The Gates of Rome

  "They have no more than twenty to fifty men at any given point on the line. If we break through quickly, with two centuries at each position, we should be able to cut them to pieces before reinforcements arrive."

  "What then? Go for Sulla?" one of the centurions asked. Marius would have known his name, Orso acknowledged to himself.

  "We can't be sure where that snake has positioned himself. He is quite capable of setting up a command tent as a decoy for assassins. I suggest we pull straight back out, leaving a few men in civilian clothes to watch for an opportunity to take him."

  "The men won't be pleased. It is not a crushing victory and they want one."

  Orso snapped back his ire. "The men are legionaries of the finest damn legion in Rome. They will do as they're told. This is a game of numbers, if it is a game at all. They have more. We control similar ground with far fewer men. They can reinforce faster than we can and... they have a far more experienced commander. The best we can do is to destroy a hundred of their men and pull out, losing as few of ours as possible. Sulla still has the same problem of defending a lengthening line."

  "We have the same problem, to some extent."

  "Not half as badly. If they break through, it is into the vast city, where they can be flanked with ease and cut off. We are still in control of the larger area by far. When we break their line, it will be straight into the heart of their territory."

  "Where they have their men, Orso. I am not convinced your plan will work," the man continued.

  Orso looked at him. "What is your name?"

  "Bar Gallienus, sir."

  "Did you hear what Marius called out before he was killed?"

  The man reddened slightly. "I did, sir."

  "So did I. We are defending our city and her inhabitants from an illegal invader. My commander is dead. I have assumed temporary command until the current crisis is over. Unless you have something useful to add to the discussion, I suggest you wait outside and I'll let you know when we are finished. Is that clear?" Although Orso's voice remained calm and polite throughout the exchange, all the men in the room could feel the anger coming off him like a physical force. It took a little courage not to edge away.

  Bar Gallienus spoke quietly. "I would like to stay."

  Orso clapped a hand on his shoulder and looked away from him. "Anything we have that can launch a missile, including every man with a bow, will mass at those two points, one hour from now. We will hit them with everything and then two centuries will charge their defenses on my signal. I will lead the attack through the old market area, as I know it well. Bar Gallienus will lead the other. Any questions?"

  There was silence at the table. Gallienus looked Orso in the eye and nodded his agreement.

  "Then gather your legionaries, gentlemen. Let's make the old man proud. 'Marius' is the shout. The signal will be three short blasts. One hour."

  Sulla stepped back from the bloodied men panting in front of him. Of the hundred he had sent into the fray hours before, only eleven had made it back to report, and these were wounded, every one.

  "General. The mobile squads were only partially successful," a soldier said, trying hard to stand erect over the weakness of his heaving lungs. "We did a lot of damage in the first hour and at a guess took down more than fifty of the enemy in small skirmishes. Where possible, we caught them alone or in pairs and overwhelmed them as you suggested. Then the word must have gone out and we found ourselves being tracked through the streets. Whoever was directing them must know the city very well. Some of us took to the roofs, but there were men waiting up there." He paused for breath again and Sulla waited impatiently for the man to calm himself.

  "I saw several of the men brought down by women or children coming out of the houses with knives. They hesitated to kill civilians and were cut to pieces. My own squad was lost to a similar group of First-Born who had removed their outer armor and carried only short swords. We had been running a long time and they cornered us in an alleyway. I—"

  "You said you had information to report. It was clear from the beginning that the mobile groups would do only limited damage. I had hoped to spread fear and chaos, but it seems there is a semblance of discipline left in the First-Born. One of Marius's seconds must have taken overall tactical control. He will be looking to strike back quickly. Did your men see any signs of this?"

  "Yes, General. They were bringing men up quietly through the streets. I do not know when or where they will attack, but there will be some sort of skirmish soon."

  "Hardly worth eighty of my men, but useful enough to me. Get yourselves to the surgeons. Centurion!" he snapped at a man nearby. "Get every man up to the barricades. They will try to break through. Triple the men on the line."

