agony, Paccius clutched at his abdomen and mimed falling to the ground. ‘That’s the beauty of this weapon,’ he went on. ‘When used with a bloody great shield like the scutum, by a line of soldiers who stick close together, it’s damn near invincible.’
‘That’s how your people were defeated.’
Paccius grimaced. ‘It’s one of the reasons, yes.’
Carbo had spent his childhood listening to Paccius’ tales of the Social War, when the last of the fiercely independent Samnites had been crushed by Rome. He knew how the defeat still rankled. Once Paccius had been a high-ranking warrior among his people. Now he was but a slave. When they’d lived on the family’s farm, a dozen miles from Capua, he’d been the foreman. After the move to the city, he’d assumed the role of doorman and guard. Paccius was also the person to whom Carbo went with his problems, and he cursed himself for bringing up old, painful history. ‘I want to learn how to use a shield too,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Go and fetch one.’
Paccius started to argue again, but thought better of it. Muttering under his breath, he disappeared into the tablinum again.
Carbo dipped a hand into the fountain that graced the centre of the small courtyard. He patted his face with water several times, refreshing himself. Inadvertently touching the myriad of pockmarks that covered his cheeks, he scowled. Much of his good humour fell away. Why couldn’t the scars be on my chest or back? It was easy to tell himself that he was lucky to be alive — after all, more than a third of those who developed the pox died, while others were left blind — but quite another thing to enter adulthood looking like a freak. The matter wasn’t helped by the fact that most of those he’d regarded as friends didn’t want to know him now. And what woman would ever want him? Carbo’s mother kept telling him not to worry about it, that an arrangement would be made with a suitable family, but it did little to ease his self-loathing. While some of his peers were already sleeping with willing girls — merchants’ daughters and the like — Carbo found it hard even to skulk into a brothel and choose a prostitute.
Apart from using his hand, his only other form of sexual release had been to bed his father’s female slaves. Two or three of them were passably good-looking. In their lowly position, they could not refuse Carbo when he’d ordered them to his bed. During the months since his recovery from the pox, he’d used this power a number of times. The sex had been a real release, but he had found it hard to ignore their poorly concealed revulsion at his appearance. What Carbo really wanted was for someone to accept him as he was. He blinked. Stop thinking about yourself. Father’s problems are far more important.
‘There you are!’ he cried, glad to be distracted from concerns over his father. The Samnite was carrying a scutum that Jovian had used during his military service years before. Carbo reached out an eager hand.
Paccius didn’t give it to him. ‘Steady,’ he warned. ‘Knowing everything about your arms and equipment is just as important as learning how to use them.’
He knows best. Carbo nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well.’
Paccius tapped the metal rim that covered both ends of the shield. ‘What’s this for?’
‘At the top, it’s to protect against sword strokes, and at the bottom, it prevents wear from contact with the ground.’
‘Good. And this?’ Paccius pointed to the heavy central iron boss.
‘It’s decorative, but it’s also a weapon.’ Carbo threw his left fist forward. ‘If you punch it towards an enemy’s face, he’ll often lean backwards or to the side, exposing his throat.’ He followed through with a thrust of the gladius. ‘Another man down.’ He looked at Paccius proudly.
‘Nice to know that you sometimes pay attention to what I’m saying,’ was the Samnite’s only comment. ‘Let’s start with the basics: how to hold the shield correctly.’ He reversed the scutum and proffered its inner surface.
Carbo sighed. His impatience would get him nowhere. If he was to benefit from Paccius’ experience, he had to do it his way. He took hold of the horizontal grip. ‘What next?’
Finally, Paccius smiled. ‘Hold it up, so that I can barely see your eyes. Have your sword pointing forward from the right hip, ready to use.’
Carbo obeyed. At once his pulse quickened and the sounds of domestic life dimmed. Despite the peacefulness of their surroundings, he could imagine standing on a battlefield, with comrades either side of him. Yet the picture dimmed within a couple of heartbeats. Carbo scowled. It was highly unlikely that that would ever happen. Since they’d moved to the city four years before, his father had maintained that the best career for him to follow was not working the land, which is what their ancestors had done for generations, or joining the army, Carbo’s dream, but politics. ‘The days of citizen farmers are gone. The cut-price grain from latifundia, and from Sicily and Egypt, has seen to that.’ Jovian regularly lamented the changes in agriculture that had seen family farms all but obliterated by vast estates owned by the nobility. ‘Your mother’s brother Alfenus Varus, on the other hand, is making a name for himself in Rome. He’s a new man, but look at him — one of the foremost lawyers in Rome. He is fond of you too. With the gods’ help, he might take you under his wing.’ A lawyer, thought Carbo bitterly. He couldn’t think of anything worse. Training with Paccius might be the only military training he ever received. Without further ado, he determined to absorb every word that fell from the Samnite’s lips.
Before Paccius had made any serious attempt to teach the finer points of weapons training, he had Carbo run around the rectangular courtyard more than twenty times, carrying the gladius and scutum. When that was done, the Samnite began showing Carbo how to move in combat, both singly and when in formation. He repeatedly stressed the importance of holding the line and sticking with one’s comrades. ‘Contrary to what you might think, winning a battle is not about individual heroics. It’s about discipline, pure and simple,’ he growled. ‘That is what differentiates the Roman soldier from the vast majority of his opponents, and it is the main reason for the legions’ success over the last two hundred years.’ He pulled a face. ‘My people could have done with more discipline.’
Carbo redoubled his efforts, proudly imagining himself in the midst of any one of the armies that had variously defeated the other ethnic groups in Italy: the mighty Carthaginians and the proud Greeks. Deep down, however, his pleasure was constantly dimmed by the knowledge that it was all an exercise in fantasy. His father’s debts were what mattered right now. Yet he couldn’t stop picturing himself as a soldier. Paccius’ martial tales had stirred his blood since early childhood.
‘We had best finish now,’ said Paccius, glancing at the sky.
Carbo didn’t argue. His arms were burning and he was drenched in sweat. Although it was still bright, the sun had dropped below the level of the house’s red-tiled roof. It wouldn’t be long before his mother returned and his father would not be long after her. ‘Very well.’ He grinned his thanks. ‘You can teach me more tomorrow.’
‘Serious about this, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I want to be a soldier, no matter what Father says.’
Paccius sucked his lip, thinking.
‘What is it?’ asked Carbo eagerly.
‘The best way of building up your general fitness would be to use proper training equipment, not these.’ Paccius lifted up the gladius and scutum without effort. ‘New recruits to the legions use wooden swords and wicker
