The Gates of Rome

by Conn Iggulden

  Alexandria nodded. "Knives. The spare wood axe is in the stable, unless someone has it. Go and search for some, Susanna. Quickly now."

  A matronly type, still looking pale, trotted off on the errand.

  "Can we carry water? Arrows? Fire? Is there anything else we can do?"

  "Nothing," Renius snapped, losing patience. "Just make sure you kill anyone that lands in the yard. Put a knife in their throat before they can regain their feet. It's a ten-foot fall; there'll be a moment of weakness when you must strike."

  "We won't let you down, sir," Alexandria replied.

  He held her gaze for a second longer, noting the flash of hate that broke through the calm demeanor. He seemed to have more enemies in this place than outside the walls!

  "See you don't," he said curtly, and turned on his heel.

  The cook had returned with a large metal plate strapped to his chest. His enthusiasm was embarrassing, but Renius clapped him on the shoulder as he went to join the others.

  Tubruk was standing with Cabera, holding a strung bow in his large hands.

  "Old Lucius is a fine shot with a bow, but he's in the kitchens setting up for the wounded," he said, his face grim.

  "Get him out here. He can climb down later, when he's done the job," Renius replied, without looking at him. He was scanning the walls, noting the positions, looking for failing nerves. They couldn't hold against a proper attack, so he prayed to his household god that the slaves outside couldn't mount one.

  "Will the slaves have bows?" he asked Tubruk.

  "One or two small ones for hares, perhaps. There's not a decent bow on the estate except for this—and Cabera's."

  "Good. Otherwise, they could pick us all off. We'll have to light the torches in the yard soon, to give them light to kill by. It will silhouette the men, but they can't fight in the dark, not this lot."

  "They may surprise you, Renius. Your name has a lot of power still. Remember the crowds at the games? Every man here will have a story for all the generations of his family to come, if he survives."

  Renius snorted. "You'd better get to the wall; there's a space on the far side."

  Tubruk shook his head. "The others have accepted you as leader, I know. Even Julius will listen to you once his temper calms down. I will stay by Marcus, to protect him. With your permission?"

  Renius stared at him. Would nothing work properly? Fat cooks, girls with knives, arrogant children? And now his orders were to be ignored just before a fight? His right fist lifted in a smashing uppercut that seemed to lift Tubruk up and backward. He hit the dust unmoving and Renius ignored him, turning to Cabera.

  "When he awakes, tell him the boy can look after himself. I know. Tell him to take his place or I will kill him."

  Cabera smiled, his eyes wide, but the old man's face was like winter. In the distance, there was a sudden clamor of metal beating on metal. Sound rose in a wave and chants filled the black night. The torches were lit just as the first few slaves reached the estate wall. Behind them were hundreds from Rome, burning everything in their path.

  CHAPTER 9

  It very nearly ended before it had begun. As Renius had thought, the wild-looking slaves that streamed up to the estate walls had little idea of how to overcome armed defenders and milled around, shouting and screaming. Although it was a perfect opportunity for bowmen, Renius had shaken his head at Cabera and Lucius, who watched with arrows ready and cold eyes. There was still a chance the slaves would look for easier targets, and a few arrows might fan their rage into white-hot desperation.

  "Open the gates!" someone shouted from the mass of torchbearers. In the flickering light, it could have been a festival if it were not for the brutal expressions of the attackers. Renius watched them, weighing options. More and more came from the rear. Clearly there were already more than a small estate could support. Rogue slaves from Rome swelled the ranks with nothing to lose, bringing hate and violence where reason might have won the day. Those at the front were pushed forward and Renius raised his arm, ready to have his two lonely archers send the first shafts into the crowd. They could hardly miss at this range.

  A man stepped forward. He was heavily muscled and sported a thick black beard that made him look like a barbarian. Probably, only days previously, he had been meekly carrying rocks in a quarry, or training horses for some indulgent master. Now his chest was splashed with someone else's blood and his face was a sneer of hate, his eyes glimmering in the flames of his torch.

