Gates of Rome

by Alex Scarrow

  Macro was busy prodding his old army-issue gladius at some of the desperate fools who’d pulled away the stacked clutter either side of the cart and were now trying to push through the gap there.

  ‘Go on … get away!!!’ he roared angrily at them. ‘This is my property!!!’

  A man a foot taller than him and armed with a similar army-issue sword swung down at him. Macro, thickset and carrying a couple of stone more than he must have done as a soldier, was surprisingly agile as he sidestepped it. The blade bit deeply into the wood of a casket and lodged firmly there.

  He grinned at the large man as he struggled frantically to wriggle it free. He smashed the pommel of his sword into the man’s face and he fell back into the press of men behind him.

  ‘Information!’ roared Bob. ‘This barricade will not hold much longer.’

  Liam nodded. It was falling apart around them. They’d be better off – he, Bob, Macro and the three other men, Macro’s tenants, holding the barricade – if they took several steps back now and formed a defensive line further down the rat run. ‘It’s going to collapse!’

  Macro nodded; he could see that too. He glanced round over his shoulder. At the far end of the rat run was another low barricade of furniture and bric-a-brac. They could run back behind that and then have the advantage of all the other tenants being able to throw down stones and other missiles from the balconies around the courtyard.

  ‘All right, then … after three, everyone back there!’

  The other men nodded. Liam nodded at the whisper of English in his ear, barely audible above the noise. Although he’d already figured out what Macro was bellowing.

  ‘One …!’

  The other men stepped away from the rattling, rocking cart. Bob was still holding it.

  ‘Two …!’

  Liam swung his club down on another pair of hands, crushing them to a bloody mush.

  ‘THREE!’

  They all turned together and scrambled down the rat run, sandals slipping in the muck of animal faeces and night-water.

  Liam heard the crash and clatter of the cart falling behind him as he vaulted over the flimsy inner barricade. Bob remained where he was, almost completely filling the width of the entrance to the rat run with his bulk and the arc of the short-handled blacksmith’s hammer he was swinging wildly.

  Now the cart was torn down and Bob fully exposed, missiles began to rain down on him from the avenue outside: stones, several arrows, dislodged clay bricks. Liam could see thickening blood trickling like syrup from a dozen nicks and gashes on Bob already. The support unit had faced far worse barrages than this, but Becks had been the example – one lucky arrow on target, one arrow puncturing the bone of his cranium and damaging either his walnut-sized organic brain or the computer nestling next to it, and he could be brought down like any other man.

  ‘BOB! Get back here!’ Liam cried over the cacophony of noise bouncing off the walls either side of them.

  ‘Affirmative!’ he heard Bob rumble in reply. He retreated slowly under the barrage, still swinging his hammer and holding the crowd back until finally he was able to quickly turn round and leap over the barricade to join the others.

  A moment later, the mob crashed into the fragile second barricade. It wobbled and collapsed easily into a tangle of chair legs and shards of fractured crates, and through that pressed a forest of legs and arms, swinging clubs and knives and short swords.

  The air above them buzzed and flickered with stones and short sharpened stakes, slingshots and grabbed handfuls of muck from the street. A neighbourhood brawl the likes of which Liam had never seen before.

  The first few men through the tangle were quickly dealt with and collapsed amid the confusion of broken furniture; the rest quickly pulled back under the shower of projectiles raining down from the balconies around the courtyard.

  Between Bob’s swinging hammer and Macro’s foul-mouthed jabbing swordplay, it looked like the pair of them in this narrow bottleneck were going to be able to hold the jeering, angry mob at bay for a while yet.

  ‘Go on! Be off, the lot of you!’ Macro bayed at the men hovering several yards beyond the probing tip of his sword. The bud struggled to find modern English alternatives for half of the stream of invective spewing out of his mouth. Liam found himself laughing nervously at the ex-soldier’s coarse bravura.

  ‘Aye! Go on, get lost!’ he crowed defiantly as he ducked down and picked up a rock that had just landed at his feet and tossed it back into the crowd.

