The Gates of Rome

  "Gods!" he whispered. "They're already inside!"

  Even as he bared his gladius and felt rather than saw Tubruk do the same, he saw a flaming arrow lit calmly from a brazier and sent soaring into the night. As it arced upward, the silence of murder was broken. From outside the walls, Sulla's legion roared as if hell had broken open and came on.

  In the darkness of the street below, Marius had had his back to the wall when he noticed the stricken expression of a centurion. He spun in time to see the man clawing at the air, impaled on a long dagger that had been thrust into his back.

  "What is it? Blood of the gods..." He pulled in a great gasp of air to rally the nearest sections and, as he did, saw a flaming arrow sweep out into the ink blackness of the starless night.

  "To me! First-Born to the gate! Hold the gate! Sound full warning! They come!"

  His voice cracked out, but the horn blowers were lying in pools of their own blood. One still struggled with his assailants, hanging on to the slim bronze tube despite the vicious stabbing his body was taking. Marius drew the sword that had been in his family for generations. His face was black with rage. The two men died and Marius raised the horn to his own lips, tasting the blood that had spattered onto the metal.

  All around him in the darkness, other horns answered. Sulla had won the first few moments, but he vowed it wasn't over yet.

  Julius saw the group dressed as messengers were all armed and converging on where Marius stood with a bloody horn and his bright sword already dark with blood. The wall loomed behind him, flickering with torch shadows.

  "With me! They're going for the general in the confusion," he barked to Tubruk and Cabera, charging the back of the group as he shouted.

  His first blow took one of the running men in the neck as they slowed to negotiate struggling groups of fighters. Finally Marius's men seemed to have woken up to the fact that the enemy was disguised, but the fighting was difficult, and in the flashing colors and blows of combat, no man knew which of the groups were friends and which were enemies. It was a devastating ploy, and inside the walls everything was chaos.

  Julius ripped his blade across a leg muscle, crashing his running feet over the body as it collapsed and feeling satisfaction as he felt the bones shift and break under his sandals. At first he was surprised at the group not standing to fight, but he quickly realized they had orders to assassinate Marius and were careless of any other dangers.

  Tubruk brought down another with a leap that had them both sprawling on the hard cobbles. Cabera took one more with a dagger throw that caught Sulla's man in the side and sent him staggering. Julius let his blade scythe out as he clattered past and felt a satisfying shock up his arm as it connected and slid free.

  Ahead, Marius stood alone and other, black-clad figures converged on him. He roared defiance as he saw them coming, and suddenly Julius knew he was too late. More than fifty men were charging at the general. All his soldiers in the area were dead or dying. One or two still screamed their frustration, but they too could not reach his uncle.

  Marius spat blood and phlegm and raised his sword menacingly.

  "Come on, boys. Don't keep me waiting," he growled through clenched teeth, anger keeping despair at bay.

  Julius felt a hard fist jerk at his collar and drag him to a stop. He roared in anger and felt his sword arm batted away as he spun to face the threat. He found himself looking into Tubruks stern face.

  "No, boy. It's too late. Get out while you can."

  Julius struggled in the grip, swearing with incoherent rage. "Let go! Marius is—"

  "I know. We can't save him." Tubruks face was cold and white. "His men are too far away. We've been overlooked for a moment, but there's too many of them. Live to avenge him, Gaius. Live."

  Julius swiveled in the grip and fifty feet away saw Marius go down under a heaving mass of bodies, some of which were loose and boneless, already dead from his blows. The others held clubs, he saw, and they were striking wildly at the general, beating him to the ground in mindless ferocity.

  "I can't run," Julius said.

  Tubruk swore. "No. But you can retreat. This battle is lost. The city is lost. Look, Sulla's traitors are on the gates themselves. The legion will be on us if we don't move now. Come on." Without waiting for further argument, Tubruk grabbed the young man under the armpits and began pulling him away, with Cabera taking the other arm.

  "We'll get the horses and cross the city to one of the other gates. Then on to the coast and a legion galley. You must get clear. Few who have supported Marius will be alive in the morning," Tubruk continued grimly.

