The Gates of Rome

by Conn Iggulden

  Marcus looked at him in disbelief. The future was clearly bleak for those left in the fort. They had been allowed to make the safety of the walls just so the young blueskins could blood themselves against reduced defenders. It was chilling. The legion believed the blueskins to be close to animals in intelligence. Any captured prisoners went berserk, biting through ropes and killing themselves on anything sharp if they couldn't escape. This evidence of careful planning—and one who spoke a civilized language—would wake them up to a threat they didn't treat seriously enough.

  "Why didn't the men kill me?" Marcus asked. He fought to remain calm as the old man leaned closer to his face and sour breath washed over him.

  "They very impressed. Three men you kill with short sword. Kill like man, not with bow or spear throwing. They bring you to show to me, as a strange thing, yes?"

  A curiosity, a Roman good at killing. He guessed what had to come next before the old man spoke.

  "Not good to have young warriors admire Roman. You fight Krajka, yes? If win, you go back to fort. If Krajka kill you, then all men see and know hope for future days, yes?"

  Marcus agreed. There was nothing else to do. He looked into the flames and wondered if they would let him use his gladius.

  * * *

  Blueskins had come over from all the other campfires, leaving them barely defended. Marcus realized the men in the fort could not be aware of the opportunity. They would still see the spots of light in the mountain darkness and not know the bulk of them had trotted over to see the contest.

  Marcus was allowed to stand and a circle was marked out with daggers stuck into the soil. The blueskins gathered outside the line, some balancing friends on their shoulders so they could see. Whichever way Marcus turned, he could see a heaving wall of blue flesh and grinning yellow teeth. He noticed how many of the eyes were pink-rimmed and decided it must be something in the dye that irritated the skin. The older, potbellied blueskin stepped into the circle and gravely handed Marcus his gladius, stepping back warily. Marcus ignored him. You didn't need the scouts eye to sense the hostility here. Lose and be cut to pieces to show their superiority, win and be torn apart by the mob. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what Gaius would do and had to smile at the thought. Gaius would have killed the leader as soon as he handed over the sword. It couldn't get any worse, after all.

  The leader was still visible, his belly sticking into the circle space, but somehow it didn't seem right to run over and stick the old devil. Perhaps they would let him go. He looked around at the faces again and shrugged. Not very likely.

  A low cheer built as one of the Krajka came through the circle, with the warriors parting briefly and then shoving their way back into position to get a good view. Marcus looked him up and down. He was much taller than the average blueskin and had a good three inches on Marcus, even after the growth he'd put on since leaving Rome. He was bare-chested and muscles shifted easily under the painted skin. Marcus guessed they were probably about equal in reach. His own arms were long, with powerful wrists from hours of sword practice. He knew he had a chance, no matter how good the man was. Renius still worked with him every day, and Marcus was running out of opponents to give him a challenge in the practices.

  He watched the way the tall man moved and walked. He looked into his eyes and found no give. The man didn't smile and wouldn't understand insults anyway. He walked around the edge of the circle, always staying out of reach in case Marcus tried a wild attack. Marcus turned on the spot, watching him all the time until he took up his position on the opposite side, twenty feet away. Tactics, tactics. Renius said never to stop thinking. The point was to win, not to be fair. Marcus winced as the man drew a long sword that reached from his hip to the ground, a shining length of polished bronze. There was the edge. He hadn't really noticed before, but the blueskins were using bronze weapons and a hard iron gladius would soon take the edge off it, if he could survive the first few blows. His thoughts raced. Bronze blunted. It was softer than iron.

  The man walked closer and loosened his bare shoulders. He was wearing only leggings over bare feet and looked supremely athletic, moving like a great cat.

  Marcus called to the leader, "If I kill him, I walk free, yes?"

  A great jeer went up from the crowd, making him wonder how many understood the language. The old blueskin nodded, smiling, and signaled with his hand to begin.

