Anno Mortis

by Rebecca Levene

  The race resumed. Petronius had the lead now but his chariot wasn't steering quite true. When he looked down at the left wheel he saw that it was warped. He'd probably bent it when he brought them too close to the wall. Now he had to constantly tug the reins to the right to keep moving straight.

  He barely knew this part of the city. It was where the poorest citizens lived, and immigrants or former slaves without the full rights of citizenship. The houses that whisked by on either side were tall and thin and gloomy and he knew that they were packed with people, five or more to a room. The kind of people who survived on air and corn dole.

  They were also the kind of people who strung their washing on lines across the street. Petronius saw it coming but there was nothing he could do to avoid it. If he stopped the dead would be on him and the road was too narrow to turn. The strung-out toga slapped him straight in the face, wet and smelling of the piss it had been washed in. The horses snorted and neighed and he knew that they were tangled too.

  With the wet cloth pressed against his face, Petronius was running blind. One hand was tangled in the reins, but he raised the other to claw at the clinging fabric.

  It didn't want to move. A little light seeped through the thick cotton but nothing else and when he breathed in it stuck tight against his mouth, the smell of urine acrid in his throat. The chariot was veering from side to side, almost tipping onto its axle, and he suspected that at least one of the horses had the same problem he had. And now, with so little control, he had to put two hands back on the reins just to slow the horses' wild flight and stop them overturning.

  There was a sudden crunching sound beneath their wheels and then the desperate squawking of chickens. They must be in a market district, running through crates of the birds ready for sale. He felt one of them fly up into his face, its claws piercing the thick cloth over his cheeks to scratch the skin beneath and its beak pecking dangerously close to his eyes.

  He released the reins again to flail at the bird. As if in retaliation, he felt something liquid squirt against his hand and then the strong smell of chicken shit permeated the cloth. But his reaching fingers found first a few loose feathers and then the bird's wing and when he gave it a fierce yank the creature finally flew away - its claws scraping the toga from his eyes as they passed.

  He had one second to enjoy the fact that he could finally see. Then he registered what exactly it was he was seeing. Here, finally, just when it was most inconvenient, were some living people. They'd come to the market whose chicken coops he'd already destroyed and to either side they stared at his chariot through wide, shocked eyes.

  The road was full of them too. It was early afternoon, well before sunset, a time of day when the pedestrians should have had the street to themselves. Petronius thought about pulling on the reins, but he couldn't afford to stop. He could hear the chariots of the dead behind him. The washing that had hit him must have missed them and they'd nearly closed the gap. If he stopped, they'd be on him - and then they'd slaughter these people too.

  The terrified shoppers dived out of the way as his chariot weaved through them. The horses were as frightened as the people they almost trampled, rearing and turning their heads to nip at any who came too close. The market stalls crowded the street, too tight for the horses to fit through and they crushed them beneath their hooves. The air was thick with the smell of overripe melons and dates.

  Another stall fell, this one selling spices. A brown, richly scented cloud of cinnamon enveloped them. Petronius coughed the dust of it out of his throat and wiped his streaming eyes. When they'd cleared, he saw that the people too had finally cleared the road - all but one.

  The woman was very old and probably blind. From the pavement to either side of her, people were screaming at her to move, but though her head twitched from side to side in fright she didn't seem to realise where the danger was. The chariot was only twenty paces from her and closing fast. Petronius imagined it all too clearly, a vivid moment of blood as her frail old body was crushed beneath his wheels.

  He'd leapt onto the horse's back before he even realised he'd done it. The creature bucked and screamed, unused to being ridden. Petronius set his teeth and clung on grimly. Behind him, alone in the chariot, Nero laughed. He'd handed the little child the reins, more to give him something to anchor himself than because he thought the three-year-old could steer. But the little boy had them in a firm hold and was pulling alternately right and left.

  The horses didn't know that the person holding their reins had no idea what he was doing. They followed their orders as obediently as ever and the chariot swerved from side to side as they lurched first one way and then the other.

  The old woman seemed finally to have realised the danger she was in. She was screaming, a high, thin desperate sound. But although Petronius could hear wails and sobs from the people to either side of her, no one was willing to risk their own life to save hers. She stood isolated in the centre of the road, rheumy eyes blinking up at him as the horse Petronius rode thundered towards her.

  The weight of her nearly wrenched his arm out of its socket when he hooked it around her chest. He tried to lift, but his unsteady seat on the horse gave him no leverage and her sandalled feet scraped along the road as she screamed and screamed. His shoulder screamed at him to let go, but if he did she'd be lost beneath the wheels.

  The horse carrying him felt the extra weight dragging it back and rebelled at this final indignity. It reared, Petronius's legs loosened round its stomach and he slid to the side, arm still dragged down by the woman he was doggedly holding. But in the moment when his mount's hooves left the road, he saw his chance.

  The woman screamed even louder as he swung her, throwing her between the swift-moving legs of the horse to his right. Then he swung her back, the momentum and speed greater, towards himself, towards his own horse - and the temporary space beneath its rearing legs.

