There were no reinforcements. The city was over-run. Every man who was still fighting for their emperor was up to his elbows in blood and metal. The streets were teeming with Risen and every man was involved in his own personal battle with Hades. The plan, the clever ruse, was an abject failure. Otho had stretched himself too far and now Ursus and the Praetorian Guard would be expected to clean up the mess, or die trying.
It was the same thing that had happened throughout the history of the empire, and the republic before it. Countless generals had done their best to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, only to have the legions spend their life and spill their blood in order to save the day. This time, however, the blood and lives might not be enough. The enemy was too strong in numbers and too unbreakably single-minded. Rome had been through every disaster imaginable in her time but this was going to be one too many.
A Risen dropped from the top of the palace wall onto its back. It was a fall that would have killed a normal man but the undead picked itself up and jerked and twisted toward Ursus. He had seen the things move like this when they had first appeared, it was only now, seeing this injured, broken thing that he realised they no longer moved in such a disjointed way. As if they had become stronger in such small increments that it was almost invisible to the eye.
Ursus drew his Gladius, an ornate thing with a blade so sharp it almost cut the eye to look at it. He stepped toward the twisted woman and swung hard enough to remove her head from her shoulders. The body slumped to the ground and was immediately still. The head rolled across the yard and came to rest against a wall. Ursus watched, fascinated as it snapped and snarled, its face brushing against the concrete.
He turned his back on the dismembered head and toward the wall. A good general knows the time to get his hands dirty and this was that time. He half ran up the steps to look out onto the city, kicking a Risen off the wall as he reached the top. The undead thing didn’t flail its arms, or open its mouth as a person would do, it simply fell onto the mass of rotting flesh below it.
“Kill anything that moves!” Ursus shouted to the men around him. It didn’t need saying, they were already doing everything they could, he just wanted them all to know he was there. Julius Caesar was rumoured often to have joined the front ranks of his legions, in battle. He would wear a bright red cloak, if the stories were to be believed, in order to make sure both the enemy and his own men knew where he was. It did men who were being asked to fight, and die, good to see the man who asked everything of them, give everything in return. He was willing to do for them, what he asked them to do for him. So as Ursus made his presence felt on the wall, his men fought with renewed vigour and strength. Several undead fell in a matter of seconds, more were cut down, either climbing over the edge of the wall or as they leapt into sight.
“Show them what real Roman courage is, destroy them all,” Ursus added as he sliced into a female, the blow almost cut her in two at the waist. She crashed onto the top of the wall, joined only by her broken spine. The top half of her body still tried to reach for his legs as the weight of her legs dragged her back off the wall.
“With all due respect, sir,” a young legionary said to Ursus’ left, “that’s fucked up.”
Ursus bellowed with laughter as he drove the hilt of his sword into the forehead of a child and stilled its tormented afterlife.
Ursus stepped back from the front of the wall and walked behind the fighting men. In many ways it was an easier job than defending a wall in a normal siege. There were no missiles or artillery bombardments to worry about. The relentless flow of enemies would eventually wear down even the most resilient defence, however. Ursus started to consider an escape plan for Otho and a contingent of guards. Better that the emperor escape and live to fight on, than to die in a pointless, heroic display that the enemy would never understand.
He looked out over the city while he shouted words of encouragement. Fires were starting across the city. The palace was no more than a dying thing, breathing its last breaths. There was nothing here to defend but until emperor Otho commanded that they stop, they would fight until the last man.
“Sir! Sir!” a voice called from below him, barely audible above the sound of the fighting. He looked down to see a young slave boy, no more than twelve years old. As he caught the boy's eye Ursus saw barely suppressed terror at being so close to the fight.
“What is it, boy?" he shouted down. As he did, he stabbed his blade into the head of a Risen that was inches away from latching on to one of his men. The legionary in question didn’t even know how close he had come. Just one of a thousand moments that make up a fight.
“Sir! Emperor Otho requests your company in his chambers,” the boy shouted. Ursus cursed under his breath. At this moment his place was here on the palace wall, protecting the palace and everyone in it. He turned to the nearest centurion.
“I will return as soon as I can. Keep this wall safe with your lives.” The centurion saluted and turned back to the fight. Ursus moved down the steps and headed toward the palace.
Otho was laid back on a couch when Ursus entered the room. He had a goblet in his hand and food was set out before him on a low table. The emperor motioned to a second couch opposite when Ursus entered. The Prefect sat, uncomfortably, on the edge of the seat, unable to lay back if he wanted to, with his armour on.
“How goes the fight?” Otho asked.
“I think we should plan on getting you out of the palace and then out of Rome," Ursus said, in the belief that direct honesty was the best policy. Otho smiled and shook his head.
“I won’t be run out of Rome by anybody, certainly not those things out there.”
“Caesar, the walls are close to being over-run, we simply didn’t have enough men inside the palace when the undead broke into the city. I really think you should consider...” Ursus was cut short by Otho raising his hand to quiet him and getting to his feet.
