Rise and Fall

by Michael Whitehead

  Hakor took a deep breath to steady himself and held his gladius before him. Garic said a silent prayer for his new friend. Over the week since they had both found themselves in the cart, the two of them had become close. Garic had learned that his bunkmate was from Egypt, which seemed as exotic as if he had said he was from Elysium Fields. They supported each other when the darkness of their situation became too much.

  “The next one over the wall is yours big man,” one of the legionaries said to Hakor. The legionaries nearest the Egyptian stepped away to give the big man room to swing. After a few seconds a female Risen sprang over the top of the wall. Her arms flailed as she came down, grabbing for the man next to Hakor. The legionary stood his ground and, in one of the bravest or stupidest, acts Garic had ever seen, did not defend himself.

  Hakor stepped forward and turned sideways, to the outside edge of the wall. In one swift movement he reached up and caught the undead woman by the throat. His fingers almost met at the back of her neck, his hands were so big. The Risen’s face came within a dozen inches of the stationary legionary before she was slammed backward onto the top of the wall. Hakor wasted no time in bringing his sword round and almost cleaving the top of her head clean off. It was a cut that any butcher would have been proud of, Garic admitted to himself.

  Hakor picked up the body in the same hand he had used to catch her in the first place and casually threw her over the wall to land on the sea of undead below.

  There was stunned silence, during which the only movement was one of the legionaries stabbing at a head as it came over the edge of the wall a little further down. The men around Hakor stared at the big man in awe, until the legionary in charge shook his head and asked in a weak voice, “Who’s next?”

  Garic stepped forward and brandished his new sword. “I’m ready,” he said simply and the moment passed. He felt all eyes on him as he stood ready to meet the enemy. Time passed but it would take a fine instrument to tell if it was a second or an age. Garic felt the handle of his weapon become greasy with sweat.

  Then the wait was suddenly and violently ended as a Risen that had once been an old man appeared above the line of the wall. Garic did his best to keep his composure. “Remember your feet, remember your feet, remember your feet,” ran through his mind like a manic mantra.

  He shuffled forward slightly, adjusting his weight and stabbed the end of his blade forward. In one movement he succeeded in splitting the forehead of the grey skinned old man and toppling him back off the wall. Garic released the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding.

  “Impressive, very efficient,” the legionary in charge said. “Who wants the next go?”

  As the legionary said this a girl who would have been coming toward the end of her teenage years, sprang into the air in front of Garic. He had let down his guard and wasn’t ready for her attack. He stepped back in shock and felt the heel of his sandal find nothing but air. In an instant, he was sure he would slip backward and become no more than a broken pile of bones at the base of the wall.

  He regained his feet and braced his gladius, one handed, against the weight of her falling on him. She struck him with a thump and began snarling and biting at him. The sword was pinned against him, the flat of the blade cold through the fabric of his tunic. He reached around and put the grieve he wore on his left arm into the girl's mouth. She tried in vain to bite at his flesh.

  Fighting against the weight of the unnatural enemy, Garic began to panic that she might force him over the edge, after all. He grunted with the effort of fighting the undead when she was suddenly and thankfully, ripped from him. Hakor held her by the hair and belt that cinched her dress, for a moment before throwing her over the wall. For a moment she seemed to hang in the air, motionless, before disappearing downward toward the multitude of undead from which she had come.

  Garic hiccuped back a cry of panic and fear, before embracing his friend in thanks. One of the legionaries patted the big man on the shoulder and Garic stepped out of the way to allow the next man to take his turn. His heartbeat was so rapid that he started to see bright fireflies dance before his eyes. Never had he felt such a rush of excitement.

  The rest of the day was spent in a routine of fighting and resting that left most of the men exhausted by the time it began to get dark. Garic saw much better why he had been drafted into the reserve force, if this is what the legionaries had been doing for the last couple of months.

  At the end of the day the recruits climbed down off the wall close to exhaustion. The night shift had taken over, relieving the day shift, man by man. Never was the wall left unattended. The recruits had not sustained a single injury or loss and Garic counted this as some kind of gift from the Gods. Garic had tried to count the enemy they had cut down from the wall but had lost count quickly. The constant awareness and fatigue had drained him of everything except the will to fight and live.

  That had been the first day. He had woken in the morning and the routine had started again. On the third day he had stepped down from the wall feeling stronger but no less fatigued, for the effort he had put in.

  As he reached the yard at the bottom of the wall, somebody spoke his name.

  “Garic. I need a word.”

  Garic turned to see centurion Horatius standing framed in the doorway of his office. A moan almost passed Garic’s lips as he trudged toward the officer. Even in his weariness, he had the sense to know that such subordination could only lead to trouble. He followed the centurion's back as he turned and stepped back into the small office.

  Domitius was sitting in a small chair to one side of the centurion's desk. Dressed in his toga, he looked every inch the statesman and completely out of place amongst the trappings of military life. Garic, limping through weariness rather than injury, nodded and reached forward to shake the Praetor’s hand.

  “Good to see you, Praetor Domitius,” Garic said through dry lips.