  The centurion nodded and signaled to the messengers to carry the news to the outposts of the line.

  Suddenly the sky turned black with arrow shafts, a stinging, humming swarm of death. Sulla watched them fall. He clenched his fists and tightened his jaw as they whirred toward his position. Men around him threw themselves down, but he stood straight and unblinking with his eyes glittering.

  The shafts rained and shattered around him, but he was untouched. He turned and laughed at his scrambling advisers and officers. One was on his knees, pulling at an arrow in his chest and spilling blood from his mouth. Two others stared glassily at the sky, unmoving.

  "A good omen, don't you think?" he said, still smiling.

  Ahead, somewhere in the city, a horn blew three short blasts and a roar rose in response. Sulla heard one name chanted above the noise and for a moment knew doubt.

  "Ma-ri-us!" howled the First-Born. And they came on.

  CHAPTER 32

  Alexandria hammered at the door of the little jeweler's shop. There had to be someone there! She knew he could have left the city as so many others had done, and the thought that she might be just drawing attention to herself made her go pale. Something scraped in the street nearby, like a door opening.

  "Tabbic! It's me, Alexandria! Gods, open up, man!" She let her arm fall, panting. Shouts came from nearby and her heart thudded wildly.

  "Come on. Come on," she whispered.

  Then the door was wrenched aside and Tabbic stood glaring, a hatchet held tightly in his hand. When he saw her, he looked relieved and something of the anger faded.

  "Get in, girl. The animals are out tonight," he said gruffly. He looked up and down the street. It seemed deserted, though he could feel eyes on him.

  Inside, she was faint from relief. "Metella... sent me, she..." she said.

  "It's all right, girl. You can explain later. The wife and kids are upstairs putting a meal together. Go up and join them. You're safe here."

  She paused for a moment and turned to him, unable to hold it in. "Tabbic. I have papers and everything. I'm free."

  He leaned close and looked her in the eyes, a smile beginning. "When were you anything else? Get upstairs now. My wife will be wondering what all the fuss is about."

  There was nothing in the battle manuals for assaulting a broken barricade set across a city street. Orso Ferito simply roared his dead general's name and launched himself up the litter of broken carts and doors into the arms of the enemy. Two hundred men came behind him.

  Orso buried his gladius in the first throat he saw and only missed being cut by slipping on the shifting barricade and rolling down the other side. He came up swinging and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch of bone. His men were all around him, hacking and cutting onward. Orso couldn't tell how well they were doing or how many had died. He only knew that the enemy was in front of him and he had a sword in his hand. He roared and cut a man's arm from his shoulder as it was raising a shield to block him. He grabbed the shield with the limp arm falling out of the grip and used it to shoulder-charge two men from his path, trampling over them. One of them stabbed upward and he felt a warmth rush over his legs but paid it no attention. The area was clear, but the end of the street was filling with men. Orso saw their captain
sound the charge and met it at full speed across the open space. He knew in that moment how it felt to be a berserker in one of the savage nations they had conquered. It was a strange freedom. There was no pain, only an exhilarating distance from fear or exhaustion.

  More men went under his sword and the First-Born carried all before them, cutting and dealing death on bright metal.

  "Sir! The side streets. They have more reinforcements!"

  Orso almost shook off the hand tugging at his arm, but then his training came to the fore. "Too many of them. Back, lads! We've cut them enough for now!" He raised his sword in triumph and began to run back the way they had come, panting even as he noted the numbers of Sulla's dead. More than a hundred, if he was any judge.

  Here and there were faces he had known. One or two stirred feebly and he was tempted to stop for them, but behind came the crash of sandals on stone and he knew they had to reach the barricades or be routed with their backs to them.

  "On, lads. Ma-ri-us!"