“Come to the window,” he said to Ursus, “I want to show you something.” He gestured to Ursus, then turned his back to him and walked onto the balcony that overlooked the city.
Ursus stood up, loosening a leather tie in the back of his belt. He stepped out onto the balcony so that he was shoulder to shoulder with his emperor. The city beyond was starting to burn, they could see streams of undead climbing the walls of the city, in the distance. Otho pointed out toward the distant sounds of screaming, the dying cries of Romans.
What happened next was so quick that most men would have been lost, but Ursus was expecting it. He saw Otho step back a pace and at the same time he felt the emperor’s arm reach around his throat from behind. He made no attempt to stop Otho putting the blade of a knife to his throat.
“Look out there,” Otho spat into his ear. “This is down to you. You failed me, you failed Rome."
Ursus said nothing, he remained calm. He had known this moment must come and had been ready for it.
“Or did you plan this all along? To destroy my legacy and take Rome for yourself? You seem very keen to get me out of the city.” Otho’s breath was hot in Ursus’ ear as the man held a knife to his throat and cursed him. He could still feel the point where the assassin’s needle had punctured his throat, he had survived that and he would not die now.
“You’re insane, Otho,” he said, knowing it would only make the man angrier that he did not show him respect. It was a calculated move. He knew there was a small chance that the man would just slice the knife across his throat but he knew Otho well. He would want to rant and rage at him before killing him.
It all distracted Otho from the fact that Ursus had a knife in his own hand. He had been too busy talking to notice Ursus slip it out of the back of his belt. He had been too angry to realise that Ursus had the blade positioned next to the huge vein that ran through his groin. It was a point that every legionary was taught to aim for in battle. The blood would flow so quickly, that with one cut the enemy could die before he even knew he had been defeated. He added some pressure to the
blade and Otho stopped moving.
The blade at Ursus' throat relaxed slightly. Otho knew that if he killed Ursus there was every chance that he would die in the same instant.
“Back away from me, slowly,” Ursus said in a low, calm voice.
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Garic locked the door of the barrack block and turned to Hakor.
“We go now,” Hakor said. They were standing outside the centurion's office and were the last men in the barracks. In the instant they had realised the city was overrun, the guard on the wall had given up the fight. Horatius had tried to do his duty and keep the men together but it was a losing battle. The men knew it was a futile gesture to die on the wall, with the enemy already behind them.
“I can’t Hakor, my wife, my son, my friends,” he pleaded with the big Egyptian. “I can’t leave them. I know a way out of the city and they are trapped, I have to help them.”
“How can you know they are still alive?” Hakor asked.
“I can’t be sure but they are strong, I have to try, for my family.”
Outside the barracks door somebody screamed, it was followed by a loud banging on the door. Garic was grateful that the door was sturdy and strong. He moved down the corridor and put his eye to a small peephole. Outside were a number of men brandishing an assortment of homemade weapons. They must have seen his shadow cross behind the peephole because as soon as he had seen them, they began to shout through the door.
“Let us in!” one man, with a bushy beard, shouted.
“Fuck off,” Hakor said from behind Garic. The big man shook his head when Garic turned a questioning eye to him.
“Let us in, we want weapons,” a second man shouted. “We need to defend ourselves, we’re dying out here.”
Garic knew that the weapon store was as good as empty. Every man had taken something with him as he left. A bow and a couple of warped arrows were all that was left. It would do no good to tell these men the truth though.
“You don’t have enough men to come in here and take them,” he shouted through the door. “Now do as my friend says and fuck off.” He had to hope that the men outside would believe there were guards still inside, rather than one ex-slave and one almost fat, ex-butcher.
He watched as the men backed away from the door and conferred with each other. Two of the men in particular seemed to be at odds. One kept pointing back toward the barracks while the second was gesturing back toward the city.
While they argued, two Risen seemed to drop out of the sky and land behind them. Garic guessed they must have come from outside the wall. They were on one of the men before the rest had any idea what was happening. The group scattered blindly, running with no thought as to where they were going. As they reached the street, two turned left and three went in the opposite direction.
The Risen clawed the man in the yard to the floor and sank their teeth into him. He died awash in his own blood. With nobody else around to distract them the Risen settled down and began to eat away at the dead man’s stomach cavity. Garic had seen these creatures, up close, many times but never taken the time to study their behaviour. These things weren’t just hungry they were ravenous, they gorged themselves on human flesh. Their entire beings were focused on the need to eat the flesh in front of them.
It repulsed him in a base, core way, the idea that humans could be reduced to such animal instincts. In most ways they were lower than animals. A dog would eat itself so full that it would need to vomit, but they were also capable of deep love. They cared more for the life of their owner than they did for their own. These undead monsters were only capable of killing and eating. It was the reason they were so successful, the reason humans could never truly compete with them.