  Marcus jumped as drums sounded over the chatter of the crowd. His opponent relaxed visibly as the rhythms were pounded out. Marcus watched him lower into a fighter's stance, the sword held out unwavering. The extra inches on the blade would give him the advantage in reach, Marcus thought, rolling his shoulders. He held up his hand and took a step back to remove his tunic. It was a relief to be free of it in the stifling heat, made worse by the nearby fire and the sweating crowd. The drumming intensified and Marcus focused his gaze on the man's throat. It unnerved some opponents. He became utterly still while the other swayed gently. Two different styles.

  The Krajka barely seemed to move, but Marcus felt the attack and shifted aside, making the bronze blade miss him. He didn't engage the gladius with the blade, trying to judge the man's speed.

  A second cut, a smooth continuation of the first, came at his face, and Marcus brought his gladius up desperately with a ring of metal. The blades slid together and he felt fresh sweat prickle on his hairline. The man was fast and fluid, with killing strikes that seemed only flicks and feints. Marcus blocked another low cut into his stomach and stepped and punched forward into the blue body.

  It was not there and he went sprawling on the hard ground. He got up quickly, noting the fact that the Krajka stood well back to let him. This was not to be a quick kill then. Marcus nodded to him, his jaw clenched. Feel no anger, he told himself, nor shame. He remembered Renius's words. It does not matter what happens in battle as long as the enemy lies at your feet at the end of it.

  The Krajka skipped lightly forward to meet him. At the last second, the bronze sword flicked out and Marcus was forced to duck under it. This time he didn't follow through with a lunge under the blow and saw the man's readiness to reverse his sword into a downward slash. He had fought Romans before! The thought flashed into Marcus's head. This man knew their style of fighting, perhaps he had even learned it with a few of the legionaries who had disappeared over previous months, before killing them.

  It was galling. Everything he had been taught came from Renius, a Roman-trained soldier and gladiator. He had no other style to fall back on. The Krajka was clearly a master of his art.

  The bronze sword licked out and Marcus blocked it. He focused on the lightly pulsing blue throat and could still see the shifting arms and sinuous moves of the body. He let one blow slide by him and stepped away from another, judging the distance perfectly. In the space, he struck like a snake and scored a thin line of red in the Krajka's side.

  The crowd fell suddenly silent, shocked. The Krajka looked puzzled and took two sliding steps away from Marcus. He frowned and Marcus saw he had not felt the scratch. He pressed his hand to the red line and looked at it, his face blank. Then he shrugged and danced in again, his bronze sword a blur in the light and shadows.

  Marcus felt the rhythm of the movements and began working against the flowing style, breaking the smoothness, causing the Krajka to jump back from a sword held out rigidly and again when Marcus's hard sandals cracked against his toes.

  Marcus advanced, knowing his opponent's confidence was wavering. Each step was accompanied by a blow that became another, a flowing pattern that mimicked the style the Krajka employed against him. The gladius became an extension of his arm, a thorn in his hand that required just a touch to kill. The Krajka let a throat cut pass a hairbreadth from his skin, and Marcus could feel the hot gaze above his own. The man was angry that he had not won easily. Another blow was blocked and once again the bare feet were crunched under hard Roman sandals.

  The Krajka gave out a strangled groan of pain and spun, leaping into t
he air like a spirit, as Marcus had seen the others do before. It was a move from the dance and the bronze sword whirled with him, coming out of the spin unseen and slicing Marcus's skin across the chest. The crowd roared, and as the man landed, Marcus reached up and caught the bronze blade with his bare left hand.

  The Krajka looked in astonishment into Marcus's eyes and found for the first time in the whole battle that they were looking back at him, cold and black. He froze under that gaze and the hesitation killed him. He felt the iron gladius enter his throat from the front and the pouring wetness of blood that stole his strength. He would have liked to pull his blade back, cutting the fingers away like overripe stalks, but there was no strength left and he dropped into a boneless sprawl at Marcus's feet.

