The rope tore at his skin as he half fell, half climbed down toward the ground. A Risen lurched at him from out of one of the archways. The statue that resided there provided enough of a foothold for him to pause his descent. He kicked out at the grasping undead, catching it across the side of the head and sending it tumbling to the ground below.
Secundus released his grip on the rope and let it slip through his torn hands. He dropped, feeling the air rush past him. Catching himself again, he left bloody marks on the rope. Above him a Risen fell, just missing his head. He slipped with his feet and for a second he was spinning out of control in mid-air. He righted himself, planting two feet firmly against a curved half-pillar. To either side two nameless fathers of the republic stared out across the city, they did not offer to help him.
Below him he saw that Karius was fighting the first of the Risen to gain the ground. He kicked out at one, stabbing the tip of his gladius into the ear of a second. A third caught him by the ankle but he kicked it away and backhanded his blade down into its skull.
The dark shadows of hundreds of the creatures were pouring over the top of the wall, more came through the arches and out toward him. When he got low enough Secundus dropped the last few feet, using an undead that attacked Karius to break his fall.
“Sir, we need to move,” Karius shouted, holding out a hand. He took it gratefully and the two men began to run. A swarm of darkness followed them in the moonlight filling the street; a rolling, seething mass of rotting flesh and violence.
Secundus followed his comrade down one backstreet, then another, at each turn expecting to be stopped by a hand from behind. Every corner felt like they were turning into doom but by the gods' blessing they found themselves alone in an open square behind a row of terraced houses.
“In here,” Karius hissed. He kicked the first door open and closed it as soon as he'd almost dragged his commander in behind him, putting his back to the aperture and bracing his feet for the impact of the Risen that would surely come. They waited, and waited but there was no sign of imminent danger.
Secundus looked around for something to buttress the door with and, after a moment of indecision found a chair. He pushed it up against the handle from below, wedging the legs against the floor.
Breathing hard he checked the windows and saw that the shutters were already secure. The two men slumped down against the far wall, face to the door and blades held before them. Hot breath escaped them both in deep, hard pants. Secundus turned and looked at the younger man and in a moment made of panic and relief they began to laugh. Each man held a hand to his mouth and gasped the laughter into silence through fear of discovery but it would not be denied.
After a while Karius got up from his place on the floor and began looking round the house. It wasn’t the home of someone rich, and a thick layer of dark dust that had much to do with the fires that had gutted the city lay on every surface. He returned holding a clay jug that had a wooden stopper in the top. The watered wine inside was stale and bitter but to the men who drank it, it tasted like nectar.
“Let me look at your hands, sir,” Karius said, dropping to one knee in front of Secundus. The older man held them out palms up and saw that the top layers of skin had been stripped away in his rush to climb down the rope. Just seeing the injury sent a shock of pain through his hands that hadn’t been there moments before.
Searching the house, he came back holding an old dress that had been left by the owners. It had several large rents and looked like it might have been used as a cleaning rag rather than a piece of clothing. Karius tore wide strips off the garment and poured a little of the wine onto one of them.
“This is going to hurt like a bitch, sir,” he said quietly. Secundus couldn’t help noticing the man had a barely hidden grin creeping up the sides of his mouth as he said it.
“Enjoy this and I won’t be happy,” the older legionary said and allowed the other man to wash the dried blood and dust from his hands. In fact, it didn’t hurt as much as Karius seemed to have hoped and before long Secundus had clean dry strips of cloth binding his palms.
By the time this was done the two men had gained their breath and relaxed a little after their escape from the arena. They could hear movement outside in the courtyard, and he sent his subordinate up to the floor above to gauge how long they might have to wait before they could move on.
While he waited he checked his kit. He had been so prepared for the idea that he might have to spend some time hiding on the roof, but the food and water had been left behind in the rush to escape. He had his sword, knife and belt, that was it. It should be enough to see him back, if the gods willed it.
“Sir, you need to see this,” Karius said in a low voice. Something about his manner and the way he spoke put the commander on edge. He got to his feet and followed the legionary up the stairs into a bedroom at the front of the house. The room was almost totally dark, just a sliver of moonlight crept through the gap between the shutters.
Karius gestured to the window and Secundus lowered himself down to peer through the bottom of the crack. Outside a number of Risen were moving about in the small square courtyard. They were not rushing about at random as the undead would normally do, driven by hunger and violence. They seemed to be hunting in a controlled manner, looking into windows and behaving in much the same way that he would expect his own men to do. This continued for a while, and he watched them check each house in turn, not trying to open windows and doors but showing a rudimentary intelligence nonetheless.
As he watched the Risen below, he failed to see the one that came at him from above. The undead threw itself at him from the roof of the building opposite. The shutters splintered inwards showering both men with shards of wood. He was knocked back against the far wall of the room, thumping his head hard enough to make him see swirls of light and colour.
Karius was forward and attacking before Secundus gained his feet again. The Risen poured through the window, blocking the view of the city beyond. He knew the fight was futile but hacked at everything that came toward him.