  ‘Watch out!’ Macro raised his shield, a battered and old curved rectangular shield that still sported the flecked paint insignia Legio II amid the forked lightning motif. He raised it over his and Liam’s head as a large chunk of flint pulled up from the avenue outside arced over the heads of the mob in front and descended towards them. It clattered and bounced heavily, knocking a jagged gash through the shield before rolling on to the ground at their feet.

  Macro lowered the shield and grinned at Liam. ‘Just like the good ol’ days!’

  Liam had the distinct impression, even before he got the translation a half-second later, that the old boy was getting a kick out of this. Or he would have been … had he not heard someone scream, ‘INCENDIA, FLAMMA’.

  ‘What?!’

  Macro looked back into the courtyard, towards where the scream had come from.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Liam.

  Above them they heard the unmistakable whusk of an arrow, accompanied by a fluttering hiss. Liam saw the faint trail of smoke it left in its wake.

  Macro spat rage and a stream of abuse. ‘N-O-O-O-O!!!’

  Several more flaming arrows zipped overhead, thudding into the wooden balconies, quickly setting fire to the dried wood, the woven-reed modesty screens and the hanging lines of laundry.

  ‘NO!’ Macro bellowed again. ‘That’s my bloodyproperty!!’

  CHAPTER 60

  AD 54, Imperial Palace, Rome

  Cato stood and stared at them; they calmly returned his silent gaze.

  ‘This area is off-limits to you,’ said Stern. ‘You do not have authority to proceed any further. Please leave immediately.’

  ‘I’m checking the palace for any intruders, looters,’ said Cato.

  ‘I understood that,’ replied Stern calmly. ‘However, I repeat: you have no authority to enter this particular location. Please turn round and leave.’

  These men – no, not men … things – used to unsettle Cato. However, unlike the superstitious men he commanded, he’d never thought of them as supernatural beings. Just that they were decidedly inhuman. Odd. Creepy. But now he felt he had some sort of understanding of what they were.

  Contraptions. Devices.

  ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’

  ‘Affirmative. Tribune Cato.’

  ‘And you understand I have the emperor’s authority in his absence?’ said Cato. ‘I am in charge of palace security.’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘So, what is behind those doors?’

  Stern took a step forward. He cocked his head slightly as if listening to something only he could hear. ‘That information is strictly classified, Tribune Cato. You do not have the correct security clearance for that information.’

  Cato studied the Stone Man. His eyes were blinking repeatedly. There was an air of distracted uncertainty, of confusion about him.

  Security clearance. Such odd words.

  ‘You mean I don’t have the authority? But you see, I do. The emperor put me in charge of –’

  ‘Negative. This is a … US military security zone … this is …’ Stern stopped. Cocked his head again awkwardly. ‘In this current operational mode, the user designated “Emperor” has complete diagnostic control.’ The confusion slowly cleared from his face as if another conflicting voice from within was coming through. ‘We are authorized to use lethal force if you do not leave immediately.’ Stern took a step forward, more certain of himself now. He reached for the hilt of the sword str
apped to his side. ‘You should leave now.’

  Cato raised both his hands in surrender. ‘All right, all right … I’m leaving.’ He stepped back into the main hallway and allowed the drape to flop back into place, once more concealing the small passageway.

  Cato realized the young woman from the future was quite correct. That beyond those sturdy oak doors was quite probably everything she wanted to find: the technology of her time. Her way home, and a way to correct everything.

  He found Fronto a few minutes later, outside watching the sky above Rome laced with ribbons of smoke from riots that were breaking out right across the city.

  ‘We should bring the others in now,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take a section of men with you and get our friends back here as quickly as you can.’

  CHAPTER 61

  AD 54, Subura District, Rome

  Sal was struggling to breathe. A thick pall of smoke from the fires above them had descended to fill the courtyard.

