Conn Iggulden: The Gates Of Rome

"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.

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-"