  “You too, my friend. It’s taken quite an effort to find you,” Domitius replied and motioned for Garic to sit. The centurion made his way around the desk and sat facing them both.

  “The praetor is here to take you home, Garic,” Horatius said, looking less than amused.

  Garic turned to look at Domitius and a sudden wave of realization swept over the former butcher. He didn’t want to leave this place. He was doing something to protect, not only his family but everybody in Rome.

  He thought back to the day he had been recruited into this job. He had been on his way home from shutting down the stall he had worked on his whole life. Man and boy, he had been a butcher and it was a fine trade. People needed to eat and he was proud of what he was. Now, though, he had no purpose other than being where he was at this moment, being part of something bigger than himself.

  Domitius must have read some of this in Garic’s face. He looked at Garic and a sadness fell over him.

  “You’re not going to come, are you?” he asked and Garic shook his head.

  “I’m needed here, Domitius. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time. Will you look after my family for me?” he said.

  “Of course, my friend. They are in my house and will stay there until you return. My family grows bigger every day.” The praetor paused, searching for the right words. “There are other men in Rome, Garic. Others who can fight on these walls.” The message was clear, they don’t need you, they just need men to die.

  “It’s more than that. I need to be here. What else would I do? Sit at home fretting about everything that is happening? I have no business anymore, my life has meaning here.” He stopped and shook his head to clear it. “My wife will hate me for doing this. I’ve always been there for her. I hope she understands it’s because of her that I have to do this now. I didn’t choose this but now that I’m here, it just seems the right thing to do.”

  Domitius smiled. “You don’t need to tell me what it’s like to hear a calling. I know what this city asks of the people who serve her and I know what it’s like to want to answer that ca
ll. I will make your wife understand.”

  Horatius coughed to interrupt the two men in front of him. “If you tell any of the other men I’m doing this, I will instantly withdraw the privilege. Go home, see your wife and then come back.”

  Garic looked at his officer in shock. “Centurion? Are you sure?”

  “Can I trust you to return, Garic?” the centurion asked.

  “On my honour, centurion,” Garic answered.

  “On mine also,” Domitius added.

  “Then go. Be back by sunrise. If you can keep it from the other men, I might make it a regular thing. I like you Garic and nothing I have heard here in this room has changed my mind about that.”

  Garic stuttered grateful thanks at Horatius who waved him away with a flick of his hand. Before he knew it, Garic was heading through the darkening city beside Domitius and Vitus, who had been outside waiting for the Praetor.

  The city was quiet after the riots that had followed the games. Contained as they were to the area around the Colosseum, the damage in this part of the city was slight. The Praetorian guard had dealt hard and fast with the crowds that had looted shops and damaged homes. Men and women had been arrested and dragged from the streets. Some had escaped with no more than a beating and a fine, while the worst perpetrators had been sentenced to death. It was either a strong and brave move on the part of Ursus or a stupid and potentially dangerous, mistake.

  The Prefect had ordered the sentences be carried out on the spot. His men had lined up a dozen men and three women on their knees, outside the Colosseum, where the trouble had started. An angry crowd had gathered but kept their distance, watching with avid fascination. The legionaries had stepped up and stabbed into the base of the skull of each prisoner, in turn.

  Ursus had stood his ground, inviting anyone from the crowd to step forward and challenge him but nobody had dared. The people had left, angry but cowed into submission.

  The Chin family, Lee, his mother Handan and his Grandfather Naoki, the doctor, lived in the area the riots had taken place in. Vitus had sent Gallus and Tatius to their home to see if they were okay. Living in an apartment that was tucked away from the main streets, their home had escaped damage. Lee had been full of stories of his bravery in the face of danger but his mother had soon informed the two legionaries that he had spent most of the riot sitting on her knee.

  Lamplight shone through the windows of Domitius’ house as the three men approached. Even before they had time to reach the door, it was thrown open and Atia ran to fall into Garic’s arms. He smothered her face and hair with kisses. Tears ran from her eyes as she saw her husband was safe and well.

  “Shhh, woman,” he said to her kindly. “I’ve been gone a few days. You would think I was returning from one of the Punic Wars.”

  “I was so worried, Garic. I thought I’d lost you for good.” She sobbed into his neck, as she took him into her arms once more.

  “Let us go inside,” he whispered into her ear. Something in the way he said it must have given her cause for concern because she stepped back slightly, still with her arms around his neck but enough to be able to see his face.

  “What’s the matter, husband?” she asked him.

  “Inside,” he told her again and taking her hand, led her past Domitius and Vitus, into the house.

  What followed was much harder for Garic than any of his time on the wall. Facing a horde of ravenous, murderous Undead was nothing compared to the shame he felt in disappointing his wife. She was his world and her happiness was his happiness.

  Atia cried and screamed at him. She shouted at him that he was deserting his family. He tried to explain to her that he was doing his duty for his family. To protect his family, he must do his duty to protect the city.