  The young man went almost limp in his grasp and then stiffened in fear as the night came alive with more black shapes surrounding them. Swords were pressed up to their throats and Julius tensed for the pain to come as an order broke the night.

  "Not these. I know them. Sulla said to keep them alive. Get the ropes."

  They struggled, but there was nothing they could do.

  Marius felt his sword pulled from his grasp and heard the clatter as it was thrown on the stones almost distantly. He felt the thudding blows of clubs not as pain but simply impacts, knocking his head from side to side in the crush of bodies. He felt a rib snap with an icicle of pain and then his arm twisted and his shoulder dislocated with a rip. He pulled up to consciousness and sank again as someone stamped on his fingers, breaking them. Where were his men? Surely they would be coming to save his life. This was not how it was meant to be, how he had seen his end. This was not the man who entered Rome at the head of a great Triumph and wore purple and threw silver coins to the people that loved him. This was a broken thing that wheezed blood and life out onto the sharp stones and wondered if his men would ever come for him, who loved them all as a father loves his children.

  He felt his head pulled back and expected a blade to follow across his exposed throat. It didn't come, and after long seconds of agony, his eyes focused on the forbidding black mass of the Sacra gate. Figures swarmed over it and bodies draped it in obscene costume. He saw the huge bar lifted by teams of men and then the crack of torchlight that shone through it. The great gate swung open and Sulla's legion stood beyond, the man himself at the head, wearing a gold circlet to bind back his hair and a pure white toga and golden sandals. Marius blinked blood out of his eyes and in the distance heard a renewed crash of arms as the First-Born poured in from all over the city to save their general.

  They were too late. The enemy was already within and he had lost. They would burn Rome, he knew. Nothing could stop that now. His holding troops would be overwhelmed and there would be bloody slaughter, with the city raped and destroyed. Tomorrow, if Sulla still lived, he would inherit a mantle of ashes.

  The grip in Marius's hair tightened to bring his head higher, a distant pain amongst all the others. Marius felt a cold anger for the man who strode so mightily toward him, yet it was mixed with a touch of respect for a worthy enemy. Was not a man judged by his enemies? Then truly Marius was great. His thoughts wandered away and back, fogged by the heavy blows. He lost consciousness, he thought only for a few seconds, coming to as a brutal-faced soldier slapped his cheeks, grimacing at the blood that came off onto his hands. The man began to wipe them on his filthy robe, but a strong, clear voice sounded.

  "Be careful, soldier. Your hands have the blood of Marius on them. A little respect is due, I believe."

  The man gaped at the conqueror, clearly unable to comprehend. He took a few paces away into the growing crowd of soldiers, holding his hands stiffly away from his body.

  "So few understand, do they, Marius? Just what it is to be born to greatness?" Sulla moved so that Marius could look him in the face. His eyes sparkled with a glittering satisfaction that Marius had hoped never to see. Looking away, he hawked up blood from his throat and allowed it to dribble onto his chin. There was no energy to spit, and he had no desire to exchange dry wit in the moments before his death. He wondered if Sulla would spare Metella and knew he probably wouldn'
t. Julius—he hoped he had escaped, but he too was probably one of the cooling corpses that surrounded them all.

  The sounds of battle swelled in the background, and Marius heard his name being chanted as his men fought through to him. He tried not to feel hope; it was too painful. Death was coming in seconds. His men would see only his corpse.

  Sulla tapped his teeth with a fingernail, his face thoughtful.

  "You know, with any other general I would simply execute him and then negotiate with the legion to cease hostilities. I am, after all, a consul and well within my rights. It should be a simple enough matter to allow the opposing forces to withdraw outside the city and lead my men into the city barracks in their place. I do believe, though, that your men will carry on until the last man stands, costing hundreds more of my own in the process. Are you not the people's general, beloved of the First-Born?" He tapped his teeth again and Marius strove to concentrate and ignore the pain and weariness that threatened to drag him back down to darkness.