  Marcus breathed slowly and picked up the bronze sword, noting the twisted and buckled edge where he had caught it. He could feel blood trickle over his knuckles from the cut on his palm, but was able to move the fingers stiffly. He waited then for the crowd to rush in and kill him.

  They were silent for some time and in that silence the old blueskin's voice called out harsh-sounding commands. Marcus kept his eyes on the ground and the swords loose in his hands. He was aware of footsteps and turned as the old blueskin took his arm. The man's eyes were dark with astonishment and something else.

  "Come. I keep my word. You go back to friends. We come for you all in morning."

  Marcus nodded, scarcely daring to believe it was true. He looked for something to say.

  "He was a fine fighter, the Krajka. I have never fought better."

  "Of course. He was my son." The man seemed older as he spoke, as if years were settling on his shoulders and weighing him down. He led Marcus outside the circle and into the open and pointed into the night.

  "Walk home now."

  He stayed silent as Marcus handed him the bronze blade and walked away into the dark.

  The fort wall was black in the darkness as Marcus approached. While he was still some distance away, he whistled a tune so that the soldiers would hear him and not put a crossbow bolt into his chest as he drew close.

  "I'm alone! Peppis, throw that rope back down," he called into the silence.

  There was scrambling inside as the others moved to peer over the edge.

  A head appeared above him in the gloom and Marcus recognized the sour features of Peritas.

  "Marcus? Peppis said the 'skins had you."

  "They did, but they let me go. Are you going to throw a rope down to me or not?" Marcus snapped. It was colder away from the fires and he held his damaged hand in his armpit to keep the stiff fingers warm. He could hear whispered conversations above and cursed Peritas for his cautious ways. Why would the tribesmen set a trap when they could just wait for them all to die of thirst?

  Finally, a rope came slithering over the wall and he pulled himself up it, his arms burning with tiredness. At the top, there were hands to help pull him onto the inner wall ledge, and then he was almost knocked from his feet by Peppis, who threw his arms around him.

  "I thought they was going to eat you," the boy said. His dirty face was streaked where he had been crying, and Marcus felt a pang of sorrow that he had brought the boy to this dismal place for his last night.

  He reached out a hand and ruffled his hair affectionately. "No, lad. They said I was too stringy. They like them young and tender."

  Peppis gasped in horror and Peritas chuckled. "You have all night to tell us what happened. I don't think anyone will sleep. Are there many of them out there?"

  Marcus looked at the older man and understood what couldn't be said openly in front of the boy.

  "There's enough," he replied, his voice low.

  Peritas looked away and nodded to himself.

  As dawn broke, Marcus and the others waited grimly for the assault, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. Every man of them stood on the walls, swinging their heads nervously at the slightest movement of a bird or rabbit down on the scrubland. The silence was frightening, but when a sword falling over interrupted it, more than a few swore at the soldier who'd let it slip.

  Then, in the distance, they heard the brassy horns of a Roman legion, echoing in the hills. Peritas jogged along the narrow walkway inside the walls and cheered as they watched three centuries of men come out of the mountain trails at a double-speed march.

  It was only a few minutes before a voice sounded, "Approaching the fort," and the gates were thrown open.

  The legion commanders had not been slow in sending out a strike force when the caravan was late returning. After the recent attacks, they wanted a show of strength and had marched through the dark hours over rough terrain, making twenty miles in the night.

  "Did you see any sign of the blueskins?" Peritas asked, frowning. "There were hundreds around the fort when we arrived. We were expecting an attack."

  A centurion shook his head and pursed his lips. "We saw signs of them, smoldering campfires and rubbish. It looks like they all moved out in the night. There is no accounting for the way savages think, you know. One of their magic men probably saw an unlucky bird or some kind of omen."

  He looked around at the fort and caught the stench of the bodies.

  "Looks like we have work to do here. Orders are to man this place until relieved. I'll send a Fifty back with you to permanent camp. No one moves without a heavy armed force from now on. This is hostile territory, you know."

