Defender of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  Torquatus accompanied him to the bottom of the polished wooden stairway. He smiled coldly as he saw the pathetic jumble of couches with two or three frightened faces visible behind them. At his back, the decurion formed up his men for the assault.

  ‘In the name of the Emperor, hand over your mistress and I will spare your lives,’ the prefect shouted.

  Above him Marcus, hidden by the Christians he had told to show themselves at the barricade, exchanged glances with Serpentius. If the Praetorians believed Poppaea was with them, he wasn’t going to tell them differently. At least it meant Valerius was still free. ‘Why don’t you come and get her?’ he shouted.

  Torquatus recoiled at the challenge. ‘Then in the name of the Emperor I sentence you to death.’ The words brought another disapproving glance from the decurion. He had experience of fighting men who had been given no hope, and therefore had no fear. Better to make them think surrender was possible. Even if it wasn’t.

  ‘Get on with it!’ the Praetorian commander ordered.

  The decurion drew his sword and turned to his men. Fourteen. The others were searching the rest of the house. He pointed to the barricade. ‘It’s nothing but a few pieces of furniture with unarmed slaves behind it. They’ll shit themselves when they hear you coming, so let’s hear you roar when we hit the stairs. Now!’

  They ran at the stairway in two columns with the young officer in the lead. He took the steps two at a time, screaming at the top of his voice, but the scream died in his throat when he saw the heavy wooden cabinet being manhandled over the top of the barrier. ‘No!’ he shouted. Too late. Five feet of lacquered oak caught him in the chest on its first bounce and crushed his breastplate. He felt his ribs splinter as he was hurled backwards along with two of the men in the right-hand file. A moment later the cabinet was followed by a bed that smashed the first soldier in the left column over the banister to plummet head first on to the stone floor below. The man just had time for relief that his helmet had taken the impact that would have crushed his skull before his neck snapped like a rotten twig.

  The setback won Marcus and Serpentius a moment’s respite, but the cavalrymen were experienced enough to know that the key to victory was ignoring their losses and maintaining momentum. There were still plenty of them to do the job and they’d make these slaves pay in blood when they got to the top. The first man to reach the barrier grabbed at the legs of the nearest couch and tried to haul it clear.

  Marcus had watched with satisfaction as the missiles thrown by Heracles and Isaac the Christian smashed into the attacking ranks. Four down. Eleven to go. When the Praetorian started tugging at the couch he rose to his feet, reached over the barricade and swept his sword downwards.

  The soldier screamed and stared at the blood arcing from the stump of his wrist. He looked up into the scarred face snarling down at him and threw himself backwards away from the glistening blade. To Marcus’s left another Praetorian hacked at the barricade, throwing lumps of horsehair stuffing into the air until Serpentius stabbed him in the eye and he fell back spouting gore over the stairs. Something round sailed out over the barricade and hit the helmet of a third a glancing blow that sent him staggering to the rear. The old gladiator turned and found Valerius’s father ready to throw a second marble bust from the pile behind them.

  ‘Fall back.’ The hoarse shout brought the first attack to a halt and the remaining Praetorian cavalrymen retreated, carrying their wounded and dead with them.

  ‘Are your men cowards or just fools?’ Torquatus demanded as the decurion hauled himself to his feet, gasping as the ends of his broken ribs ground together. The young soldier ignored the insult. He knew he’d been guilty of underestimating the men holding the barrier, but Torquatus had been at fault for insisting on an immediate assault. Now he looked up at the barricade and saw it as a military problem instead of an inconvenience. The answer came to him quickly.

  ‘Grappling hooks.’ He gave the order through gritted teeth, pointing to one of the men recovering from being hit by the cabinet. ‘Get rope and anything we can use to haul this clear, and call up as many of the others as you can find.’

  Torquatus looked on impatiently as the decurion groaned while one of his men strapped his broken ribs with cloth torn from a bed. The injured cavalryman returned with another four men, each carrying a length of rope to which was tied the snapped-off top of a pitchfork with the tines bent at an angle that turned the implement into an improvised hook.