The younger legionary swung at a woman, slicing his blade down into her chest from her collar bone. The attack hacked deep into her, but missed her vulnerable brain. She continued to attack, reaching out hands that were now on separate halves of a divided body. He fought to free his sword but the blade was stuck fast in the bones and rotting internal organs of the Risen.
He let go of the hilt of the gladius and drew his knife, but too late. A man so old he might have been Secundus’s grandfather wrapped an arm around Karius’s neck from behind. It was almost like a lover's embrace, until the undead tore a deep gouge of flesh from the younger legionary's neck. Blood sprayed out in a fine mist twice before he fell to his knees. As he hit the floor, Secundus thought he might already have been dead. He saw this in a daze of dizziness caused by the blow to his head. He swayed out of the way of a lunging arm, only to be tripped and fall to the floor a moment later. The Risen were on him in an instant. Suddenly he felt them bite into him in several places. His arm, chest and leg all had chucks of flesh and bone ripped from them and he died gasping for breath, his lungs filling with blood.
Chapter Twenty Five
The road was hard, and washed with the blood of the dead. Garic marched in his place, watching his feet eat away the miles. Beside him Hakor walked with long, steady steps, never seeming to tire.
Behind them, miles behind, Atia and Tulius were still at the cave, hopefully safe and at peace. The conversation with his wife had been strange, mainly because of her lack of anger. She had, by the time he found her, heard about the legionaries in the village so when he told her he was leaving to fight she had nodded, resigned and seemingly not angry.
There had, however, followed a night where every word she uttered had been polite but not warm. He had waited for her temper to show but there had just been a frost between them. Not wishing to argue with his wife on what might be their last night together, he had not pressed her. Ta
king what he saw as the coward's way out, he let her resentment fester.
In the morning, she had made him breakfast, packed his kit into his satchel and followed him and the other men out as they were joining the legions. Garic had found himself wishing he had forced Atia to speak last night, goaded her to tell him how she felt, but it was too late now.
Finally they had been face to face, looking at each other for what might be the last time. He had been about to speak as she flashed up a hand and slapped him hard across the cheek.
“That, is for leaving us,” she had said in a stern voice. He had lifted his hand to his face, feeling the stinging hot skin with his fingertips. Then she had reached up and removed his hand, stepped up onto her toes and kissed him, full of passion and eagerness. From somewhere far away he heard someone whistle and other men laughed, but he did not care. Eventually she backed away from him, tears and fire in her eyes.
“That is so that you will come back to us,” she said and turned from him. She walked back toward the cave and their son without looking back. Garic reached up and touched his lips, as hot as his cheek, and felt tears at the corner of his mouth that he hadn’t known were falling.
Now that memory carried him as he marched. The miles had made him hard again, and the company of men had made him harder. The eagerness to fight was evident in every man. They had lost so much and now they would take revenge, taking back their city from the dead.
Garic wondered how many of these men had ever been to Rome. How many saw her as no more than a myth, a legend, or a symbol? He had grown up there and he knew the dirt and hardship that was her reality. He would never disabuse these men of their dreams. Whatever their reason to fight, it was not his concern.
To one side of the road a body lay twisted into an obtuse angle. The flesh had been eaten away, so that it was impossible to tell who they had been in life. The road was littered with the leavings of the undead.
Garic forced himself to look at each body that they passed. Some men averted their eyes, closing themselves off to the horror of it all, but he had to look. He had to remind himself of the loss and destruction the Risen had caused.
This had been the one of main routes out of Rome, the Via Aurelia. Thousands had used the road and thousands had died on it. Like any predator, the undead had been drawn to areas that held the most prey and this road had been a feeding ground.
Salt carried on the air from the sea that sat like a constant companion to their right, washed the stench of death from their noses and filled them with hope of renewal.
Long days had been broken by restless nights. Fearful expectation and nightmares fought for control over tired minds until their exhausted bodies finally won.
Hakor had not thought for a second before joining his friend and the legions. He had been a slave in Rome and Garic had expected him to refuse to return. The big man had explained that the city they knew was no more. This was not a fight for the empire that had enslaved him, it was a fight for the chance to build something new, something out of the ashes.
Garic was shaken out of his thoughts by the cornicen blowing a long note that started high and then lowered, signalling the halt. As always he was amazed at how orderly thousands of men could stop after hours of marching. Ahead, the first centuries were already beginning the job of building the camp, a routine so familiar to the legions that they could do it in their sleep.
“Seems early to stop for the day,” Hakor said to Garic’s right.
He looked up and saw the sun still not far past noon. He glanced around him to see if there was any clue as to why they had stopped, but everyone else was looking equally puzzled. Food and water were being dug from packs and Garic decided to take the opportunity to do the same. The sun was warm without being too hot and before long he was relaxing with his head on his pack, drifting toward sleep.
It seemed like only a moment later that the signal to move into camp was given, but the sun said it had been longer, maybe as much as two hours. Hakor nudged him and pulled him to his feet.
“You missed the excitement, my friend,” the Egyptian said as Garic rubbed sleep out of his eyes.
“Why, what happened?”.