  Marcus opened his mouth to reply and Peritas turned him deftly around with an arm on his shoulder, sending him off with a gentle push.

  "We know," he said, before turning away to ready his men for the march home.

  CHAPTER 31

  The street gang was already draped in expensive bolts of cloth, stolen from a shop or seamstress. They carried clay vessels that sloshed red wine onto the stone street as they wove and staggered along.

  Alexandria peered out of the locked gates of Marius's town house, frowning.

  "The filth of Rome," she muttered to herself. With all the soldiers in the city engaged in battle, it had not taken long for those who enjoyed chaos to come out onto the streets. As always, it was the poor who suffered the most. Without guards of any kind, houses were broken into and everything of value carried away by yelling, jeering looters.

  Alexandria could see one of the bolts of cloth was splashed with blood, and her fingers itched for a bow to send a shaft into the man's drunken mouth.

  She ducked back behind the gatepost as they went past, wincing as a burly hand reached out to rattle the gate, testing for weakness. She gripped the hammer she had taken from Bant's workshop. If they tried to climb the gates, she was ready to crack someone's head. Her heart thudded as they paused and she could hear every slurred word between them.

  "There's a whorehouse on Via Tantius, lads. We could get a little free trade," came a rough voice.

  "They'll have guards, Brac. I wouldn't leave a post like that, would you? I'd make sure I got paid for my service as well. Those whores would be glad to have a strong man protecting them. What we want is another nice little wife with a couple of young daughters. We'll offer to look after them while the husband's away."

  "I'm first, though. I didn't get much of a turn last time," the first voice said.

  "I was too much for her, that's why. After me, a woman don't want another."

  The laughter was coarse and brutal and Alexandria shuddered as they moved away.

  She heard light footsteps behind her and spun, raising the hammer.

  "It's all right, it's me," Metella said, her face pale. She had heard the end of it. Both women had tears in their eyes.

  "Are you certain about this, mistress?"

  "Quite certain, Alexandria, but you'll have to run. It will be worse if you stay here. Sulla is a vengeful man and there is no reason for you to be caught up in his spite. Go and find this Tabbic. You have the paper I signed?"

  "Of course. It is the dearest thing I own."

  "Keep it safe. The next few months will be difficul
t and dangerous. You will need proof you are a free woman. Invest the money Gaius left for you and stay safe until the city legion has restored order."

  "I just wish I could thank him."

  "I hope you have the chance one day." Metella stepped up to the bars and unlocked them, looking up and down the street. "Go quickly now. The road is clear for the moment, but you must hurry down to the market. Don't stop for anything, you understand?"

  Alexandria nodded stiffly, not needing to be told after what she had heard. She looked at Metella's pale skin and dark eyes and felt fear touch her.

  "I just worry about you in this great house, all alone. Who will look after you, with the house empty?"

  Metella held up a hand in a gentle gesture. "Have no fear for me, Alexandria. I have friends who will spirit me away from the city. I will find a warm foreign land and retire there, away from all the intrigue and pains of a growing city. Somewhere ancient appeals to me, where all the struggle of youth is but a distant memory. Stay to the main street. I can't relax until the last of my family is safely away."

  Alexandria held her gaze for a second, her eyes bright with tears. Then she nodded once and passed through the gates, closing them firmly behind her and hurrying away.

  Metella watched her go, feeling every one of her years in comparison to the young girl's light steps. She envied the ability of the young to start anew, without looking back at the old. Metella kept her in sight until she turned a street corner, and then looked inward to her empty, echoing home. The great house and gardens were empty at last.

  How could Marius not be here? It was an eerie thought. He had been gone so often on long campaigns, yet always returned, full of life and wit and strength. The idea that he would not return once more for her was an ugly wound that she would not examine. It was too easy to imagine that he was away with his legion, conquering new lands or building huge aqueducts for foreign kings. She would sleep and, when she awoke, the awful sucking pain inside her would be gone and he would be there to hold her.