The Gates of Rome

  "The city is mine now," he muttered thickly, looking about him at the soldiers building ramparts onto the heavy gates for arrow fire. He wondered where his nephew had got to and noted absently how little he'd seen of him in the last few weeks. Tiredly, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, knowing he was pushing himself too hard.

  He had snatched sleep for a year as he built his supply lines and armed his men and planned the siege to come. Rome had been re-created as a city fortress, and there was not a weak point in any of the walls. She would stand, he knew, and Sulla would break himself on the gates.

  His centurions were handpicked, and the loss of one that morning was a source of irritation. Each man had been promoted for his flexibility, his ability to react to new situations, ready for this time, when the greatest city in the world would face her own children in battle—and destroy them.

  Gaius was drunk. He stood on the edge of a balcony with a full goblet of wine, trying to steady his vision. A fountain splashed in the garden below and blearily he decided to go and put his head into the water. The night was warm enough.

  The noise from the party was a crashing mix of music, laughter, and drunken shouting as he moved back inside. It was past midnight and no one was left sober. The walls were lined with flickering oil lamps, casting an intimate light over the revelers. The wine slaves filled every cup as soon as it was drained and had been doing so for hours.

  A woman brushed against Gaius and draped an arm over his shoulder, giggling, making him spill some red wine onto the cream marble floor. Her breasts were uncovered and she pulled his free hand onto them as she pressed her lips to his.

  He broke for air and she took his wine, emptying the cup in ones. Throwing it over her shoulder, she reached down into the folds of his toga, fondling him with erotic skill. He kissed her again and staggered back under her drunken weight until his back pressed up against a column near the balcony. He could feel its coolness against his back.

  The crowd were oblivious. Many were only partly dressed and the sunken pool in the middle of the floor churned with slippery couples. The host had brought in a number of slave girls, but the debauchery had spread with the drunkenness and by this late hour the last hundred guests were ready to accept almost anything.

  Gaius groaned as the stranger opened her mouth on him, and he signaled a passing slave for another cup of wine. He spilled a few drops down his bare chest and watched as the liquid dribbled down to her working mouth, absently rubbing the wine into her soft lips with his fingers.

  The music and laughter swelled around him. The air was hot and humid with steam from the pool and the light of the lamps. He finished the wine and threw the cup out into the darkness over the balcony, never hearing it strike the gardens below. His fifth party in two weeks and he thought he had been too tired to go out again, but Diracius was known for throwing wild ones. The other four had been exhausting and he realized this could be the end of him. His mind seemed slightly detached, an observer to the writhing clumps around him. In truth, Diracius had been right to say the parties would help him forget, but even after so many months, each moment with Alexandria was still there to be called into his mind. What he had lost was the sense of wonder and of joy.

  He closed his eyes and hoped his legs would hold him upright to the end.

  Kneeling, Mithridates spat blood over his beard onto the ground, keeping his head bowed. A bull of a man, he had killed many soldiers in the battle of the morning, and even now, with his arms tied and his weapons taken, the Roman legionaries walked warily around him. He chuckled at them, but it was a bitter sound. All around lay hundreds of men who had been his friends and followers, and the smell of blood and open bowels hung on the air. His wife and daughters had been torn from his tent and butchered by cold-eyed soldiers. His generals had been impaled and their bodies sagged loosely, held upright on spikes as long as a man. It was a bleak day to see it all end.

  His mind wandered back over the months, tasting again the joys of the rebellion, the pride as strong Greeks came to his banner from all the cities, united again in the face of a common enemy. It had all seemed possible for a while, but now there were only ashes in the mouth. He remembered the first fort to fall and the disbelief and shame in the Roman prefect's eyes as he was made to watch it burn.

  "Look on the flames," Mithridates had whispered to him. "This will be Rome." The Roman had tried to reply, but Mithridates had silenced him with a dagger across his throat, to the cheers of his men.

  Now he was the only one left of the band of friends that had dared to throw off the yoke of Roman rule.

  "I have been free," he muttered through the blood, but the words failed to cheer him as they once could.

  Trumpets sounded and horses galloped across a cleared path to where Mithridates waited, resting back on his haunches. He raised his shaggy head, his long hair falling over his eyes. The legionaries nearby stood to attention in silence, and he knew who it had to be. One eye was stuck with blood, but through the other he could see a golden figure climb down from a stallion and pass the reins to another. The spotless white toga seemed incongruous in this field of death. How was it possible for anything in the world to be untouched by the misery of such a gray afternoon?

  Slaves spread rushes over the mud to make a path to the kneeling king. Mithridates straightened. They would not see him broken and begging, not with his daughters lying so close in peaceful stillness.

  Cornelius Sulla strode over to the man and stood watching. As if by arrangement with the gods, the sun chose that moment to come from behind the clouds, and his dark blond hair glowed as he drew a gleaming silver gladius from a simple scabbard.

  "You have given me a great deal of trouble, Highness," Sulla said quietly.