“Okay, I’ll wait for you,” said Hakor behind him. “But I won’t wait forever.”
“You’re a good man, Hakor,” replied Garic. “If I go for the others will you guard this place? I don’t see why you should have any trouble you can’t cope with.”
“Only fire is going to get me out of here,” the Egyptian answered. “If that happens, I’m afraid you’ve seen the last of me. I will be down that trapdoor and out of the city before the first spark catches hold.”
Garic nodded, it was as much as he could ask of the man. He had been torn from his home and turned into a slave by Romans, yet he still found it in his heart to help one. If there was hope for humanity it was in acts like this one.
“How long will you wait?” Garic asked.
“As long as I can,” came the reply. “If I have to leave, I will head North. I will wait for you about ten miles up the road. I will watch for you.” He held Garic’s shoulders and looked square into the Roman’s face. “You are a good friend, Garic. I hope you make it back here.”
Garic nodded turned away. His stomach felt like it was full of ice. It was taking every ounce of his will to make himself do this thing. He could so easily turn and run with his new friend. Leave the city, his family and friends. In a few days who would know? Most would be dead and those that weren’t would have their own tales to tell and secrets to hide. This was a time of heroes and cowards. Garic didn’t think of himself as the former but refused to be the latter.
Garic made his way to the store and filled his flask from a jug of watered wine. He did not want to dull his senses but courage would have to come from wherever he could find it. He checked his weapons, the gladius he had used on the wall and the dagger on his belt. He tightened the straps on his arm grieves, the only armour he was comfortable wearing. After he was satisfied with everything, he moved toward the door.
A glance through the spy-hole showed him that the two Risen were still in the yard. He would avoid them if he could but his confidence in his ability to tackle them was much greater than it had been even a week ago.
It did not occur to him in any real way that the time he had spent on the wall had changed him, but it had. He was harder, physically and mentally. He was more confident, although he didn’t feel it now. He was, in short, better equipped to deal with the days to come than he had ever been in his life.
He turned back to Hakor and held out his hand to the big man. The dark-skinned ex-slave, from a land so far away Garic could never dream of going there, shook it warmly.
“I will see you, shortly,” Hakor said to him.
“I certainly hope so, my friend,” Garic answered. He turned to the door and turned the handle slowly. There was the faintest screeching noise as he did so, so quiet but so alarming to his ears, the undead still feasted on their prize and didn’t hear it. Garic slipped out of the door and into the yard, he had his gladius in hand and his senses ready for the slightest sign of danger. This over-weight butcher, who had never left Rome for more than a couple of days in his life, slipped past the undead without the slightest sound. He slowly closed first one gate, then the other, hearing the latch snap into place. Little good would come of allowing the yard to be overrun. He stepped out into the street and made his way toward the house of Domitius, his family and his friends.
Ahead of him on the street people were looting a shop. They carried baskets of food and jugs of wine, but carried no weapons with which to defend themselves. Most would be dead in the next couple of days, or worse, undead.
Garic slipped into a shadowy alleyway and out onto the street beyond. Death was everywhere, if it came for him he swore he would be ready.
Chapter Twenty Two
It was one of the legionaries on guard duty at the camp that first realised something was happening inside the city. It had been one of the more unusual duties of his long legionary career. He had been in the privileged position of watching the cavalry perform almost hypnotic manoeuvres, cutting swathes through groups of the undead. He was on one of three watch towers that could see the grassy plains in front of the city and as such had a view the rest of the camp could not enjoy.
The horses went out in pairs, with no more than three pairs on
the field at any one time. This made sure the pairs did not foul each other, giving them all space to move. The undead had no answer to the swirling, circling patterns of the horse teams and had spent most of the day walking in random directions, unable to think fast enough to keep up with the horse teams. Each sweep of the field left broken and battered remnants behind the teams, thinning the horde of undead.
There were actually so many bodies on the field that the horses were having to be careful not to foul their feet and trip. They had only lost three horses and riders since the manoeuvres had begun. It was a miraculous number, the legion was blessed by the gods. The legionary had been watching this dance play out in front of him when he had seen the first signs of smoke from the city beyond.
He had called down immediately and before long had been joined by officers in the watch tower. Knowing better than to get involved in the discussions over strategy, he had kept his ear turned away from the wind so that he wouldn’t miss anything he could tell his bunk mates later.
It had taken a while to ascertain the nature of the fire. Such things were dangerous in such a closely packed city as Rome but were far from uncommon. It had taken even longer for someone to realise that all movement atop the wall had ceased. They watched in horror as the Risen gained the wall in ones and twos, then in greater numbers. It had been shortly after this, that Emperor Titus himself had made the climb up the tower to view the destruction of his beloved city.
The legionary had stepped off to one side already, to give his seniors the room they needed. When Titus’ head had appeared at the top of the ladder he had stood to attention and saluted, unable to believe he was so close to his emperor. This would get him more than one drink when he saw his tent mates later.
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