  The decurion tested one of the forks for strength. Not perfect, but it would only take one of them to hold and the men defending the top of the stairway were finished.

  On the landing above, the tense silence worried Marcus more than the earlier assault. ‘They’re up to something, and it’s not going to be pleasant.’

  ‘Fire?’ Serpentius suggested.

  ‘Not much we can do about it if they do. Heracles, get the Christians to find sheets and start twisting them together and tell them to be ready to retreat to the balcony at the back of the house.’

  ‘What about the girl?’

  Marcus looked behind him through the open doorway where Lucius now crouched holding his daughter’s hand as Petrus led the Christians in prayer. ‘She’ll just have to take her chances like the rest of us.’ Valerius was a soldier; he would understand.

  The giant Sarmatian went to pass on his instructions. Petrus looked up at him expectantly. Heracles shook his head. No point in giving false hope. He crouched beside Lucius as he sat holding his daughter’s hand. What a waste. She was beautiful as an alabaster statue and her helpless innocence moved something inside him, but Heracles had seen enough death to make him a practical young man. Marcus was right, there was nothing to be done. He handed his dagger to the father.

  ‘If it comes to it,’ he said, ‘it would be a kindness. Things will not go well for us if they succeed.’

  The look on the old man’s face reminded him of one of the tragic masks they used in the theatre. Heracles left them together and returned to Marcus and Serpentius.

  ‘Now!’

  All three reacted to the shout, but Marcus was momentarily distracted by the lack of action that followed it. When something fell beside him with a metallic clatter he instinctively jumped away as it was pulled back to hook on to the couch in front of him. In quick succession four more hooks landed and two of them caught their targets. Too late Marcus realized what they were and reached to free the hooked claws. The barricade began to disintegrate in front of him.

  Heracles was the only one of the defenders to get a hand to one of the grapples and immediately used his enormous strength to fight the power of the men on the other end of the rope. If he won the deadly tug of war at least part of the barricade would survive and give the defenders something to fight for. Lose, and the way would be open for the attackers. Serpentius ran to his friend’s side, but it was impossible to get his hands on the rope or the metal hook without obstructing Heracles. The Praetorians too understood the significance of the rope and three men sprinted to add their weight. Heracles’ face reddened and the muscles of his enormous shoulders bulged as he put every ounce into the struggle. At first it appeared he was holding his own, but slowly, inch by painful inch, the giant Sarmatian was forced to give ground. The feral snarl that twisted his face never altered as the incredible pressure on the rope first pulled him upright and then toppled him down the stairs along with what was left of the barricade.

  Now the cavalrymen attacked, with the bandaged decurion at their head, dodging the furniture that tumbled around them. Heracles was stunned by the impact of his fall and he struggled dazedly to his feet as the soldiers reached him. The first man stabbed the young giant through the body and wrenched his spatha free in a savage gut-spilling twist. The blood drained from Heracles’ face, but still he stayed upright, his hands vainly trying to contain the coil of blue intestines bulging from his torn stomach. As he swayed on the blood-soaked stair a second cavalryman swung a cut at his neck which almost
severed his head. At last the big man fell, and, as they passed him, each of the enraged attackers hacked at his defenceless body until it looked as if he had been mauled by a pack of wild beasts.

  ‘Prisoners,’ the decurion roared. ‘We need prisoners.’

  Marcus and Serpentius had watched Heracles die. Now they fought for their lives as the Praetorians reached the top of the stair. The attackers outnumbered them six to one, but Marcus had won his freedom with the speed of his sword. The men who faced him were astonished by the whirlwind of glistening iron that met them and two wounded in the first few seconds taught them to respect the lightning blade.

  Serpentius fought with a cold smile and matched his opponents cut for cut. The swiftness of his strike had earned him his name and now he lived up to it, keeping the Praetorians at bay as they vied for the opportunity to kill him. With a twist of his wrist he sent one of the long spatha swords spinning from its owner’s hand. The blade dropped by the door of the bedroom where the terrified Christians watched the fight with wide-eyed horror. Serpentius heard a shout and when he looked up Isaac had picked up the sword and was running at the Praetorians surrounding him.