  At his words, Mithridates squinted. "I did my best to," he replied grimly, holding the man's gaze with his one good eye.

  "But now it is over. Your army is broken. The rebellion has ended."

  Mithridates shrugged. What good was it to state the obvious?

  Sulla continued: "I had no part in the killing of your wife and daughters. The soldiers involved have all been executed at my command. I do not make war on women and children, and I am sorry they were taken from you."

  Mithridates shook his head as if to clear it of the words and the sudden flashes of memory. He had heard his beloved Livia screaming his name, but there had been legionaries all around him armed with clubs to take him alive. He had lost his dagger in a man's throat and his sword when it jammed in another's ribs. Even then, with her screams in his ears, he had broken the neck of a man who rushed in on him, but as he stooped to pick up a fallen sword, the others had beaten him senseless and he had woken to find himself bound and battered.

  He gazed up at Sulla, looking for mockery. Instead, he found only sternness and believed him. He looked away. Did this man expect Mithridates the King to laugh and say all was forgiven? The soldiers had been men of Rome and this golden figure was their master. Was a huntsman not responsible for his dogs?

  "Here is my sword," Sulla said, offering the blade. "Swear by your gods that you will not rise against Rome in my lifetime—and I will let you live."

  Mithridates looked at the silver gladius, trying to keep the surprise from his face. He had grown used to the fact that he would die, but to suddenly have the offer of life again was like tearing scabs away from hidden wounds. Time to bury his wife.

  "Why?" he grunted through the drying blood.

  "Because I believe you to be a man of your word. There has been enough death today."

  Mithridates nodded silently in reply and Sulla reached round him with the unstained blade to cut the bonds. The king felt the soldiers nearby tense as they saw the enemy free once more, but he ignored them, reaching out and taking the blade in his scarred right palm. The metal was cold against his skin.

  "I swear it."

  "You have sons; what about them?"

  Mithridates looked at the Roman general, wondering how much he knew. His
sons were in the east, raising support for their father. They would return with men and supplies and a new reason for vengeance.

  "They are not here. I cannot answer for my sons."

  Sulla held the blade still in the man's grip. "No, but you can warn them. If they return and raise Greece against Rome while I live, I will visit upon her people a scale of grief they have never known."

  Mithridates nodded and let his hand fall from the blade. Sulla resheathed it and turned away, striding back to his horse without a backward glance.

  Every Roman in sight moved off with him, leaving Mithridates alone on his knees, surrounded by the dead. Stiffly, he pulled himself to his feet, wincing at last at the score of pains that plagued him. He watched the Romans break camp and move to the west, back to the sea, and his eyes were cold and puzzled.

  Sulla rode silently for the first few leagues. His friends exchanged glances, but for a while no one dared to break the grim silence. Finally, Padacus, a pretty young man from northern Italy, put out his hand to touch Sulla's shoulder, and the general reined in, looking at him questioningly.

  "Why did you leave him alive? Will he not come against us in the spring?"

  Sulla shrugged. "He might, but if he does, at least he is a man I know I can beat. His successor might not make mistakes so easily. I could have spent another six months rooting out every one of his followers left alive in tiny mountain camps, but what would we have gained except their hatred? No, the real enemy, the real battle—" He paused and looked over to the western horizon, almost as if he could see all the way to the gates of Rome. "The real battle has yet to be fought, and we have spent too much time here already. Ride on. We will assemble the legion at the coast, ready for the crossing home."

  CHAPTER 24

  Gaius leaned on the stone window ledge and watched the sun come up over the city. He heard Cornelia stir on the long bed behind him and smiled to himself as he glanced back. She was still asleep, her long gold hair spilling over her face and shoulders as she shifted restlessly. In the heat of the night, they had needed little to cover them, and her long legs were revealed almost to the hip by the light cloth that she had gathered in one small hand and pulled closer to her face.

  For a moment, his thoughts turned to Alexandria, but it was without pain. It had been hard for the first months, even with friends like Diracius to distract him. He could look back now and wince at his naïveté and clumsiness. Yet there was sadness too. He could never be that innocent boy again.

  He had seen Metella privately and signed a document that passed Alexandria's ownership over to the house of Marius, knowing he could trust his aunt to be kind to her. He had also left a sum of gold pieces, taken from his estate funds, to be handed to her on the day she purchased her freedom. She would find out when she was free. It was a small gift, considering what she had given him.

  Gaius grinned as he felt arousal stir once more, knowing he would have to be moving before the household came awake. Cornelia's father, Cinna, was another of the political heavyweights Marius was flattering and working to control. Not a man to cross, and discovery in his beloved daughter's bedroom would mean death even for Marius's nephew.

  He glanced at her again and sighed as he pulled his clothes to him. She had been worth it, though, worth the risk many times over. Three years older than he, she had yet been a virgin, which surprised him. She was his alone and that gave him quiet satisfaction and more than a little of the old joy.

