Conn Iggulden - The Gates Of Rome

"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.

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.