Gates of Rome
Page 30
Maddy looked at Bob. ‘Could we use it? Could we use this portal to get home?’
‘I have no information. This must be a time-displacement technique developed after my inception date. After the agency’s database was set up.’
‘But it’s got to be similar … the same basic technology, right?’
‘Correct.’
‘If it’s a beacon … could we use it to communicate forward to computer-Bob?’
Bob nodded. ‘Theoretically. The only way to transmit data is a tachyon transmission.’
The big question was whether computer-Bob was still in one piece, capable of receiving anything.
‘Rashim … you said it’s soon. A few moments ago you said “soon”. You were talking about the advance party appearing, right?’
He offered her an appalling gummy smile. ‘Too soon … too soon,’ he replied in a sing-song voice. ‘Three days.’
‘Three days’ time?’
Rashim nodded.
‘Do you know where? Can you tell us exactly where?’
He was mumbling to himself in that unhinged, sing-song way.
‘Rashim!’
‘I know … I remember …’ He tapped his skull of tatty, wiry hair. ‘All in here. Don’t worry, me and Mr Muzzy know.’
Sal cocked an eyebrow at her.
CHAPTER 70
AD 54, Imperial Palace, Rome
Cato strode down the dimly lit main passageway towards the front portico.
‘I said … they’re not actually from Britain.’
Macro looked at him. ‘They’re not?’
‘No … the place they come from is …’ Cato made a face. ‘I’m still struggling to make sense of it myself, as it happens. The place they come from is the future.’
‘The future?’
‘Yes, the very same place as the Visitors. Time ahead of us.’
Macro frowned as his mind worked on that. ‘Years yet to be?’
Cato nodded. ‘But from a place more than a thousand years yet to be.’
He expected his old friend to struggle with that concept. Instead, he nodded casually. ‘Well, that explains quite a lot, then.’
‘Macro, I don’t understand what’s going on with that prisoner we found. They’re talking about something. Perhaps they’re discussing some of the Visitors’ devices. Perhaps their chariot. I don’t know. But all I do know is we have got to find a way to give them some more time.’
‘Cato, there’s you and me, your centurion, Fronto, and that giant of a man back inside.’
‘Bob.’
‘Yes, Bob … strange name. Anyway, I’m not sure how long the four of us can hold back the entire Praetorian Guard, Cato. That’s a fool’s errand.’
‘We have Fronto’s men. That’s enough men right there to hold the front gate for a while if it comes to a fight.’
‘That’s if they’ll fight on our side.’
‘True.’
They strode through the entrance portico. Cato nodded at the section of men stationed there. They carried on down several steps outside into the courtyard. He could see Fronto’s men across the courtyard drawn up in an arc round the iron gates. Through the iron bars he could see a body of troops outside. Dismounted equites. Cavalry on foot acting for the moment, very reluctantly, as infantry.
He picked out Fronto and approached him. ‘Centurion!’
‘Sir!’
‘What’s going on here?’
Fronto nodded to the decurion still standing outside the gates. Beyond him Cato could see in the failing light of the late afternoon what looked like two or three hundred men and their horses. Still more of them in the distance, a column on horseback trotting up the avenue.
‘This traitor, sir!’ Fronto barked loud enough for his men to hear him clearly. ‘Wishes to loot the emperor’s palace.’
‘I see.’
The decurion caught Fronto’s reply above the noise of his own men assembling in ranks behind him. ‘That’s not true! I have orders from the prefect!’ The decurion looked at Cato. ‘Orders for your arrest.’
‘It’s common practice in the Roman army to address a senior officer as sir, Decurion.’
‘Open the gates immediately!’ the decurion snapped as Fronto’s men lined up behind their shield wall. ‘This tribune is to be arrested for treachery!’
Macro snarled angrily and took several steps towards the gate. He grabbed the iron rails in his hands. ‘This tribune is your superior officer!’
