Marcus snapped off a salute, much crisper than that of the cook, yet held a little too long. Renius could sense his insolence and considered breaking the boy’s mouth for him. No, right now, he needed that stupid confidence of youth. He’d learn soon enough what killing was like.
As the men returned, he sent them to positions along the walls. They were far too few, but he believed what he had said to Caecilius. The outbuildings would be burned, no doubt; the granaries would probably go and the animals would be slaughtered, but the main complex would not be worth the deaths it would take. An army could take it in minutes, he knew – but these were slaves, drunk on stolen wine and freedom that would vanish again with the morning sun. One strong man with a good sword arm and a ruthless temperament could handle a mob.
There was no sign yet of Julius or Cabera. No doubt the former was putting on his breastplate and greaves, the full uniform. But where had the old healer got to? That bow of his would be a useful asset in the first few minutes of bloodshed.
The noise of the men on the walls was like a flock of geese, cackling in excited nervousness.
‘Silence!’ Renius snapped. ‘The next man to speak will get back down here and face me.’
In the sudden absence of chatter, they could again hear the screams and yells of the slaves in the fields.
‘We need to listen to what is going on outside. Keep silent and stretch a few muscles. Keep a distance from the next man along, so you can swing without cutting his head off.’
The men shuffled apart from the little knots that had formed out of a need for contact. The fear was in all their eyes. Renius cursed to himself. Ten good men from his old legion and he could hold this place until dawn. These were children with sticks and knives. He took a deep breath as he tried to find words to encourage them. Even the iron legions had needed speeches to fire their blood and they were confident of their skills.
‘There is nowhere to run to. If the mob breaks past you, everyone in this house will die. That is your responsibility. You must not leave your position – we are stretched thinly enough as it is. The wall is four feet wide – one long pace. Learn it – if you take more than one step back, you will fall.’
He watched as the men shuffled around on the wall, checking the width for themselves. His face hardened.
‘I will keep fighters in the courtyard to deal with any that get over the wall. Do not look down, even if you see your friends being killed before you.’
Cabera came out of the buildings, his bow restrung in his hand.
‘This is how you inspire them? Your empire is built on this sort of speech?’ he muttered.
Renius frowned at him. ‘I have never lost a battle. Not with my legion, not in the arena. I have never had a man run or break under my command. If you run, you will pass me, and I will not run.’
‘I won’t run,’ Marcus said clearly, into the silence.
Renius met his eyes, seeing a touch of the madness he had witnessed before.
‘Nor will I, Renius,’ said another.
The others all nodded and murmured that they would sooner die, but still the faces of a few were puckered in terror.
‘Your children, your brothers, your fathers will ask you if you did. Be sure you can look them all in the eye.’
Heads nodded and shoulders lifted a little straighter.
‘Better,’ Cabera muttered again.
Julius moved easily through the open door onto the courtyard. His breastplate and leggings were oiled and smooth. His short scabbard swung as he walked. His face was a brutal mask, as an obvious rage burned inside. The men on the wall turned away from him, looking out over the fields.
‘I will take the heads of every man from my estate not within these walls,’ he growled.
Cabera shook his head quickly, not wanting to disagree with the man while those on the wall were listening.
‘Sir,’ he whispered. ‘They all have friends outside. Good men and women who are trapped, or unable to fight through to you. Such a threat hurts their morale.’
‘It pleases me. Every man outside these walls will be killed and I will pile their heads inside the gates! This is my home and Rome is my city. We will cut out the filth that burn the houses and scatter them on the wind! Do you hear me, little man?’ His internal fury built into incandescent rage. Renius and Cabera stared at him as he climbed up the corner steps and walked the length of the wall, shouting orders and noting sloppiness.
‘For a man in politics, he has an unusual approach to a problem,’ Cabera said quietly.
‘Rome is full of men like him. That, my friend, is why we have an empire, not empty speeches.’ Renius smiled his shark smile and walked over to where the women waited in a quietly murmuring group.