  She hadn’t agreed. Why couldn’t someone else do it? Why did it have to be him? Having seen the sea of undead faces on the other side of the wall he could have told her that, sooner rather than later, they would all have to do their duty. Before long there would be no choice. He wanted to tell her that he refused to fight just because he was forced into it. If he was going to die on that wall, he wanted to know that he did it out of a sense of honour.

  He didn’t tell her those things. They would just sound like so much rubbish to her ears. She didn’t need to hear about the Risen at the walls. She didn’t need to hear his opinion on the end of the world. Let her live in peace just a little longer.

  In the end, they had fallen asleep in each other's arms and as the sun had started to rise above the horizon, Garic had slipped out of bed and dressed. She hadn’t stirred when he kissed her goodbye. His heart was heavy but his resolve was firm. He knew where he belonged and he knew what he had to do. Hopefully, they would be as they once were but Garic had his doubts.

  The city was just waking up as he walked the streets, heading to the wall and his new home. So many people, carrying on as if the world wasn’t coming to an end. In the end, there really were only two choices. Do nothing and let the end come or fight against the coming darkness. The outcome may be the same but the man inside would know how he had faced his doom and be proud.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Impressive indeed, Ursus. You’ve done a spectacular job.” Otho was full of praise as he walked inside the tunnel that ran from Ostia to Rome. Roughly half again as tall as a man, and covered over with wide planks of timber, the trench was a marvel of Roman engineering. Thousands of slaves had broken themselves in order to see the project completed so quickly. Those that survived the ordeal were rewarded by being turned into Risen and held ready for Titus’ return to Rome.

  It was a stroke of tactical genius, Otho thought. It had come to him in a flash of inspiration. After his men had cleared the city of the undead and ended the siege of Rome, as people had taken to calling it. He had wondered exactly what he needed the remaining undead for. There had been more than five hundred Risen in his control at the time. After deciding that they would be the perfect weapon to throw at Titus when he brought his legions to try and take Rome from him, Otho had decided that he needed more of the creatures.

  His men had evacuated Ostia, moving its inhabitants to Rome. Most had been happy to go, the walls of Rome seeming to them impenetrable. Almost nobody seemed to have noticed the residents that never made it to the capital. Add to that the slaves and criminals that had been added to the numbers and Otho had himself a second army. Thousands of the undead ready to unleash on Titus as he brought his army to the walls of Rome.

  It had, of course, occurred to Otho that it wasn’t so much an army as a weapon he could only use once. He couldn’t even aim it very well, just release it in the right place at the right time and let nature take its course.

  There was always the chance that the undead army he was building would turn and try to bite its general. He would deal with that eventuality when it arose. With Titus out of the picture, Otho could turn his attention to the Risen. As soon as he was the only man fighting for the throne, he would send out the legions to begin cleaning the Empire of the filth that infected it. First Italy, then further afield.

  He knew people were talking about him and how he had let the situation go too far already. Did they have the world to run? Did they have an Empire hanging on their every decision? No, he would fight his battles one at a time, like every general throughout history. Let them all talk, they still waited under his protection, didn’t they? Not one of them was brave enough to leave the city.

  Otho was shaken out of his thoughts as he realised Ursus had been talking to him. He hadn’t heard a word of what the Prefect had been saying but smiled and nodded ambiguously.

  “Each cage is separate from its neighbour until we need it to become one big cage. A few simple levers and we have a huge army ready to release. The gates open directly into the trench and off they go.” Ursus waited for his Emperor to say something and Otho gave him what he wanted.

  “It is simple but elegant, Ursus. I congratulate you, I really do,” Otho said.


  Otho looked into the cages. A multitude of dead faces and lifeless eyes stared back at him. The attention of every creature that could see them was concentrated on the living flesh before them. Otho moved a hand left and right before the face of a young woman with a bite mark on her forearm. Her eyes never even twitched, instead, they stared straight into his face. Single minded in a way not even the animals were. A she-lion would hunt without prejudice but also knew how to mother her young and live in a social order. These things had no thought other than their hunger. They would run themselves onto a blade, without a thought, if it meant getting to their next meal.

  “Fascinating, aren’t they?” Otho half stated and half asked.

  “I guess they are, Caesar,” Ursus said but Otho knew he was only saying whatever he thought was wanted from him. Ursus had no imagination, no joy in the little things in life. It made him an excellent soldier. Ruthless, capable of acts that would make another man insane with guilt. He would be a terrible general, if it came to that, he had no invention or guile.

  Otho would command the troops when the time came to fight Titus. It would take a man with finesse to get the job done.

  “I’d like a walk down into the trench, Ursus. Would you lead the way?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” Ursus replied. The two men headed down a long, slow decline and into the main tunnel. The planks of the roof let in lines of sunlight, giving the whole place a strange, dappled quality. The floor was packed earth, as were the walls. Every ten or so yards upright beams stood proud against the sides of the tunnel and a cross-beam was braced between them. It was good solid Roman workmanship.

  As they walked further in Otho saw that one such beam had a length of chain and a pair of manacles attached to it.

  “For our bait, Caesar,” Ursus answered the unasked question. “We intend to chain up a slave every one hundred yards. We are confident that this should keep the Risen moving in the right direction.”