The decurion offered him a patronizing smile. ‘And you? What are you, you fat old man? Nothing. Not even a soldier.’
Macro ground his teeth then spat through the bars. ‘I could still take you on … boy.’
The officer ignored him. ‘You will open the gates immediately or you will ALL be treated as traitors and punished accordingly!’
‘Lads!’ Cato turned to face his men. ‘Those men outside the gate … have become deserters! Mercenaries! They’re here to fill their pockets and then flee the city before our emperor returns! It is our sacred duty to hold this gate!’
‘He’s lying!’
‘Quiet!’ snapped Macro, smacking his fist against the bars of the gate.
‘Men!’ Cato shouted. His voice was never going to match the parade-ground roar of Macro or Fronto, but it carried the authority of rank and experience. ‘The emperor has entrusted this cohort and this particular century to guard his home. He favours us. He trusts us. If we allow those men outside,’ he laughed, ‘those horse-maidens to come in …’
The men shared his amusement. There was little love lost between any legion’s foot soldiers and its squadron of cavalry. Equites who considered themselves a class above the rest.
‘… then we are breaking his trust and disobeying a direct imperial order!’
The decurion sighed, shook his head. ‘Right … have it your own way.’
Cato joined Macro beside the gate. They watched as the young officer turned away from them and headed back to rejoin his men.
Fronto joined the pair of them. ‘Well done, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘Some of my lads were looking a bit twitchy for a moment there.’
‘This stand-off’s only going to last until someone turns up with a higher rank or a written order,’ said Cato. ‘Then those men will turn us over.’
‘Maybe not … they’re good boys all in.’ Fronto shot a glance at the anxious faces of his men, eyes glinting in the shadow of their helmets, eyes on their centurion. ‘They’re a loyal bunch.’
‘Loyal enough to be branded traitors alongside us?’ replied Cato. ‘To face Caligula’s wrath?’
The centurion pursed his lips, not entirely sure of his answer.
‘Like I say … this stand-off’s going to be over the moment we get a higher rank out there.’
‘Stand-off?’ Macro sucked air through his gap-teeth. ‘It looks like we’re up for a bit of a scrap if you ask me. Look.’
Cato followed the direction he’d nodded in and saw a cart being rolled forward through the assembled ranks. It was stacked high and heavy with sacks of animal manure, pushed by several dozen men and beginning to roll under its own momentum.
He reached up and tightened the strap on his helmet. ‘I think you might be right there, Macro.’
CHAPTER 71
AD 54, Imperial Palace, Rome
The front rank of dismounted equites sidestepped to allow the trundling cart through. Its large iron-rimmed wheels clattered noisily across the paving stones of the square before the palace’s north-east gate.
‘That’s coming right through,’ grunted Macro.
Cato nodded. The iron gates were more decorative than they were utilitarian; the cart was going to knock them right off their hinges without any trouble at all.
‘Fronto, form up your men closer to the gate.’ He pointed to stone posts either side, and the eight-foot wall that continued all the way round the Imperial Palace. ‘Once they’ve barged those gates open we can hold them in that bottleneck for a
while.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
Fronto advanced his men to within twelve feet of the gates, ready to press forward into the open space the moment the cart was pulled back to allow the equites in.
‘Where do you want me, Cato?’ asked Macro.
Cato smiled. ‘Where you feel most at home.’
‘In the thick of it, then.’ Macro flashed a dark grin at him. ‘Like old times, eh, lad?’
‘Like old times.’
The cart outside had found the gentlest incline and now was rolling freely towards the iron gates, shedding several sacks as it bounced and vibrated across the flagstones.
‘Steady, lads!’ bellowed Fronto.
Cato watched Macro shoulder his way in among the front rank of the centurion’s men. ‘Come on, ladies, make a hole!’ he heard his friend growl at them.
Like old times.