  "You on the walls. You are slaves like us. Kill those who call themselves your betters. Kill them all and we will welcome you as friends."

  Renius dropped his arm and Cabera put a feathered shaft through the man's throat.

  In the moment of silence, Renius roared at the crowd of slaves: "That is what you will get from me. I am Renius and you will not pass here. Go home and wait for justice!"

  "Justice like that?" came a scream of rage. Another man ran to the walls and jumped for the high ledge. The moment had arrived and suddenly the crowd howled and came forward in a rush.

  Few had swords. Most were armed, like the defenders, with whatever they could find. Some had no weapons except their frenzied rage, and Renius dispatched the first of these with a slick blow to his neck, ignoring the quivering fingers that scrabbled at his breastplate. All along the line, screams rose above the crash of metal on metal and metal into flesh. Renius could see Cabera drop his bow and raise a wicked-looking short knife, with which he stabbed and leapt away, letting the bodies fall back on their fellows. The old man stamped on fingers that gained easier and easier holds on the wall as the bodies of the dead served as props for new attackers.

  Renius grew slightly light-headed and knew his shoulder had torn again, feeling the sudden warmth from the bandages accompanied by a blistering pain. He set his teeth against it and slammed his gladius into a man's stomach, almost losing the weapon in the slimy grip of his guts as he toppled backward. Another took his place and another, and Renius could not see an end to them. He took a blow from a length of timber that left him dazed for a second. He staggered back, reeling, trying to find the energy to lift the sword to meet the next one. His muscles ached and the exhaustion he had felt fighting Marcus came back to hit him once again.

  "I am too old for this," he muttered, spitting blood over his chin. There was a movement to his left and he swung to meet it, too slowly. It was Marcus, grinning at him. He was covered in blood and looked like a demon from the ancient myths.

  "I am a little worried about the speed of my low guard. I wonder if you could observe it for me? Let me know where the trouble is?"

  As he spoke, he shoulder-barged a man as he tried to straighten. The man fell badly, toppling backward onto his head with a yell.

  "I told you not to leave your position," Renius gasped, trying not to show his weakness.

  "You were going to be killed. That honor is mine—not to be given away lightly to motherless scum like these, I think!" He nodded over to the other side of the gate, where the man Caecilius, known to most simply as Cook, was grinning hugely, cutting around him with abandon.

  "Come, pigs, come, cattle. I will cut you to pieces." Underneath the fat there must have been muscle, for he waved the enormous cleaver as if it were made of light wood.

  "Cook is holding them without me. In fact, he is having the time of his life," Marcus went on cheerfully.

  Three men breasted the wall at once, leaping from the pile of bodies that was now half as high as the top. The first swung a sword at Marcus, who slid his own into the man's chest from the side, letting the wild lunge carry the man onto the cobbles of the yard below. The second he dispatched with a reverse cut that caught the man at eye level, cutting into meat and bone. He died instantly.

  The third whooped with pleasure as he closed on Renius. He knew the old man for who he was, and in his mind was already telling the story to friends as Renius brought his sword up under his guard, ripping into his chest.

  Renius let the man f
all, and the sword slid clear. His left arm was hurting again, but this time it was a deep ache. His chest pulsed with pain and he groaned.

  "Are you hurt?" Marcus asked, without taking his eyes off the wall.

  "No. Get back to your post," Renius snapped, his face suddenly gray.

  Marcus looked at him for a long moment. "I think I'll stay awhile longer," he said softly. More men surged over the wall and his sword danced, licking from one throat to the next unstoppably.

  Gaius's father barely noticed those who fell beneath his sword. He fought as he had been trained: thrust, guard, reverse. The bodies piled most thickly at the foot of the gate, and a little voice was telling him they should have broken by now. They were only slaves. They did not have to pass this wall. Why didn't they break? He would have the wall raised to the height of three men when this was over.