  "With you, Marius, I must make a special solution. This is my offer. Can he hear me?" he asked one of the men Marius could not see. More slaps woke him from his stupor.

  "Still with us? Tell your men to accept my legal authority as consul of Rome. The Primigenia must surrender and my legion be allowed to deploy into the city without incident or attack. They are in anyway, you know. If you can deliver this, I will allow you to leave Rome with your wife, protected by my honor. If you refuse, not one of your men will be left alive. I will destroy them from street to street, from house to house, along with all who have ever shown you favor or support, their wives, children, and slaves. In short, I will wipe your name from the annals of the city, so that no man will live who would have called you friend. Do you understand, Marius? Pull him to his feet and support him. Fetch the man water to ease his throat."

  Marius heard the words and tried to hold them in his swirling, leaden thoughts. He didn't trust Sulla's honor farther than he could spit, but his legion would be saved. They would be sent far from Rome, of course, given some degrading task of guarding tin mines in the far north against the painted savages, but they would be alive. He had gambled and lost. Grim despair filled him, blunting the sharpness of the pain as broken bones shifted in the rough grip of Sulla's men, men who would not have dared lay a finger on him only a year before. His arm hung slack, feeling numb and detached from him, but that didn't matter anymore. A last thought stopped him from speaking at once. Should he delay in the hope that his men could win through and turn the situation to his advantage? He turned his head and saw the mass of Sulla's men fanning out to secure the local streets and realized the chance for a quick retaliation had gone. From now on, it would be the messiest, most vicious kind of fighting, and most of his legion was still on the walls around the city, unable to engage. No.

  "I agree. My word on it. Let the nearest of my men see me, so that I may pass the order on to them."

  Sulla nodded, his face twisted with suspicion. "Thousands will die if you tell untruth. Your wife will be tortured to death. Let there be an end to this. Bring him forward."

  Marius groaned with pain as he was dragged away from the shadow of the wall, to where the clash of arms was intense.

  Sulla nodded to his aides. "Sound the disengage," he snapped, his voice betraying the first touch of nerves since Marius had seen him. The horns sounded the pattern and at once the first and second rows took two paces back from the enemy, holding position with bloody swords.

  Marius's legion had left the walls on the southeast side of the city, swarming through the streets. They massed down every alley and road, eyes bright with rage and bloodlust. Behind them, every second, more gathered as the city walls were stripped of defenders. As Marius was propped up to speak, a great howl went up from the men, an animal noise of vengeance. Sulla stood his ground, but the muscles tightened around his eyes in response. Marius took a deep breath to speak and felt the press of a dagger by his spine.

  "First-Born." Marius's voice was a croak, and he tried again, finding strength. "First-Born. There is no dishonor. We were not betrayed but attacked by Sulla's own men left behind. Now, if you love me, if you have ever loved me, kill them all and burn Rome!"

  He ignored the agony of the dagger as it tore into him, standing strong before his men for one long moment as they roared in fierce joy. Then his body collapsed.

  "Fires of hell!" Sulla roared as the First-Born surged forward. "Form fours. Melee formation and engage. Sixth company to me. Attack!" He drew his sword as the closest company clustered round to protect him. Already he could smell blood and smoke on the air, and dawn was still hours away.

  CHAPTER 29

  Marcus looked over the parapet, straining his eyes at the distant campfires of the enemy. It was a beautiful land, but there was nothing soft in it. The winters killed the old and weak, and even the scrub bushes had a wilted, defeated look as they clung to the steep crags of the mountain passes. After more than a year as a hill scout, his skin was a dark brown and his body was corded with wiry muscle. He had begun to develop what the older soldiers called the "itch," the ability to smell out an ambush, to spot a tracker, and to move unseen over rocks in the dark. All the experienced trackers had the itch, and those who hadn't acquired it after a year never would—and would never be first rate, they claimed.

