Three of his unit formed a tight wedge around the top of the ladder, their light armor denting under heavy blows. Julius saw a gladius jerked up into a jaw from below, impaling one of the rebels.
The men they faced wore no common uniform. Some sported ancient armor and wielded strange blades, while others carried hatchets or spears. They were Greek in appearance and shouted to each other in that liquid language. It was messy and Julius could only swear as one of his men fell with a cry, blood spattering darkly in the torchlight. Footsteps crashed and echoed all round the fort. It sounded as if there was an army in there, all running to this point. Two more of his men made the walkway and launched into the fight, pushing the enemy back.
Julius jabbed his gladius tip into a man’s throat in a lunge Renius had taught him years before. He hit hard and furiously and his opponents flailed and died. Whatever they were, the men they faced were winning only with numbers. The Roman skill and training was making the core of soldiers round the ladder almost impossible to break.
Yet they were tiring. Julius saw one of his men yell in frustration and fear as his sword jammed between the plates of an ornate set of armor, probably handed down from generation to generation since the time of Alexander. The Roman wrenched at it viciously, almost knocking the armored rebel from his feet with the movement. His angry shout changed abruptly to a scream, and Julius could see the rebel punching a short dagger into his man’s groin under the armor. Finally the Roman went limp, leaving his gladius still wedged.
“To me!” Julius shouted to his men. Together they could force a path along the narrow walkway and move deeper into the fort. He saw steps nearby and motioned to them. More men fell to him and he began to enjoy the fight. The sword was a good weight. The armor gave him a sense of being invulnerable, and with the hot blood of action in his system, it sat lightly on him.
A sudden blow to his head removed the damaged helmet, and he could feel the cool night air on his sweating skin. It was a pleasure, and he chuckled for a moment as he stepped in and barged into a man’s shield, knocking him into the path of his fellows.
“Accipiter!” he shouted suddenly. Hawk. It would do. He heard voices echo it and roared it again, ducking under a recurved sword that looked more like a farm implement than a weapon of war. His return stroke cut the man’s thighs open, dropping him bawling on the stones.
The other legionaries gathered around him. He saw eight of his unit had made the wall, and there were six others who had survived the archers. They stood together and the rebels began to waver in their rushing as the bodies piled around them.
“Soldiers of Rome, we are,” grunted one of them. “Best in the world. Come on, don’t hang back.”
Julius grinned at him and took up the shout of the galley name when it was begun again. He hoped Pelitas would hear them. Somehow, he didn’t doubt the ugly bastard had survived.
* * *
Pelitas had found a cloak on a hook and used it to cover his tunic and drawn sword. He felt vulnerable without his armor, but the men who clattered past didn’t even glance at him. He heard the legionaries growl and shout their challenges nearby and realized it was time to join the fight.
He lifted a torch from a wall bracket and joined the enemy rush to the clash of blades. Gods, there were a lot of them! The inner fort was a maze of broken walls and empty rooms, the sort of place that took hours to clear, with every step open to ambush and arrow fire. He rounded a corner in the darkness, ignored and anonymous for precious moments. He moved quickly, trying not to lose his sense of direction in twists and turns, and then found himself on the north wall, near a group of archers who were firing carefully, their expressions serious and calm. Presumably, the remnants of Gaditicus’s force were still out there, though he could hear Roman orders snapped out in the yard by the main gate. Some had got in, but the battle was far from over.
Half the town must have holed up in the fort, he thought angrily as he approached the archers. One looked up sharply at his approach, but only nodded, firing unhurriedly into the mass of men below them.
As he aimed, Pelitas charged, knocking two of the men headfirst to the stones below. They hit with a crash and the other three archers turned in horror to see him as he threw back the cloak and raised the short gladius.