Cato remembered his first skirmish in the army. He was just a boy only a couple of weeks into basic training; Macro, on the other hand, had been little different from the way he was now: short and stocky, an impenetrable wall of foul-mouthed confidence. He remembered that first skirmish, being petrified beyond belief, but somehow, even in the middle of the clash of arms and the screams of the dying, knowing that standing right beside his centurion, right beside Macro … he was safe. That he’d always be safe. As if a cloak of invincibility surrounded that cantankerous old man.
‘Here it comes, boys!’ shouted Macro. ‘Who’s up for teaching these horse-girls how to fight?’ The men either side of him roared with nervous laughter.
Cato grinned as he stood beside Fronto. ‘You’ll have to excuse him.’
‘You once served under him?’
Cato nodded. ‘Oh yes … and he was just as bad then.’
The cart closed the final few yards and crashed into the iron gates, knocking the left gate so hard its hinges exploded from the stone pillar in a shower of dust. The gate collapsed inwards and they heard a roar from the Praetorian cavalrymen outside.
A moment later, the cart lurched as men behind it began to work it back, clear of the tangle of bent and crimped iron bars. The other gate, hanging from just one twisted hinge, clattered over on to the ground and, caught up on the cart’s axle, was dragged away as the cart was pulled clear of the gateway.
‘Advance!’ ordered Fronto.
The front rank, sixteen men wide, advanced behind their presented shield wall. One step at a time they approached until they finally filled the gap between the stone pillars.
Cato spotted the decurion now joined by a cluster of several others still mounted. He saw the plume of another ranking officer trotting through the kicked-up dust and haze outside. The praefectus alae … commanding officer of the Guard’s entire cavalry wing.
He cursed. The last thing he needed was that officer talking round Fronto’s men. Better that the talking was all done and the fighting had begun. He decided to hasten things along.
‘Fronto … let’s give them an opening volley.’
The centurion nodded, and barked an order for his men to ready-and-release on his command. The men, two ranks of sixteen, all took a step backwards, javelins drawn back in their right hands.
‘RELEASE!’
The modest volley arced through the air across thirty yards and picked out no more than a dozen victims. Not enough to make any sort of a difference, but enough to ensure the time for parlaying was over. The equites, many of them foreigners from across the empire – Batavians, Sarmatians, expert horsemen, but certainly no match for legionaries on foot – began to advance on the gateway in a ragged, loosely formed line, short spears protruding between their shields, a line of light oval shields designed for dextrous horseback melee, not closed formations. Spears instead of their swords … another cavalry habit. They were used to wielding a weapon with reach.
Cato pointed that out and Fronto nodded. ‘Idiots haven’t got a clue how to fight on foot.’
A moment later, the gap between them was closed and the clatter and ring of blades on shields and spear tips on armour began to fill the ominous stillness that had descended over the smoke-shrouded city.
CHAPTER 72
AD 54, Imperial Palace, Rome
‘We have to get out of Rome!’ said Maddy. ‘I mean, like, now!’
Bob nodded. ‘That must be our mission priority.’
She joined Sal and Liam beside the doorway and hunkered down beside them. ‘How is he?’
‘It stings like hell,’ Liam winced. ‘Burns.’
‘He’s not bleeding any more.’ Sal pointed at the bandage wrapped round Liam’s waist. ‘I don’t think any veins or whatever were cut.’
‘What about internal bleeding?’
Sal shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to look for.’
Nor did Maddy; it was just a phrase she’d heard often enough on hospital dramas. ‘Right, well, when we get him back home, we’ll get him looked at by someone.’
‘Get back home?’ Liam laughed sarcastically. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘We’re going to find a way out of Rome. There is a way home. A window … a return window, and we’re going to try and use it. OK?’
The other two nodded.
Bob brought Rashim out, supporting an emaciated elbow in one large hand. He blinked and grimaced at the modest light of several flickering oil lamps.
Maddy had a thought. ‘Rashim? Could we use that hover-vehicle thing back in there?’
He shook his head, shading his eyes and wincing. ‘Uh-uh … a big d-dead dragon now. Yes, it is.’