“The rumour is that we are nearly in Rome. Apparently we are less than five miles from the city.”
Garic looked confused and the big African laughed at his expression. He had just assumed he would know when they were getting close, but now that he thought about it, it wasn’t so strange. He had spent the journey with his eyes on his feet, after all. Besides, just because he had lived his entire life in a city did not mean he would instantly recognise the road to and from that place. The sky was the same blue everywhere.
“Is that why we stopped?” Garic asked.
“I guess so, they didn’t tell me, should I go and ask the emperor?” Hakor poked Garic’s side as they walked.
“Would you? That’s so kind,” he answered back, straight faced for a moment before breaking into a laugh.
“Garic, Hakor, I need a word,” their centurion, a man named Firminho shouted to them as they walked toward the new camp. The two men stopped and turned to the officer.
“You two came from Rome, didn’t you?” the centurion asked. The two men nodded and he turned to point toward the camp. “Go and find Legate Numarius. He’s interviewing anyone who came from Rome. He wants to know how you got out and anything else you might know.”
Garic looked at Hakor and the Egyptian shrugged. They were both exhausted but the idea of doing something different, something that broke the monotony of the daily routine of marching, sleeping and eating, was more than exciting.
They headed into the camp and toward the legate’s tent. Every legionary camp was the same and so the two men had little trouble finding the place they needed. As they approached they saw a couple of men outside Numarius’ tent already. Apparently they weren’t the only men who came from Rome.
Garic joined the back of the line, nodding to a tall, thin man who looked nervous as he waited his turn to see the legate.
“Beats putting up tents,” Hakor said in a low voice as they stood waiting.
The line slowly dwindled, each man spending no more than a few minutes in the tent. It seemed to Garic that the legate might be after some specific information that he just wasn’t getting. Eventually the guard at the door nodded to him and held up the tent flap for him to duck inside.
The tent was plush inside, giving off an air of authority. It was nicer than most of the houses the butcher had been inside in Rome and behind a large, dark wooden desk sat the legate. Garic had seen him from a distance, along with the prefect and the emperor himself. Each one of those men seemed bigger than normal, making even Hakor diminish in stature. Garic stood before the desk at attention, waiting for the legate to invite him to speak. The man was entering something into a ledger on the desk.
Eventually Numarius looked up and met Garic’s eye, he smiled and was speaking when there was a series of loud and alarming blares of a trumpet. This noise was followed by more of the same, each sounding off a long series of short sharp blasts.
Numarius looked toward the door of the tent, as if he could see through it, looking concerned. The instruments continued to sound the alarm for a few more seconds before falling silent.
“Follow me,” he said, getting up and pacing around his desk. Garic watched the legate go before realising he didn’t know if it had been him or a member of his staff that he had been talking to. Garic left the tent and watched as Numarius paced toward the centre of the camp.
The legate was joined by the prefect, Ursus, as a scout came running up to the pair, looking exhausted and panicked. Hakor joined Garic and the two stood watching the meeting, unable to hear what was happening. Around them, legionaries were rushing to gather equipment and strap on armour that they had only just removed. A legionary rushed past, pulling on his belt.
“What’s happening?” Garic asked, catching the man’s arm.
The legionary looked an
grily down at the hand that held his arm, “the Risen are coming,” the legionary spat, “fucking thousands of them! According to the scouts, one minute there was no life in the city, the next they were pouring out over the walls like the rats off a sinking ship. It is on fire as well, they say. The new arena has got black smoke coming out of it.” With this the legionary was gone, running.
“What do we do?” he asked Hakor, flustered.
“We report to Firminho,” the Egyptian said. He took hold of Garic’s arm and turned the butcher to face him, “and we stay clam.”
He took a deep breath and nodded at his friend. The two of them made their way across the camp toward their century where everyone was readying themselves for a fight, each man preparing himself and helping his tent-mates with their armour. A young boy was walking among the men, passing out flasks of water. The men had been on the road for weeks and this fight couldn’t have come at a worse time.
Otho cursed. He picked up a glass bowl that sat on a cabinet in his tent and threw it in a fit of temper. He had marched down through Italy making plans. Would he need to breach the walls, or would he be able to draw the undead out of the city and cut them down? He had spent nights dreaming of the moment the two forces would meet, the defences he would use and the formations he would employ. He had drawn up a couple of miles from the city, thinking he was giving himself space and time to prepare, and now the enemy were attacking.
Everyone had seen the change in behaviour of the Risen. Otho had even had a couple caught so that he might study them, but he had learned little. Each undead they caught did nothing but try to get to Rome, they did not eat, they did not attack and if they were kept from their goal, they thrashed themselves against whatever was in their way. Otho had been kept awake wondering what this would mean when the legions finally reached Rome.
The emperor failed to believe that the Risen had been gathering an army to face him. These were unthinking, dead creatures. He had never met one that showed any sign of even the most basic intelligence, they were driven by hunger and death and nothing else. He had seen the creatures throw themselves onto swords simply in order to get to a living victim. Was he now to understand that those same creatures had gathered themselves and attacked him at the exact moment he was at his weakest?
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