‘What can we do?’ asked a slave girl. He recognised her as the one he had whipped so many months ago, for distracting the boys in their training. Her name was Alexandria, it came back to him.While the others shrank from his gaze, as befitted the rank of slaves of the house, she held his eyes and waited for his answer.
‘Fetch some knives. If anyone gets past the wall, you must fall on them and keep stabbing until they are dead.’
A gasp came from a couple of the older women, and one looked a little sick.
‘Do you want to be raped and killed? Gods, woman, I am not asking you to stand on the wall, just to protect our backs. There are too few men to bring some down to protect you as well!’ He had no patience with their softness. Good for bed, but when you had to depend on one … Gods!
Alexandria nodded. ‘Knives. The spare wood axe is in the stable, unless someone has it. Go and search for some, Susanna. Quickly now.’
A matronly type, still looking pale, trotted off on the errand.
‘Can we carry water, arrows? Fire? Is there anything else we can do?’
‘Nothing,’ Renius snapped, losing patience. ‘Just make sure you kill anyone that lands in the yard. Put a knife in their throat before they can regain their feet. It’s a ten-foot fall, there’ll be a moment of weakness when you must strike.’
‘We won’t let you down, sir,’ Alexandria replied.
He held her gaze for a second longer, noting the flash of hate that broke through the calm demeanour. He seemed to have more enemies in this place than outside the walls!
‘See you don’t,’ he said curtly and turned on his heel.
The cook had returned with a large metal plate strapped to his chest. His enthusiasm was embarrassing, but Renius clapped him on the shoulder as he went to join the others.
Tubruk was standing with Cabera, holding a strung bow in his large hands.
‘Old Lucius is a fine shot with a bow, but he’s in the kitchens setting up for the wounded,’ he said, his face grim.
‘Get him out here. He can climb down later, when he’s done the job,’ Renius replied, without looking at him. He was scanning the walls, noting the positions, looking for failing nerves. They couldn’t hold against a proper attack, so he prayed to his household god that the slaves outside couldn’t mount one.
‘Will the slaves have bows?’ he asked Tubruk.
‘One or two small ones for hares, perhaps. There’s not a decent bow on the estate except for this – and Cabera’s.’
‘Good. Otherwise, they could pick us all off. We’ll have to light the torches in the yard soon, to give them light to kill by. It will silhouette the men, but they can’t fight in the dark, not this lot.’
‘They may surprise you, Renius. Your name has a lot of power still. Remember the crowds at the games? Every man here will have a story for all the generations of his family to come, if he survives.’
Renius snorted. ‘You’d better get to the wall, there’s a space on the far side.’
Tubruk shook his head. ‘The others have accepted you as leader, I know. Even Julius will listen to you once his temper calms down. I will stay by Marcus, to protect him. With your permission?’
Renius stared at him. Would nothing work properly? Fat cooks,
girls with knives, arrogant children? And now his orders were to be ignored just before a fight? His right fist lifted in a smashing uppercut that seemed to lift Tubruk up and backwards. He hit the dust unmoving and Renius ignored him, turning to Cabera.
‘When he awakes, tell him the boy can look after himself. I know. Tell him to take his place or I will kill him.’
Cabera smiled, his eyes wide, but the old man’s face was like winter. In the distance, there was a sudden clamour of metal beating on metal. Sound rose in a wave and chants filled the black night. The torches were lit just as the first few slaves reached the estate wall. Behind them were hundreds from Rome, burning everything in their path.
CHAPTER NINE
It very nearly ended before it had begun. As Renius had thought, the wild-looking slaves that streamed up to the estate walls had little idea of how to overcome armed defenders and milled around, shouting and screaming. Although it was a perfect opportunity for bowmen, Renius had shaken his head at Cabera and Lucius, who watched with arrows ready and cold eyes. There was still a chance the slaves would look for easier targets, and a few arrows might fan their rage into white-hot desperation.