  He got one final look at her shrivelled, open-mouthed face as his arms released her, and then she was flying out and away. The horse's descending hooves missed her by inches, but they did miss. And the landing must have hurt but the road was lined with people and the bodies the old woman barrelled into would have cushioned her fall.

  Then she was lost to sight and Petronius was left on a furious, bucking horse, crucial paces away from the haven of the chariot. Inside it, Nero seemed to have become bored with holding the reins. As Petronius looked back, the little boy released them and began to clamber up the back, probably keen to see behind.

  Petronius had a perfect view and was shocked to find that only one chariot of the dead still followed. They were close behind but not so close he needed to give them all his attention. There was a far more urgent problem - working his way back to the chariot in time to stop Nero falling off it.

  The horse did everything in its power to stop him. Now that it had him on it, it seemed reluctant to let him off, and it reared and pranced every time he tried to shift himself, forcing him to cling tight with his legs around its withers.

  He gave up trying to slowly wriggle his way back, and decided to opt for one desperate all-out attempt. He was running out of time, anyway. The road they followed ended ahead at a T-junction, and this place he did recognise. The left-hand fork dead-ended in a demolished tenement. If the horses, with no hand guiding them, decided to take it, they were finished.

  Petronius's heart thundered in his chest, as if he was the one doing the running, not the horses. It pounded in time to their hooves as he braced his hands against the animal's neck and then - too quickly to give himself time to think about it - levered himself to his feet.

  For one tottering, terrifying moment he stood there, balanced on his mount's back. Then it began to rear, he began to fall and he went with it, throwing himself towards the chariot and the little boy intent on clambering out of it.

  His chest hit the chariot with enough force to drive all the air out of his lungs. Without his extra weight the horse leapt forward, the acceleration dri
ving him even harder against the wood and he wondered if he'd ever be able to breath again.

  The little boy reached the top of the chariot back at the moment Petronius reached for him. He startled to topple, yelling suddenly as he realised his danger, and Petronius grabbed his feet and pulled.

  The abused muscles in his shoulder screamed their protest and so did Nero but a second later he was back in the very relative safety of the chariot -

  - which was now starting to turn left into a lethal dead-end street. Petronius seized the reins and heaved, wrapping them around his own body as he'd seen the professional charioteers do.

  The horses didn't want to obey. They pulled against him, determined now to have their own way. Petronius grimaced and flung himself to the right yanking the bit so hard into the horses' mouths that he saw fleck of blood among the spittle.

  And finally the pain moved them. Their heads turned and their bodies followed after, down the road that led to freedom rather than death. The chariot turned too, but the circle of its path was broader and where the horses had missed the marble wall of the small temple of Aphrodite, the chariot caught it full on.

  The impact flung Petronius against the shallow wooden side and Nero into his arms. It was the only thing that saved the boy's life. The chariot tipped and kept on tipping as the horses raced on. Astonishingly, it seemed to find stability at this crazy, acute angle, the right-hand wheel almost on the ground and the left-hand one high above it.

  Petronius grabbed desperately for the side of the carriage with one hand and for Nero with his other. His fingers found a tenuous purchase on the thin wood, his arm a firmer grip around the little boy's waist. But he was still tangled in the reins and that saved him. Somehow he stayed in the chariot and when the horses took the next turn both wheels finally fell back to the ground.

  Pain jarred all the way up Petronius's spine. Nero bounced from his knee and nearly out of the chariot before he made a desperate grab for him. The boy was still laughing, and Petronius was beginning to fear for his sanity.

  And then, when he saw what was approaching, he feared for his own. Ahead lay a broad crossroads, the intersection of two of Rome's main thoroughfares. It was as deserted as the rest of the city had been, no old ladies to get in his way here. Instead Petronius could hear the clatter of approaching hooves.

  The other two chariots of the dead had returned, as they must always have intended. They thundered towards him from opposite sides, meaning to trap him between them. They must have been waiting a while - they must have known a short cut - because they'd timed it just right. They'd meet in the middle at the perfect moment to crush his chariot between them. They'd be smashed to pieces in the impact too, but why should they care? There were always new bodies for them to move to.

  "Race?" Nero said and Petronius choked out a laugh.

  "Yes - I think we'll have to."

  But he could already see that his horses were on the point of collapse. Their flanks were coated with sweat and their eyes were rolling as they galloped. The animals drawing the dead must have been equally exhausted, but as the two chariots raced towards him from either side, while the one behind continued to close the gap, he saw no evidence of them slowing. Perhaps fear of their dead passengers drove them on. And if the horses themselves died, they would simply be resurrected to continue the pursuit. If Petronius's horses died, they'd turn on their own passengers.

  The dead were thirty paces and closing, and there was no way, just no way, that the chariot would make it through.

  There was no way the chariot would make it through.

  Nero yelped a protest when Petronius hoisted him onto his hip - then again when they both landed on the horse's back. The animal reared then bucked but Petronius was ready for it this time and he clung on grimly with one hand as he drew his sword with the other.

  Fifteen paces. Petronius slashed down with the blade, and then again. The harness was only leather. It should have been no match for the steel of his sword. But there was no force in his blow, not twisted at that awkward angle, three-quarters of his concentration on keeping his seat.