“Evening, lads,” he said, his voice calm and cheerful. One step brought his sword into the chest of the closest. He kneed the body off the wall and then an arrow thumped into him, tearing straight through his side. Only the flights jutted from his stomach and he groaned as his left hand plucked at them, almost without his control. Viciously, he swiped the gladius through the throat of the closest archer, who was raising his own arrow.
It was the last and farthest from him who had fired the shaft. Feverishly, he tried to notch another, but fear made him clumsy and Pelitas reached him, sword held out for the thrust. The man backed away in panic and screamed as he fell from the wall. Pelitas went down slowly onto one knee, his breathing rasping painfully. There was no one near and he laid down his sword, reaching around himself to try and snap the arrow. He would not remove it completely. All the soldiers had seen the rush of blood that could kill you when you did. The thought of catching it every time he turned made his eyes water.
His grip was slippery and he could only bend the wooden shaft, a low moan of agony escaping him. His side was soaked in blood and he felt dizzy as he tried to stand up. Growling softly, he eased the arrow back through himself, so it wasn’t sticking so far out behind.
“Have to find the others,” he muttered, taking a deep breath. His hands quivered with the beginnings of shock, so he gripped the gladius as tightly as possible and wrapped his other fist in a fold of the cloak.
* * *
Gaditicus backhanded a man in the teeth as he ran at him, following through with a short thrust into the ribs. The fort was filled with rebels, more than the small island would support, he was sure. The rebellion must have picked up firebrands from the mainland, but it was too late to worry now. He remembered the young officer’s question about numbers and how he’d scorned it. Perhaps he should have organized reinforcements. The outcome of the night wasn’t easy to predict.
It had started well, with the sentries taken quickly, almost in the same heartbeat. He had ten men over the ladders and the gate open before anyone inside knew what was happening. Then the dark buildings had vomited soldiers at them, pulling on their armor as they ran. The narrow walkways and steps made the maze an archer’s dream, with only the poor light holding their casualties down to flesh wounds, though he’d lost one man to a shaft into his mouth, straight through his skull.
He could hear his men panting as they pressed close to a wall in darkness behind him. Some torches had been lit, but apart from the occasional arrow fired blindly, the enemy had retreated for the moment into the side buildings. Anyone rushing down the path between them was going to be cut to pieces before they made a few paces, but equally they could not leave the shelter to engage the legionaries. It was a temporary lull and Gaditicus was pleased to have the chance to get his breath back. He missed the fitness of the land legions. No matter how you drilled and exercised on a ship, a few minutes of fighting and running left you exhausted. Or maybe it was just age, he acknowledged wryly to himself.
“They’ve gone to ground,” he muttered. It would be bitter from now on, killing from building to building, losing one of theirs for every one or two of the enemy. It was too easy for the rebels to wait inside a door or a window and stab the first thing to come through.
Gaditicus was turning to the soldier behind to give orders when the man looked down, his mouth dropping in horror. The stones were covered in shining liquid that streamed quickly through the group and sluiced down between the fort buildings. There was no time to make a plan.
“Run!” Gaditicus yelled to the group. “Get high! Gods, run!”
Some of the younger men gaped, not understanding, but the experienced ones didn’t wait to find out. Gaditicus was at
the back, trying not to think about the archers waiting for just this moment. He heard the crackle and whoosh of fire as they lit the sticky fluid and arrows whined past him, taking a legionary in the lower back. The soldier staggered on for a moment before collapsing. Gaditicus stopped to help him, but as he turned his head he saw flames racing toward them. He drew his sword quickly through the soldier’s throat, knowing it was better than burning. He could feel the heat on his back and panic filled him as he rose from the body. His sandals were wet with the stuff and he knew the fire could not be quenched. He ran blindly after his men.
At full pounding sprint, the group of soldiers rounded a corner and charged on, straight at a group of three crouched archers. All three panicked and only one took the shot, sending an arrow above their heads. The archers were cut down and trampled almost without slowing.
On sheets of flame, the fort became visible. Gaditicus and the others roared in anger and in relief at being alive, the sound fueling their strength and frightening the enemy.