  They had met at a formal gathering of Senate families, celebrating the birth of twin sons to one of the nobilitas. In the middle of the day, there was nothing like the free license of one of Diracius's parties, and at first Gaius had been bored with the endless congratulations and speeches. Then, in a quiet moment, she had come over to him and changed everything. She had been wearing a robe of dark gold, almost a brown, with earrings and a torque of the same rich metal at her throat. He had desired her from the first moments, and liked her as quickly. She was intelligent and confident and she wanted him. It was a heady feeling. He had sneaked in over the roofs to her bedroom window, looking on her as she slept, her hair tousled and wild.

  He remembered her rising from the bed and sitting on it with her legs drawn up under her and her back straight. It had been a few seconds before he noticed she was smiling. He sighed as he pulled on his clothes and sandals.

  With Sulla gone from the city for a whole year as the Greek rebellion grew in ferocity, it was easy for Gaius to forget that there had to be a reckoning at some point. Marius, though, had worked from the first day for the moment that Sulla's standards became visible on the horizon. The city was still buzzing with excitement and dread, as it had been for months. Most had stayed, but a steady trickle of merchants and families leaving the city showed that not every inhabitant shared Marius's confidence about the outcome. Every street had shops that were boarded closed, and the Senate criticized many of the decisions made, pushing Marius to rage when he came back to his home in the early hours of the morning. It was a tension Gaius could barely share, with the pleasures of the city to distract him.

  He looked over at Cornelia again as he tightened his toga, and saw her eyes were open. He crossed to her and kissed her on the lips, feeling the rush of longing as he did. He dropped one hand to her breast and felt her start against him as he broke for air.

  "Will you come to me again, Gaius?"

  "I will," he replied, smiling, and found to his surprise that he actually meant it.

  "A good general is prepared for every eventuality," Marius said as he handed the documents to Gaius. "These are money orders. They are as good as gold in your hand, drawn on the city treasury. I do not expect to have them repaid; they are a gift to you."

  Gaius looked at the sums and fought to smile. The amounts were large, but would barely cover the debts he had run up with the moneylenders. Marius hadn't been able to keep a close eye on his nephew as the preparations for Sulla's return continued, and Gaius had run lines of credit in those first few months after Alexandria, buying women, wine, and sculpture—all to increase his standing in a city that had respect only for gold and power. With borrowed wealth, Gaius had come onto a jaded social scene as a young lion. Even those who distrusted his uncle knew Gaius was a man to be watched, and there was never a problem with the ever larger sums he required, as the rich struggled to be next to offer finance to Marius's nephew.

  Marius must have caught a hint of Gaius's disappointment and interpreted it as worry for the future.

  "I expect to win, but only a fool wouldn't plan for disaster where Sulla was involved. If it doesn't go as I have planned, take the drafts and get out of the city. I have included a reference that should get you a berth on a legion vessel to take you to some far post of the empire. I... have also written documents naming you as a son of my house. You will be able to join any regiment and make your name for a couple of years."

  "What if you crush Sulla, as you expect?"

  "Then we will continue with your advance in Rome. I will secure a post for you that carries life membership in the Senate. They are jealously guarded, come the elections, but it should not be impossible. It will cost us a fortune, but then you are in, truly one of the chosen. Who knows where the future will take you after that?"

  Gaius grinned, caught up in the man's enthusiasm. He would use the drafts to pay off the worst of his debts. Of course, the horse sales were next week and the rumor was that Arabian princes were bringing new breeds of warhorses, huge stallions that could be guided with the gentlest touch. They would cost a fortune, a fortune very like the one he held in his hand. He tucked the papers inside his toga as he left. The moneylenders would wait a little longer, he was sure.

  In the cool night outside Marius's town house, Gaius weighed up his options for the hours before dawn. As usual, the dark city was far from quiet and he didn't feel ready for sleep. Traders and cart drivers swore at each other, smiths hammered, somebody laughed in a nearby house, and he could hear crockery being smashed. The
city was a place of life in a way the estate could never match. Gaius loved it.

  He could go and listen to the orators in the forum by torchlight, perhaps joining in one of the endless debates with other young nobles until the dawn made them all go home. Or he could seek out Diracius's home and satisfy other appetites. Wiser not to venture alone through the dark streets, he thought, remembering Marius's warnings about the various raptores who lurked in the dim alleys, ready for theft or murder. The city was not safe at night and it was easy to become lost in the maze of unnamed, twisting streets. One wrong turning could lead a wanderer into an alley filled with piles of human filth and great pools of urine, though the smell was usually enough of a warning.

  A month before, he might have gathered companions for a wild night, but the face of one girl had been appearing more and more in his thoughts. Far from dwindling, his longing for her seemed to be fired by contact rather than quenched. Cornelia would be thinking of him in her father's estate rooms. He would go to her and scale the outer wall, slipping past her father's house guards one more time.

  He grinned to himself, remembering the sudden fear as he had slipped during the last climb, hanging above the hard stones of the street below. It was getting so he knew every inch of that wall, but one mistake would earn him a pair of broken legs or worse.