  Two of the Spaniard’s opponents turned away to meet the new threat and now he was able to take the fight to the startled cavalrymen. He laughed as one of the men reeled backwards holding his arm, but a quick glance towards Marcus told him the older man was tiring at last. The veteran gladiator was forced back to the door of the bedroom along with Isaac. Serpentius allowed himself to be pushed back alongside them.

  A high-pitched scream told them that Isaac’s brave fight had run its course. In a daze, Lucius walked forward to take his place and his hand closed over the wooden hilt of the fallen sword.

  XLIV

  VALERIUS RAN THROUGH the corridors with his right arm a throbbing mass of pain. Blood wept from beneath the leather socket, but he couldn’t be certain how serious the wound was. If he had the opportunity he would stop and tighten the laces and hopefully slow the flow, but that didn’t seem likely. The curtained doorways of the house passed in a blur and he heard shouting and the sounds of running feet as Rodan and the two unwounded Praetorians pursued him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fool the cavalrymen twice. This time they’d take their time and work him into a position where Rodan could kill him at his leisure. Rodan would enjoy that. His only hope was to lead them as far from Poppaea as he could. He thought of his father and Olivia but there was nothing he could do for them now except put his trust in Marcus, Serpentius and Heracles.

  He found himself back beside the indoor pond and noticed indifferently that the dancing fish were now belly up on the surface, their vibrant colours dulled by death. His racing mind told him this was some kind of omen; if he didn’t lose his pursuers in the next few minutes his future was just as bleak. He turned left into a walled garden surrounded by marble pillars. Among the flowers and herbs stood a polished bronze statuette of a wild boar cornered by dogs that gave him a queasy feeling of fellowship. For a fleeting moment he considered hiding among the flower beds, but the cover was too thin and he would rather go down fighting than be dragged skulking from behind an oleander bush and butchered among the roses.

  The next turn found him back at the swimming pool.

  He ran along the marble tiles past the sitting rooms for Poppaea’s guests. The waterfall was in sight and he knew precisely where he would cross the wall when he climbed the slope. The only question was whether he could reach the trees before Rodan and his men arrived. Two more cavalrymen appeared from nowhere in front of him. No time for hesitation. Swerving to the right between two marble pillars he hit the water in a shallow dive that took him halfway across the pool and launched into the overarm stroke he had been taught as a child. The sword hindered his technique and his tunic slowed him further, but he knew that the Praetorians in their chain armour were unlikely to chance the water.

  He hauled himself out on the far side and turned for the slope. Only then did he realize how close to exhaustion he was. As he hit the incline his pace slowed and each step became agony. He would never reach the trees in time.

  Desperately, he turned to face his pursuers. There were four of them now, with Rodan just coming into view from the main villa. He searched for some weakness or alternative escape route, but there was none. Out here in the open any one of the spathas outreached the gladius. They would surround him, one or two of them would attack, and while he was occupied the others would chop him to pieces.

  But he was Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome, and he would not die like some tethered lamb. He thought of Ruth and Fabia, and with a roar of defiance he charged the five men, pre-empting their attack and praying for the chance to take Rodan with him. The first Praetorian caught his attack on the long blade of his sword, but with a twist of his gladius Valerius raked the man’s wrist and he let out a howl of pain. As he turned, he knew the other swords were coming for him, but the battle madness was upon him and nothing mattered but to kill. Blood for blood. Let the god of battle decide. He spun, sweeping another sword aside, but the flat of a blade caught him on the side of the head and he went down hard.

  With the strength of despair he twisted and tried to get to his feet, lashing with his sword until a boot stamped on his back and he felt iron at his throat. ‘Don’t kill him yet!’ The shout came from Rodan, but Valerius took no hope from it. Three cavalrymen dragged him back to where the Praetorian stood among the marble columns. Smiling, Rodan pulled a dagger from his belt.