  Marcus had first been promoted to command eight men after he successfully spotted an ambush by blueskin tribesmen, directing his scouts around and behind the waiting enemy. His men had cut them to pieces and only afterward did anyone remark that they had followed his lead without argument. It had been the first time he had seen the wild nomads up close, and the sight of their blue-dyed faces still slid into his dreams after bad food or cheap wine.

  The policy of the legion was to control and pacify the area, which in practice meant a blanket permission to kill as many of the savages as they could. Atrocities were common. Roman guards were lost and found staked out, their entrails exposed to the brutal sun. Mercy and kindness were quickly burned away in the heat, dust, and flies. Most of the actions were minor—on such broken and hostile terrain, there could be none of the set-piece battles so beloved of the Roman legionaries. The patrols went out and came back with a couple of heads or a few men short. It seemed to be a stalemate, with neither side having the strength for extermination.

  After twelve months of this, the raids on the supply caravans suddenly became more frequent and more brutal. Along with a number of other units, Marcus's men had been added to the supply guards, to make sure the water barrels and salted provisions reached their most isolated outposts.

  It had always been clear that these buildings were barbs under the skin of the tribespeople, and attacks on the small stone forts in the hills were common. The legion rotated the men stationed there at regular intervals, and many came back to the permanent camp with grisly stories of heads thrown over the parapets or words of blood found on the walls when the sun rose.

  At first the duties of caravan guard had not been onerous for Marcus. Five of his eight men were experienced, cool hands and completed their duties without fuss or complaint. Of the other three, Japek complained constantly, seeming not to care that he was disliked by the others, Rupis was close to retirement and had been broken back to the ranks after some failure of command, and the third was Peppis. Each presented different problems, and Renius had only shaken his head when asked for advice.

  "They're your men, you sort it out" had been his only words on the subject.

  Marcus had made Rupis his second, in charge of four of the men, in the hope that this would restore a little of his pride. Instead, he seemed to take some obscure insult from this and practically sneered whenever Marcus gave him an order. After a little thought, Marcus had ordered Japek to write down every one of his complaints as they occurred to him, forming a catalogue that he would allow Japek to present to their centurion back at the permanent camp. The man was famous for not suffering fools, and Marcus was glad to note t
hat not a single complaint had gone down on the parchment he had provided from the legion stores. A small triumph, perhaps, but Marcus was struggling to learn the skills of dealing with people, or, as Renius put it, making them do what you want without being so annoyed that they do it badly. When he thought about it, it made Marcus smile that the only teacher he'd ever had for diplomacy was Renius.

  Peppis was the kind of problem that couldn't be resolved with a few words or a blow. He had made a promising start at the permanent barracks, growing quickly in size and bulk with good food and exercise. Unfortunately, he had a tendency to steal from the stores, often bringing the items to Marcus, which had caused him a great deal of embarrassment. Even being forced to return everything he took and a brief but solid lashing had failed to cure Peppis of the habit, and eventually the Bronze Fist centurion, Leonides, had sent the boy to Marcus with a note that read, Your responsibility. Your back.

  The guard duty had started well, with the kind of efficiency Marcus had begun to take for granted but which he guessed was not the standard all over the empire. They had set off one hour before dawn, trailing along the paths into the dark granite hills. Four flat ox carts had been loaded with tightly lashed barrels and thirty-two soldiers detailed for guard duty. They were under the command of an old scout named Peritas, who had twenty years of experience under his belt and was no one's fool. Altogether, they were a formidable force to be trundling through the winding hill paths, and although Marcus had felt hidden eyes on them almost from the beginning, that was a feeling you quickly became used to. His unit had been given the task of scouting ahead, and Marcus was leading two of his men up a steep bank of loose stone and dried moss when they came face-to-face with about fifty painted, blue-skinned figures, fully armed for war.

  For a few seconds, both groups merely gaped at each other, and then Marcus had turned and scrambled back down the slope, his two companions only slightly slower. Behind them a great yell went up, making unnecessary the need to call any warning to the caravan. The blue-skins poured over the lip of the hidden ledge and fell on the caravan guards with their long swords held high and wild screams rending the mountain air.