  Ten paces and the first strap parted. But the dead could see what he was doing. One of them threw a javelin, and he had to stop to pull himself and Nero out of its path. It missed them by a whisker to thump into the other horse's flank. The animal screamed and fell, dragging its harness-mate towards the ground with it.

  Now Petronius had less than a second to free them or it was all over. He stopped trying to keep his balance, released his hold on Nero - trusting the boy to cling to him on his own - and brought the sword down against the remaining leather straps with all his strength.

  It struck, caught and passed through. The momentum of his swing overbalanced him and the weight of the sword wanted to drag him to his death on the ground beneath his horse's hooves. He let the blade go, watching as it skittered and sparked along the pavement while his arms flung themselves desperately around the horse's middle.

  Five paces, and it was up to the animal now. The reins had flown out of reach and Petronius could concentrate on nothing but keeping himself and Nero from falling to their deaths.

  A second later, the undead were upon them. Petronius looked into the mad glaring eye of the nearest horse, and knew that it had already passed away and returned. The same fate that awaited him.

  And then, spurred by something - fear of its own mortality, horror at its brother, slaughtered by its side - their own horse put on one final burst of speed. The spittle and blood from its mouth flew back into Petronius's face. He blinked his eyes to clear them and when he opened them again it was over.

  The chariots of the dead had timed their approach exactly. They collided in perfect synchronicity, old human flesh and fresh horse and wood crashing together in an explosion of gore and splinters. The dead screamed their rage but Petronius's horse was through, it was past, and only the fine hair of its tail was caught in the carnage behind.

  Petronius stayed, twisted round to watch it for a second more, then fumbled for the loose reins and guided their horse out of the square.

  Boda had one foot through the door of the temple when she heard the rising thunder of hooves behind her. She spun and ducked, sword raised - then, a moment later, she sheathed it and smiled.

  Vali raised his eyebrows, not looking altogether pleased.

  Petronius's horse looked on the point of collapse, and she wondered what he'd been through to get here. The animal made a sound almost like a human groan as he dismounted and she could see that its eyes were bloodshot and its lips cut and bleeding where the bit had cut viciously into them. One of the beetles which flew through the temple doors in a steady stream settled on the horse's flank, as if sensing a body that would soon be vacant for it to occupy.

  It was only when Petronius strode towards her that she saw he held a small figure in his arms.

  She smiled. "You saved him."

  The child turned his wide eyes on her and grinned in return. "We raced against some skellingtons!" he said.

  "Did you now?" Vali looked at Petronius and not the boy. "And you still managed to get here in time."

  Petronius shrugged uncomfortably. "Actually, I was mainly concerned about running away. The fact that it happened to be in this direction was just a lucky accident."

  "Indeed," the other man said dryly, and strode through the open doors of the temple to forestall further conversation.

  Boda pulled Petronius into a quick embrace - Nero squashed between them - then turned away from the young man's blush to follow Vali inside.

  As soon as she was through the door the noise hit her, the sound of a million beetles on the wing. It was a dry rasp that sounded just a little oily, as if the insects weren't entirely clean.

  The interior of the temple was dark, lit only by the bright sun piercing the doorway and, at the far end of the long chamber, the sickly green light spilling out of the gateway to death itself. None of the Cult of Isis had stayed behind to guard the place.
Maybe they couldn't bear to stare into that terrible portal for too long, with the buzzing of the dead souls all around. Boda could hardly stand to look at it herself.

  She found her footsteps slowing as she walked through the darkness towards the gate. Petronius followed close behind her, but he kept casting nervous glances back at the doorway to safety and the outside world, brown eyes half-hidden behind the unruly tangle of his hair. She'd wanted to spare him this, but that was before the dead had flung themselves over the walls. Now there was no safety in Rome, and she found she was glad to face this with Petronius at her side.

  Nero hid his face against Petronius's side, perhaps sensing the evil lived inside the temple. Only Vali looked untroubled, his long strides drawing her on when her own would have faltered.

  Then she was standing in front of the gate itself, with no further excuse for delay. The Cultists might return at any moment, and this was their only hope. She turned to Petronius, with the small, shivering boy by his side. "You can't bring him through here."

  To her surprise, it was Vali who spoke. "Why not? He'll be safer inside death than facing it in the land of the living. If we succeed he'll be able to return, and if we fail, it's a pleasanter end than the one the undead will give him."

  "Will we be able to return?" Petronius asked. He peered into the gateway, as if his eyes might penetrate it, but the green light hid everything behind it.

  "As many as step though the gateway will be able to return through it," Vali told him. The light of death cast a ghastly pallor over his face, and dyed his red hair an unnameable colour.

  Petronius looked at him out of suspicious eyes, and Nero out of round, trusting ones. "And how exactly do you know that?"

  "Does it matter?" Boda asked. "My people's knowledge is different from yours. We know of the works of nature rather than those of man, but we know them deeply."

  Vali smiled at her, then bowed and gestured forward. "Lead the way then, clanswoman. Your death awaits."