  She had Maddy. Or rather Maddy had found her and was even now leading her by the hand through the churning sea of bodies. Five minutes ago the fight had settled into a stalemate; the looters held at bay in the rat run by the constant barrage of projectiles from above.

  But now things had descended into a confused, misty chaos. The smoke from a dozen fires on the first and second floors had become a choking blanket. Macro’s tenants were now no longer concerned with keeping their looting neighbours out of the apartment block, but instead were struggling with each other to escape the burning building.

  Sal was jostled and bumped from all sides, nearly losing her grip on Maddy’s hand as they became funnelled into a press of thrashing bodies. The rat run: five minutes ago it was a bottleneck that was proving to be their saving grace; now it looked like becoming a death trap for them.

  Above her, amid the churn of smoke, she heard the crackle of flames taking hold of the building. ‘Maddy, we’ve got to get out! We’ve got to find a way out!’

  ‘I know!’

  She had no idea where the others were. Last she’d seen, Liam and Bob had been manning the second barricade, successfully holding back the baying mob. But that was ancient history now. There were no more ‘attackers’ and ‘defenders’, not any longer, just a couple of hundred people fighting with each other to escape the building through a passageway littered with obstacles and bodies.

  They heard a loud crack of snapping wood from above, and then a moment later, the balconies lining one complete side of the quadrangle came tumbling down through the smoke into the courtyard. An avalanche of blackened, smouldering slats of wood that exploded into a shower of sparks and embers that set fire to the tattered linen sun-awnings around the courtyard. Through a gap in the smoke, Sal caught sight of a woman with a child in her arms, trapped in the corner beside their two ponies that were rolling widened eyes at the flames around them; she and the animals were imprisoned inside a collapsed scaffolding of wooden poles.

  The woman’s eyes met Sal’s – the only person now looking back into the courtyard. She was screaming for help. A fleeting moment, then the smoke closed on her and she and her child were gone. Items of burning clothing, embers from drapes and privacy screens and a million and one flammable household possessions were starting to rain down on the crowd that had completely plugged the rat run and were going absolutely nowhere, setting hair and more clothes on fire.

  ‘Help!’ Sal screamed. ‘HELP!’

  Her voice was lost beneath a hundred others screaming the very same thing in Latin.

  She couldn’t see Maddy now. She still had hold of her hand, but their arms were twisted over the back and shoulder of some old man carrying a screaming toddler, piggyback.

  ‘Maddy!’ she screamed.

  ‘I’m here!’

  We’re going to die. We’re going to choke to death or burn.

  Her mind flashed with memories of that day – the last day of her life. Standing in the ruin of that stairwell with the others on their floor who’d spilled out of their apartments. Her Mamaji and Papaji, like her with ghost-white faces of dust. The air thick with powdered concrete and toxic fumes. She remembered the choking, the panicking, being terrified. Then that sound, that end-of-the-world sound … a deep rumble like an approaching train, the floor trembling beneath their feet. Gasps, cries, screaming; a desperate collective horror that didn’t allow them even a few seconds of stillness – a goodbye moment. A whispered farewell that might, just might be carried on some spiritual ether to those it was intended for.

  And then Foster … extending a hand, offering her, just her, a way out.

  Oh jahulla, not like this. Don’t let me die like this.

  ‘BOB!’ she screamed. ‘LIAM! HELLLLLPP!’

  Liam looked at Bob. They were watching people pour out of the rat run on to the avenue. Not a fleet-footed escape but a molasses-like spill of the staggering, crawling, coughing and retching. People clambering desperately over a growing bed of collapsed bodies.

  ‘That was Sal’s voice!’

  Bob nodded. ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Ah, Jayzus … we got to go in and pull her out!’

  ‘You must stay here, Liam,’ said Bob. He turned towards the clogged exit.

  ‘No! I’m comin’ with –’

  An iron grip held Liam’s wrist. He turned to see Macro. ‘Let your friend go, lad.’

  Liam struggled to shake him off. But the Roman’s grip was far too insistent and strong. ‘Let him go, lad … if he’s truly made of stone, then he’ll live.’