The path ended in a courtyard and this time the waiting archers fired smoothly, destroying the front four men and sending the second row sprawling over their dead companions. The yard was full of the rebels, and with a baying cry to answer the Romans in ferocity, they came on, howling.
* * *
Julius froze as he saw the flames explode along a row of squat buildings to his left. The sheltering darkness became flickering gold and shadow, and three men in an alcove were suddenly visible a few paces ahead. They were cut down and behind them an open doorway was revealed, leading into the bowels of the fort. It was the decision of a second and Julius ran straight through it, ripping his sword through the guts of a man waiting inside before he could strike. His followers never hesitated. Without knowing the fort, they could spend fruitless minutes searching for ways to reach their comrades with Gaditicus. The most important thing was to keep moving and kill anyone they came across.
After the light of the fire, it was frighteningly dark inside the fortress. Steps led down to a row of empty rooms, and at the end was another set, with a single oil lamp on the wall. Julius grabbed it, swearing as the hot liquid spattered onto his skin. His men clattered behind him and at the bottom Julius threw himself down as arrows hit stone around him and shattered, sending stinging fragments into their midst.
The long, low room they entered had three men in it. Two looked terrified at the dirty, blood-covered soldiers, and the third was tied to a chair, a prisoner. Julius saw by his robe that he was a Roman. His face and body were battered and swollen, but his eyes were alive with sudden hope.
Julius raced across the room, swaying to avoid another shaft fired poorly and in haste. Almost with contempt, he reached the two men and cut the archer across the throat. The other tried to stab him, but the breastplate took the blow easily and his backhand cut sent the man crashing to the floor.
Julius rested the point of his gladius on the stones and leaned on it, suddenly tired. His breathing came in great gasps and he noticed how silent the place was, how far below the main fort they were.
“That was well done,” said the man in the chair.
Julius glanced at him. Up close, he saw the man had been brutally tortured. His face was swollen and twisted and his fingers had been broken, jutting at obscene angles. Trembling shook the man’s body and Julius guessed he was trying not to lose what little control he had left.
“Cut his bonds,” he ordered, and helped the prisoner to his feet as he came free, noting how unsteady he was. One of the man’s hands touched the arm of the chair, and he gave out a moan of agony, his eyes rolling up in his head for a second before he steadied under Julius’s grip.
“Who are you?” Julius said, wondering what they were going to do with the man.
“Governor Paulus. You might say . . . this is my fort.” The man closed his eyes as he spoke, overwhelmed by exhaustion and relief. Julius saw his courage and felt a touch of respect.
“Not yet it isn’t, sir,” Julius replied. “There’s a lot of fighting above and we have to get back to it. I suggest we find you somewhere safe to wait it out. You don’t look quite up to joining in.”
In fact the man looked bloodless, his skin slack and gray. He was about fifty years old, with heavy shoulders and a sagging stomach. He might once have been a warrior, Julius judged, but time and soft living had taken his strength, at least of the body.
The governor stood straighter, the effort of will obvious. “I’ll go with you as far as I can. My hands are smashed, so I can’t fight, but I want to get out of this stinking pest-hole, at least.”
Julius nodded quickly, signaling to two of the men. “Take his arms, gently, carry him if you have to. We have to get back to help Gaditicus.”
With that, Julius was clattering up the steps, his mind already on the battle above.
“Come on, sir. Lean on my shoulder,” said one of the last pair as he took the weight. The governor cried out as his broken hands moved, then gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Get me out quickly,” he ordered curtly. “Who was the officer who freed me?”
“That was Caesar, sir,” the soldier replied as they began the slow trip. By the end of the first flight of stairs, the pain had forced the governor into unconsciousness and they were able to go much faster.
CHAPTER 2
Sulla smiled and drank deeply from a silver goblet. His cheeks were flushed with the effects of the wine, and his eyes frightened Cornelia as she sat on the couch he had provided.