‘Open the gates!’ someone shouted from the mass of torchbearers. In the flickering light, it could have been a festival if it were not for the brutal expressions of the attackers. Renius watched them, weighing options. More and more came from the rear. Clearly there were already more than a small estate could support. Rogue slaves from Rome swelled the ranks with nothing to lose, bringing hate and violence where reason might have won the day. Those at the front were pushed forward and Renius raised his arm, ready to have his two lonely archers send the first shafts into the crowd. They could hardly miss at this range.
A man stepped forward. He was heavily muscled and sported a thick black beard that made him look like a barbarian. Probably, only days previously, he had been meekly carrying rocks in a quarry, or training horses for some indulgent master. Now his chest was splashed with someone else’s blood and his face was a sneer of hate, his eyes glimmering in the flames of his torch.
‘You on the walls. You are slaves like us. Kill those who call themselves your betters. Kill them all and we will welcome you as friends.’
Renius dropped his arm and Cabera put a feathered shaft through the man’s throat.
In the moment of silence, Renius roared at the crowd of slaves: ‘That is what you will get from me. I am Renius and you will not pass here. Go home and wait for justice!’
‘Justice like that?’ came a scream of rage. Another man ran to the walls and jumped for the high ledge. The moment had arrived and suddenly the crowd howled and came forward in a rush.
Few had swords. Most were armed, like the defenders, with whatever they could find. Some had no weapons except their frenzied rage and Renius dispatched the first of these with a slick blow to his neck, ignoring the quivering fingers that scrabbled at his breastplate. All along the line, screams rose above the crash of metal on metal and metal into flesh. Renius could see Cabera drop his bow and raise a wicked-looking short knife, with which he stabbed and leapt away, letting the bodies fall back on their fellows. The old man stamped on fingers that gained easier and easier holds on the wall as the bodies of the dead served as props for new attackers.
Renius grew slightly light-headed and knew his shoulder had torn again, feeling the sudden warmth from the bandages accompanied by a blistering pain. He set his teeth against it and slammed his gladius into a man’s stomach, almost losing the weapon in the slimy grip of his guts as he toppled backwards. Another took his place and another and Renius could not see an end to them. He took a blow from a length of timber that left him dazed for a second. He staggered back, reeling, trying to find the energy to lift the sword to meet the next one. His muscles ached and the exhaustion he had felt fighting Marcus came back to hit him once again.
‘I am too old for this,’ he muttered, spitting blood over his chin. There was a movement to his left and he swung to meet it, too slowly. It was Marcus, grinning at him. He was covered in blood and looked like a demon from the ancient myths.
‘I am a little worried about the speed of my low guard. I wonder if you could observe it for me? Let me know where the trouble is?’
As he spoke, he shoulder-barged a man as he tried to straighten. The man fell badly, toppling backwards onto his head with a yell.
‘I told you not to leave your position,’ Renius gasped, trying not to show his weakness.
‘You were going to be killed. That honour is mine – not to be given away lightly to motherless scum like these, I think!’ He nodded over to the other side of the gate, where the man Caecilius, known to most simply as Cook, was grinning hugely, cutting around him with abandon.
‘Come pigs, come cattle. I will cut you to pieces.’ Underneath the fat there must have been muscle, for he waved the enormous cleaver as if it were made of light wood.
‘Cook is holding them without me. In fact, he is having the time of his life,’ Marcus went on cheerfully.
Three men breasted the wall at once, leaping from the pile of bodies that was now half as high as the top. The first swung a sword at Marcus, who slid his own into the man’s chest from the side, letting the wild lunge carry the man onto the cobbles of the yard below. The second he dispatched with a reverse cut that caught the man at eye-level, cutting into meat and bone. He died instantly.
The third whooped with pleasure as he closed on Renius. He knew the old man for who he was and in his mind was already telling the story to friends as Renius brought his sword up under his guard, ripping into his chest.