  Liam watched as Bob carelessly bulldozed his way through the emerging people and disappeared into the smoke spewing thickly out of the narrow rat run.

  Above screams for help they could both hear the crackle of flames eagerly devouring the apartment block. Smoke, now growing a dark grey, pumped energetically out of seemingly every small window. The yellow-washed, clay plaster facade over the building’s clay bricks was beginning to crack under the heat and crumble to the ground in chunks. Bricks and brittle mortar too … breaking, crumbling and falling, like the decaying flesh of a dead body; a body decomposing in fast forward, rendered from living flesh to skeleton frame in minutes.

  Liam’s weary, oxygen-starved legs buckled under him and he sat down heavily in the middle of the cobbled avenue, dropped, like a sack of coke off the back of a coalman’s cart. He wasn’t alone. The avenue was thick with others slumped on their knees, lying on their backs, gasping to fill their lungs with clear air.

  Macro squatted down beside him, his eyes glistening with moisture. ‘Stupid,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Stupid, stupid people.’

  They heard something collapsing deep inside the column of smoke. Perhaps a wall giving way, filling the courtyard with fractured fragments of heat-shattered clay brick and glowing spars of charcoaled scaffold poles.

  Liam felt his cheeks grow wet, tears creating two clean paths down his soot-blackened face.

  They’re dead in that. For sure. All of them.

  The deafening clatter of collapse somewhere within the smoke ceased, to be replaced by the growing crackle and roar of flames. The stream of people crawling, staggering out of the smoke had become a dwindling trickle, one or two dropping as they emerged. Surely the very last likely to step out of the pall. As certain as he’d ever been about anything, Liam knew the rest of the poor, unfortunate souls caught up in that death-trap space were either suffocated by now, burned to death or buried.

  His vision, blurred with tears, became a kaleidoscope of refracting stars and spears of light. He felt a hand lightly on his back, patting him gently, and the deep grunt of Macro’s voice far away offering a soldier’s ill-phrased words of comfort.

  But all Liam could do was hear his own choice of words. Hardly any more comforting.

  They’re gone … and it’s just me now.

  Just me.

  Selfish words, he realized. Selfish to grieve at being left alone like this. To cry like this just
for himself. Maddy, Sal and Bob … not just friends, but family – more like family in truth than the faint photo-album memories he had of a mother and father, uncles and aunts.

  Macro’s hand was still patting him.

  If he’d had a greater presence of mind, been stronger, quicker, smarter … he should’ve reacted sooner. Left the stand-off over the barricade and gone to find the girls. There could have been a way out for them. They could have found another way out.

  Macro’s hand was thumping his back more heavily. Not a flat pat, more like a fist. Hardly a comforting, soothing gesture. He realized the bud in his ear was calmly, insistently telling him something, telling him what the old Roman was now bellowing loudly, repeatedly.

 

  Liam did. Wiped muck and tears from his eyes. His blurred, refracted vision cleared. He saw what he expected to see: the thick column of smoke spiralling up from the skeleton of Macro’s building and an avenue of soot-covered bodies.

  But then he picked out the thick, round-shouldered outline of a bull charging towards him. Not a bull … it ran like a human on human legs. A minotaur, then.

  No, not a minotaur. Those weren’t horns on top – he could make out that much. He wiped his eyes again and realized Macro, still pummelling his back, was cheering hoarsely.

  The minotaur, an enormous black creature, came to a halt in front of Liam. Hefted two blackened humps – what he’d mistaken for horns – from its shoulders and on to the cobblestones, where both began to wheeze, cough and retch.

  ‘Minor burns and abrasions. There may be some minor scorching of the trachea and nasal passages. This will heal. But they will both be all right,’ rumbled the minotaur.

  Behind them the complete front wall of the apartment building collapsed backwards in on itself, sending a mushroom cloud of sparks, ember and ash up into the sky.

  ‘Unlike your property, Lucius Cornelius Macro,’ added Bob.