  The cry was answered from all around and then again they were climbing. At the top, Orso looked back and saw the slowest of his men being brought down and trampled. Most had made it clear and as he turned to run down the other side, the First-Born archers fired again over his men's heads, sending more bodies to die on the stone road, screaming and writhing. Orso chuckled as he ran, his sword drooping from the exhaustion that was threatening to unman him. He ducked inside a building and stood gasping, his hands braced on his knees. The cut in his thigh was bad and blood ran freely. He felt light-headed and could only mumble as hands took him onward away from the barricade.

  "Can't stop here, sir. The archers can only cover us until they run out of arrows. Have to keep going a road or two farther. Come on, sir."

  He registered the words, but wasn't sure if he had responded. Where had his energy gone? His leg felt weak. He hoped Bar Gallienus had done as well.

  Bar Gallienus lay in his own blood, with Sulla's sword pressing against his throat. He knew he was dying and tried to spit at the general, but could not raise more than a sputter of liquid. His men had found a freshly reinforced century over the barricade and had very nearly been broken on the first assault. After minutes of furious fighting, they had breached the wall of piled stone and wood and thrown themselves into the mass of soldiers beyond. His men had taken many with them, but it was simply too much. The line had not been thin at all.

  Bar smiled to himself, revealing bloody teeth. He knew Sulla could reinforce quickly. It was a shame he wouldn't have the chance to mention this to Orso. He hoped the hairy man had done better than he had, or the legion would be leaderless again. Foolhardy to risk himself on such a venture, but too many of them had died in that dreadful first day of havoc and execution. He'd known Sulla would reinforce.

  "I think he's dead, sir," Bar heard a voice say.

  He heard Sulla's voice reply, "A pity. He has the strangest expression. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking."

  Orso snarled at the centurion who tried to help him stand. His leg ached and he had a crutch under one shoulder, but he was in no mood to be helped.

  "No one came back?" he asked.

  "We lost both centuries. That section had been reinforced just before we charged it, sir. It doesn't look like that tactic will work again."

  "I was lucky then," Orso grunted. No one met his eye. He had been, to hit a section of the wall where the strength was low. Bar Gallienus must have laughed to see himself proved right about that. It was a shame he couldn't buy the man a drink.

  "Sir? Do you have any other orders?" asked one of the centurions.

  Orso shook his head. "Not yet. But I will have when I know where we stand."

  "Sir." The younger man hesitated.

  Orso swung to face him. "What is it? Spit it out, lad."

  "Some of the men are talking of surrender. We are down to half strength and Sulla has the supply routes to the sea. We cannot win and—"

  "Win? Who said we were going to win? When I saw Marius die, I knew we couldn't win. I realized then that Sulla would break the back of the First-Born before enough could gather to cause him any real difficulty. This isn't about winning, boy, it's about fighting for a just cause, following orders and honoring a great man's life and death."

  He looked at the men around the room. Only a few couldn't meet his eyes and he knew he was among friends. He smiled. How would Marius have put it?

  "A man can wait a lifetime for a moment like this and never see one. Some just grow old and wither, never getting their chance. We will die young and strong and I wouldn't have it any other way."

  "But, sir, perhaps we could break out of the city. Head for the mountains..."

  "Come outside. I am not going to waste a great speech on you buggers."

  Orso grunted and hobbled out of the door. In the street were a hundred or so of the First-Born, weary and dirty, with bandages wrapped around cuts. They looked defeated already and that thought gave him the words.

  "I am a soldier of Rome!" His voice, by nature deep and rough, carried across them, stiffening backs.

  "All I ever wanted was to serve my time and retire to a nice little plot of land. I didn't want to lose my life on some foreign ground and be forgotten. But then I found myself serving with a man who was more father to me than my own father ever was, and I saw his death and I heard his words and I thought, Orso, this may be where you stand, old son. And maybe that's enough, after all.

  "Anyone here think they will live forever? Let other men plant cabbages and grow dry in the sun. I will die like a soldier, on the streets of the city I love, in her defense."