  ‘Maybe I’ll let you live after all. It will be a pleasure to watch you and the old man burn, and the girl of course. But first,’ he raised the dagger so Valerius could see the gleaming point, ‘I’m going to take your eyes.’

  The earthquake had its origins in the convergence of the African and Eurasian tectonic plates. As the two giants met, the larger forced the smaller towards the earth’s core where it had recently become stuck many miles below the surface of the planet’s crust in the area just south of Neapolis. For weeks, elemental forces had been at work as the power of billions of tons of remorselessly shifting rock – the motion of an entire continent – built up behind the stoppage. Now, a single sudden movement broke the deadlock. This massive bolt of energy pulsed outwards in a series of enormous shockwaves. Much of the force would be dissipated in the mass of the planet, but for those inhabiting the crust above the epicentre of the quake, it would seem like the end of the world.

  Rodan froze like a rabbit confronted by a foraging stoat. The initial shock broke with a roar as if all the gods cried out in pain together and the earth began to lurch like a bucking horse. The men holding Valerius instinctively tightened their grip as the marble pillars around them first shook and then swayed alarmingly, bringing roof tiles and pieces of the portico down on them. They looked questioningly at Rodan, but the centurion snarled at them to keep Valerius pinned and advanced over the rocking ground with the blade glittering in his hand.

  ‘The last thing you’ll ever see is the point of this knife.’ Another shock made the ground flow in waves under Valerius’s body and he used the moment to try to break free. His captors cried out in terror, but they maintained their hold and for a moment he feared the movement of the earth would break his back. Rodan stumbled as the marble mosaic beneath his feet began to disintegrate, but he managed to stay upright and now he was only feet away. Valerius felt his bowels loosen at the thought of the knife biting into his unprotected eyes. He would never see again. Never look on the ocean or a cornfield being dusted by the wind. Never look upon a woman’s face. He struggled desperately against the force pinning him down, and called on the gods to come to his aid.

  Rodan screamed as the ground vanished beneath him and for a fleeting moment Valerius thought his prayers had been answered. But the hole was a mere four feet deep and the Praetorian waved the knife mockingly as he prepared to climb out. He had barely moved when another thunderous roar seemed to twist the world on its axis. The two ragged lips of the gap slipped
obliquely across each other with Rodan pinned between. The Praetorian let out an inhuman cry as his lower body from the hips down was caught between two unrelenting surfaces, his flesh torn and his bones pulverized by the primeval power of the earth’s fury. From six feet away Valerius heard the sickening sounds of snapping and grinding. The cry turned to an animal shriek as Rodan realized exactly what was happening to him. His eyes bulged from his head, the blood drained from his face and his upper body began to shiver and flop like a newly landed fish.

  Another shockwave rippled through the ground, adding to the doomed Praetorian’s involuntary gyrations. The three men holding Valerius exchanged wide-eyed glances and fled in the direction of the villa. As the tremor reached its climax the fluted columns holding the portico collapsed one by one. Valerius knew the whole structure was about to come down on him, but he was paralysed by fear and exhaustion. Only when Rodan’s body gave one last convulsive shudder was the spell broken and he found the will to crawl towards the open ground of the garden.

  Inside the villa, Marcus and Serpentius fought back to back in the doorway of the room where the Christians cowered, their swords creating a whirling arc of iron that was the only thing keeping them alive. Marcus felt his strength draining and the veteran gladiator had already resigned himself to death. He was only being kept alive by Serpentius’s speed, but even that could not last much longer.

  The earthquake saved them.

  When the first tremor shook the villa like a rat in a terrier’s mouth the Praetorians around them froze. Serpentius took advantage of the moment’s indecision with a savage lunge that sliced into his assailant’s windpipe. As the man fell backwards, the wooden stairway began to fall apart and his comrades retreated past his body the way they’d come. The injured decurion was the last to go, shaking his head at the folly that had brought him here.