She shook her head. She didn’t have time for his wittering madness. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Information,’ said Bob. ‘The vehicle is hydrogen cell powered. The cells will have needed maintenance. They will not be any good to us now.’
‘Rashim?’ He was muttering to himself again. She grabbed his arm. ‘Rashim! Where this portal is … is it close enough that we can get there in time on foot?’
He hunched his narrow shoulders. ‘Time flies … time flies … tick tock, tick tock …’
‘We’re wasting our time with him,’ said Sal.
‘He knows where to go, Sal. We need him.’ Maddy pushed a loose tangle of hair out of her blinking eyes. ‘And we’ve got to escape this palace, the city somehow.’
‘Cato … he can help us,’ she replied. ‘He knows this palace.’
‘Where did he go? Did you see which way?’
‘I think he’s outside, at the front of the palace with all the other soldiers.’ It was then that they heard it, the faint sound of metallic ringing and raised voices. Maddy and Sal looked at each other. ‘Is that someone fighting?’ said Sal.
Maddy cocked her head to listen for a moment. ‘I think it is.’
‘Then we’re too late, aren’t we? We’re trapped!’ She looked up at Maddy. ‘Jahulla! We are, aren’t we?’
Liam winced. Opened his eyes. ‘No way I’m getting stuck in here!’
‘We’ll have to find a way out,’ said Maddy. ‘Can you move, Liam?’
‘I’m sure as eggs not bleedin’ staying!’ He tried to sit up, groaning as he held his side. ‘Ahhh! Ow! Ouch!!! It bleedin’ well stings!’
‘Bob, you carry Liam. Me and Sal, we’ll help the old guy,’ she said, nodding at Rashim.
‘Which way are we going?’ asked Sal.
‘Let’s try and find Cato. Maybe he can help us.’
A moment later, they pushed the hanging drape aside and emerged from the concealed passage and stepped into the main hallway, Liam groaning, carried piggyback, his arms wrapped round Bob’s neck. Rashim shuffled between Maddy and Sal, giggling and warbling gibberish to himself.
‘That way,’ said Maddy, nodding to the left, towards the increasing sounds of battle.
They made their way down towards the entrance portico.
Closer, Maddy caught the flickering of glinting armour bathed in the blood-red light of sunset. ‘What’s going on up there?’
The courtyard was filling with other soldiers.
She caught a glimpse of Cato’s horse-hair crest among the men, organizing the defensive lines across the steps. She pushed her way through the mass of men and finally stood beside him.
‘What’s going on? Who are they?’
‘Caligula’s Praetorian cavalry. All the damned alae. Five hundred of them.’ He looked at her. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’
She nodded. ‘Look, Cato … we need to talk.’
‘Well, as you can see, I’m a bit busy right now.’
‘There’s a way we can fix all this … make it not happen! Please … we need to talk. I’ll explain.’
Cato looked out at the equites. They were flooding into the gardens. They’d managed to push his men back from the gateway through sheer weight of numbers. This was their next best bottleneck to try and hold – the portico. But it was all but over for them now anyway. They were into the palace compound now. There were other entrances to the palace buildings. Soon enough they were going to be overwhelmed.
The portico was going to be a last stand for them. Plain and simple.
Cato grabbed Macro’s arm. ‘Macro!’
‘Yes?’
‘Give me a few moments. I need to talk to our friends. Quickly!’
Macro’s brow cocked. ‘Can they weave some kind of magic for us?’
He shrugged. ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’ He nodded at the remnants of Fronto’s century. The centurion had gone down five minutes earlier. The thrust of a cavalry spear to his throat. He’d gone down thrashing angrily with his sword, managing to at least catch and give a life-long scar to the man who’d killed him.
‘They’re all yours, Macro.’
He nodded. ‘Right you are.’ The men exchanged a salute then Macro turned and started bellowing a barrage of coarse language over the heads of the few dozen men drawn up on the steps.