  His voice dropped a little, as if he were imparting a secret. The men leaned close and more joined the growing crowd.

  "I understand this truth. Few things are worth more than dreams or wives, pleasures of the flesh or even children. Some things are, though, and that knowledge is what makes us men. Life is just a warm, short day between long nights. It grows dark for everyone, even those who struggle and pretend they will always be young and strong."

  He pointed to a mature soldier, slowly flexing his leg as he listened.

  "Tinasta! I see you testing that old knee of yours. Did you think age would ease the pain of it? Why wait until it buckles from weakness and have younger men shoulder you aside? No, my friends, my brothers. Let us go while the light is still strong and the day is still bright."

  A young soldier raised his head and called out, "Will we be remembered?"

  Orso sighed, but smiled. "For a while, son, but who remembers the heroes of Carthage or Sparta today? They know how they ended their day. And that is enough. That is all there ever is."

  The young man asked quietly, "Is there no chance then that we can win?"

  Orso limped over to him, using the crutch for support. "Son. Why don't you get out of the city? A few of you could break off if you slipped past the patrols. You don't have to stay."

  "I know, sir." The young man paused. "But I will."

  "Then there is no need to delay the inevitable. Gather the men. Everyone in position to attack Sulla's barricades. Let anyone go who wants to, with my blessing. Let them find other lives somewhere and never tell anyone they once fought for Rome when Marius died. One hour, gentlemen. Gather your weapons one more time."

  Orso looked around him while the men stood and checked their blades and armor as they had been trained to do. More than a few clapped him on the shoulder as they went to their positions, and he felt his heart would burst with pride.

  "Good men, Marius," he muttered to himself. "Good men."

  CHAPTER 33

  Cornelius Sulla sat idly on a throne of gold, resting on a mosaic of a million black and white tiles. Near the center of Rome, his estate had been untouched by the rioting, and it was a pleasure to be back and in power once more.

  Marius's legion had fought almost to the last man, as he had predicted they would. Only a few had tried to run at the end, and Sulla had hunted them down without mercy
. Vast fire trenches lined the outer walls of the city, and he had been told that the thousands of bodies would burn for days or even weeks before the ashes were finally cold. The gods would notice such a sacrifice to save their chosen city, he was sure.

  Rome would need to be cleaned when the fires were out. There wasn't a wall anywhere that had not been speckled with the oily ash that floated in and stung the eyes of the people.

  He had denounced the Primigenia as traitors, with their lands and wealth forfeit to the Senate. Families had been dragged out onto the streets by neighbors jealous of their possessions. Hundreds more had been executed and still the work went on. It would be a bitter mark on the glorious history of the seven hills, but what choice had he had?

  Sulla mused to himself as a slave girl approached with a cup of ice-cold fruit juice. It was too early in the day for wine and there were so many still to see and to condemn. Rome would rise again in glory, he knew, but for that to happen the last of the friends and supporters of Marius—the last of Sulla's enemies—had to be ripped from the good, healthy flesh.

  He winced as he sipped from the gold cup and ran a finger over his swollen eye and the ridges of a purpling gash along his right cheek. It had been the hardest fight of his life, making the campaign against Mithridates look rather pallid in comparison.

  Marius's death came into his mind again, as it had so frequently in recent days. Impressive. The body had been saved from the fires. Sulla considered having a statue of the man standing at the top of one of the hills. It would show his own greatness in being able to honor the dead. Or he could just have it thrown into the pits with the others. It wasn't important.

  The room where he sat was almost empty. A domed roof showed a pattern of Aphrodite in the Greek style. She looked down on him with love, a beautiful naked woman, with her hair wrapped around her. He wanted those who met him to know he was loved by the gods. The slave girl and her pitcher stood paces from him, ready to refill his cup at a gesture. The only other presence in the room was his torturer, who stood nearby with a small brazier and the grisly tools of his trade laid out on a table in front of him. His leather apron was already spattered from the morning's work, and still there was more to do.