His men had collected her in the heat of the afternoon, when she felt the heaviness of her pregnancy most painfully. She tried to hide her discomfort and fear of the Dictator of Rome, but her hands shook slightly on the lip of the glass of cool white wine he had offered her. She sipped sparingly to please him, wanting nothing more than to be out of his gilded chambers and back in the safety of her own home.
His eyes watched her every move and she could not hold the gaze as the silence stretched between them.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked, and there was a slurred edge to his words that sent a thrill of panic coursing through her.
Be calm, she told herself. The child will feel your fear. Think of Julius. He would want you to be strong.
When she spoke, her voice was almost steady.
“Your men have thought of everything. They were very courteous to me, though they did not say why you desired my presence.”
“Desired? What a strange choice of word,” he replied softly. “Most men would never use the word for a woman, what, weeks from giving birth?”
Cornelia looked at him blankly and he emptied his cup, smacking his lips together with pleasure. He rose from his seat without warning, turning his back to her as he refilled his cup from an amphora, letting the stopper fall and roll on the marble floor unheeded.
She watched it spiral and come to rest, as if hypnotized. As it became still, he spoke again, his voice languid and intimate.
“I have heard that a woman is never more beautiful than when she is pregnant, but that is not always true, is it?”
He stepped closer to her, gesturing with the goblet as he spoke, slopping drops over the rim.
“I . . . do not know, sir, it . . .”
“Oh, I have seen them. Rat-haired heifers that amble and bellow, their skin blotched and sweating. Common women, of common stock, whereas the true Roman lady, well . . .”
He pressed even closer to her and it was all she could do not to pull away from him. There was a glitter to his eyes and suddenly she thought of screaming, but who would come? Who would dare come?
“The Roman lady is a ripe fruit, her skin glowing, her hair shining and lustrous.”
His voice was a husky murmur, and as he spoke he reached out and pressed his hand against the swelling of the child.
“Please . . .” she whispered, but he seemed not to hear. His hand trailed over her, feeling the heavy roundness.
“Ah yes, you have that beauty, Cornelia
.”
“Please, I am tired. I would like to go home now. My husband . . .”
“Julius? A very undisciplined young man. He refused to give you up, did you know? I can see why, now.”
His fingers reached up to her breasts. Swollen and painful as they were at this late stage, they were held only loosely in the mamillare, and she closed her eyes in helpless misery as she felt his hands easing over her flesh. Tears came swiftly into her eyes.
“What a delicious weight,” he whispered, his voice ugly with passion. Without warning, he bent and pressed his mouth on hers, shoving his fat tongue between her lips. The taste of stale wine made her gag in reflex, and then he pulled away, wiping loose lips with the back of his hand.
“Please don’t hurt the baby,” she said, her voice breaking. Tears streamed out and the sight of them seemed to disgust Sulla. His mouth twisted in irritation and he turned away.
“Take yourself home. Your nose is running and the moment is spoiled. There will be another time.”
He filled his cup from the amphora yet again as she left the room, her sobs almost choking her and her eyes blind with shining tears.
* * *
Julius roared as his men charged into the small yard where Gaditicus fought the last of the rebels. As his legionaries hit the rebel flank, there was instant panic in the darkness and the Romans took advantage, bodies falling quickly, ripped apart by their swords. Within seconds, there were fewer than twenty facing the legionaries, and Gaditicus shouted, his voice a bellow of authority.
“Drop your weapons!”
A second of hesitation followed, then a clatter as swords and daggers fell to the tiles and the enemy were still at last, chests heaving, drenched in sweat, but beginning to feel that moment of joyous disbelief that comes when a man realizes he has survived where others have fallen.
The legionaries moved to surround them, their faces hard.
Gaditicus waited until the rebels’ swords had been taken and they stood in a huddled and sullen group.
Emperor: The Death of Kings Page 2