  It seemed as if they threw themselves onto his sword, which wetted itself in their blood, drenching the wall and gates with the gushing fluids, drenching him. His shoulders ached, his arm was leaden. Only his legs were still strong beneath him. They must break soon and look for easier targets, surely? Thrust, guard, and reverse. He was locked in the legionary's rhythm of death, but more and more were climbing the piles of flesh to get into the estate. His sword had lost its edge on bone and blades, and his first cut only scraped a man leaping at him. A dagger punctured the hard muscle of his stomach and he grunted in agony, whipping his sword through the man's jaw and dropping him.

  Alexandria stood in the yard, in a pool of darkness. The other women were crying softly to themselves. One was praying. She could see Renius was exhausted and was disappointed when the boy Marcus stepped in to save him. She wondered why he had done it and widened her eyes at the contrast between them. On the one side, the grizzled warrior, veteran of a thousand conflicts, slow and in pain. On the other, Marcus, a smooth-moving murderer, smiling as he brought death to the slaves that met his sword. It did not matter if they had swords or clubs. He made them look clumsy and then took away their strength in a slice or a blow. One man clearly didn't realize he was dying. His blood poured from his chest, but he still kept hacking away with a broken spear shaft, his face manic.

  Curious, Alexandria strained to see the man's face, and she caught the stricken moment when he felt the pain and saw the darkness coming.

  All her life she had heard stories of men's strength and glory, and they seemed to hang over this butchery like golden ghosts, not quite fitting the reality. She looked for moments of comradeship, of bravery in the face of death, but down in the shadows, she could not see it.

  The cook was enjoying the fight, that was obvious. He had begun to sing some vulgar song about a market day and pretty maids, thumping out the chorus with more volume than tune, as he buried his cleaver in skulls and necks. Men fell from his blade and his song grew more raucous as they dropped.

  On her left, one of the defenders fell into the yard from the walkway. He made no attempt to protect himself from the impact, and his head smashed on the hard stone with a wet sound. Alexandria shuddered and grabbed the shoulder of another woman in the darkness. Whoever it was, was sobbing quietly to herself, but there was no time for that.

  "Quickly—they'll be coming through the gap!" she hissed, pulling the other along with her, not trusting herself to do the job alone.

  As they moved, there was another crunching thud from a different section of the wall. Screams of triumph sounded. A man scrambled down, hanging for a moment before letting go and falling the last couple of feet.

  He spun, a wild, bloody nightmare, and as his eyes lit up at the lack of defenders, Alexandria rammed her blade up into his heart. Life escaped him with a sigh and another man hit the cobbles nearby. The snap of his ankle was audible even over the baying from outside the walls. The matronly Susanna, usually so careful over the exact setting of the master's table at banquets, slipped a skinning knife across his throat and walked away from him as he shuddered and spasmed behind her.

  Alexandria looked up at the bright ring of torches above. At least they had light! How awful it was to die in the dark.

  "More torches here!" she yelled, hoping that someone would answer.

  Hands grabbed her from behind and her head was wrenched to one side. She tensed for the agony that would come, but the weight on her shoulders fell away suddenly and she turned to see Susanna, her knife hand freshly covered in red wetness.

  "Keep your spirits up, love. The night's not over yet." Susanna smiled and the moment of panic passed for Alexandria. She checked the yard with the others and barely winced when another defender fell, this time screaming as he hit the yard. Three men came through the gap he had left this time, with two more visible as they struggled up over the slippery bodies.

  All the women drew their knives and the torchlight caught the blades, even down in the yard's blackness. Before the men's eyes could adjust to the gloom, the women were on them, gripping and stabbing.

  Gaius came awake with a start. His mother sat by the bed, holding a damp cloth. Its touch had awakened him, and as he looked at her she pressed it to his forehead, crooning gently to herself. In the distance, he could hear screams and the clear sounds of battle. How had he remained asleep? Cabera had given him a warm drink as the evening darkened. There must have been something in it.

  "What is going on, Mother? I can hear fighting!"

  Aurelia smiled at him sadly. "Shhh, my darling. You must not excite yourself. Your life is slipping away and I have come to make your last hours peaceful."