Renius let the man fall, and the sword slid clear. His left arm was hurting again, but this time it was a deep ache. His chest pulsed with pain and he groaned.
‘Are you hurt?’ Marcus asked, without taking his eyes off the wall.
‘No. Get back to your post,’ Renius snapped, his face suddenly grey.
Marcus looked at him for a long moment. ‘I think I’ll stay a while longer,’ he said softly. More men surged over the wall and his sword danced, licking from one throat to the next unstoppably.
Gaius’ father barely noticed those who fell beneath his sword. He fought as he had been trained: thrust, guard, reverse. The bodies piled most thickly at the foot of the gate and a little voice was telling him they should have broken by now. They were only slaves. They did not have to pass this wall. Why didn’t they break? He would have the wall raised to the height of three men when this was over.
It seemed as if they threw themselves onto his sword, which wetted itself in their blood, drenching the wall and gates with the gushing fluids, drenching him. His shoulders ached, his arm was leaden. Only his legs were still strong beneath him. They must break soon and look for easier targets, surely? Thrust, guard and reverse. He was locked in the legionary’s rhythm of death, but more and more were climbing the piles of flesh to get into the estate. His sword had lost its edge on bone and blades and his first cut only scraped a man leaping at him. A dagger punctured the hard muscle of his stomach and he grunted in agony, whipping his sword through the man’s jaw and dropping him.
Alexandria stood in the yard, in a pool of darkness. The other women were crying softly to themselves. One was praying. She could see Renius was exhausted and was disappointed when the boy Marcus stepped in to save him. She wondered why he had done it and widened her eyes at the contrast between them. On the one side, the grizzled warrior, veteran of a thousand conflicts, slow and in pain. On the other, Marcus was a smooth-moving murderer, smiling as he brought death to the slaves that met his sword. It did not matter if they had swords or clubs. He made them look clumsy and then took away their strength in a slice or a blow. One man clearly didn’t realise he was dying. His blood poured from his chest, but he still kept hacking away with a broken spear shaft, his face manic.
Curious, Alexandria strained to see the man’s face, and she caught the stricken moment when he felt the pain and saw the darkness coming.
All her life she had heard stories of men’s strength and glory and they seemed to hang over this butchery like golden ghosts, not quite fitting the reality. She looked for moments of comradeship, of bravery in the face of death, but, down in the shadows, she could not see it.
The cook was enjoying the fight, that was obvious. He had begun to sing some vulgar song about a market day and pretty maids, thumping out the chorus with more volume than tune, as he buried his cleaver in skulls and necks. Men fell from his blade and his song grew more raucous as they dropped.
On her left, one of the defenders fell into the yard from the walkway. He made no attempt to protect himself from the impact and his head smashed on the hard stone with a wet sound. Alexandria shuddered and grabbed the shoulder of another woman in the darkness. Whoever it was, was sobbing quietly to herself, but there was no time for that.
‘Quickly – they’ll be coming through the gap!’ she hissed, pulling the other along with her, not trusting herself to do the job alone.
As they moved, there was another crunching thud from a different section of the wall. Screams of triumph sounded. A man scrambled down, hanging for a moment, before letting go and falling the last couple of feet.
He spun, a wild, bloody nightmare, and as his eyes lit up at the lack of defenders, Alexandria rammed her blade up into his heart. Life escaped him with a sigh and another man hit the cobbles nearby. The snap of his ankle was audible even over the baying from outside the walls. The matronly Susanna, usually so careful over the exact setting of the master’s table at banquets, slipped a skinning knife across his throat and walked away from him as he shuddered and spasmed behind her.
Alexandria looked up at the bright ring of torches above. At least they had light! How awful it was to die in the dark.
‘More torches here!’ she yelled, hoping that someone would answer.
Hands grabbed her from behind and her head was wrenched to one side. She tensed for the agony that would come, but the weight on her shoulders fell away suddenly and she turned to see Susanna, her knife hand freshly covered in red wetness.
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 11