  Gaius blanched a little. No, he felt weak, but sound. "I am not dying. I am getting better. Now, what is happening in the yard? I should get out there!"

  "Shhh, shhh. I know they said you were getting better, but I also know they lie to me. Now be still and I will cool your brow for you."

  Gaius looked at her in disbelief. All his life, this shambling idiot had been coming to the fore, dragging away the lively, quick-witted woman he missed. He winced in anticipation of the screaming fit that would follow a wrong word from him.

  "I want to feel the night air on my skin, Mother. One last time. Please leave so that I may dress."

  "Of course, my darling. I'll go back to my rooms now that I have said goodbye to you, my perfect son." She giggled for a moment and sighed as if she carried a great weight.

  "Your father is out there getting himself killed instead of looking after me. He has never looked after me properly. We have not made love in years now."

  Gaius didn't know what to say. He sat up and closed his eyes against the weakness. He couldn't even hold his hand in a fist, but he had to know what was going on. Gods, why wasn't there someone around? Were they all out there? Tubruk?

  "Please leave, Mother. I must dress. I want to sit outside in my last moments."

  "I understand, my love. Goodbye." Her eyes filled with tears as she kissed his forehead, and then the little room was empty again.

  For a moment, he was tempted simply to fall back on the pillows. His head felt thick and heavy and he guessed the drug Cabera had given him would have kept him under till morning if his mother hadn't had one of her ideas. Slowly, he swung his legs out and pressed his feet against the floor. Weak. Clothes. One thing at a time.

  Tubruk knew they couldn't hold much longer. He ran himself ragged trying to cover a gap where two other men had once stood beside him. Again and again, he spun barely in time to meet the attack of those who were creeping up on him as he killed those in front. His breath came in wheezing gasps and, for all his skill, he knew death was close.

  Why would they not break? Damn all the gods to hell, they must break! He cursed himself for not arranging for some sort of fallback position, but there really was none. The walls were the only defense the estate had, and these trembled on the brink of being completely overwhelmed.

  He slipped in blood and went down badly, the air rushing out of him. A dagger punched into his side and a dirty bare foot tried to crush his face, pressing his head down. He bit
it and distantly heard someone scream. He made it to one knee too late to stop two scrambling figures dropping down into the yard. He hoped the women could handle them. Gingerly he felt his side and winced at the trickle of blood, watching it for air bubbles. There were none and he could still breathe, though the air tasted like hot tin and blood.

  For a few moments, no one came at him and he was able to look around the walls. Of the original twenty-nine, there were fewer than fifteen left. They had worked miracles up on the wall, but it wasn't going to be enough. Julius fought on, despairing as his strength flowed from his wounds. He pulled the dagger out of his flesh with a groan and instantly lost it in the chest of the next man to face him. His breath was burning his throat and he looked into the yard, seeing his son come out. He smiled and the pride felt as if it would burst his chest. Another blade entered him, shoved down into the gap between his breastplate and his neck, deep into his lung. He spat blood and buried his gladius into the attacker without seeing or knowing his face. His arms dropped away and the sword fell from his grasp, clattering on the stones of the courtyard below. He could only watch as the rest came on.

  Tubruk saw Julius collapse under a mass of bodies that spilled past him over the narrow walkway and down into the dark. He cried out his grief and rage, knowing he couldn't reach him in time. Renius was still on his feet, but only Marcus's care kept the old warrior from death, and even that blinding whirl of blades was faltering as Marcus bled from wounds, his life dribbling away in a score of gashes.

  Gaius climbed up beside Tubruk, his face white from the effort of dragging himself up the steps to the wall. His gladius was out and he swung it as he reached the top, cutting into a man levering himself up over the dark bodies. Tubruk slid his blade into the man's ribs as Gaius swayed, but still the slave wouldn't die. He flailed with a dagger and cut Gaius across the face. Gaius hammered another blow at his neck and then the life was gone. More faces appeared, shouting and cursing as they struggled onto the slippery stones.