Alex Scarrow - Gates of Rome

‘English? You can understand me?’

His jaw flexed — trying to speak. Trying to form words with his ruined mouth.

Just then Bob stirred. ‘Information.’

Maddy held a hand up to shush him. ‘He’s trying to say something.’ The old man was gurgling something. Trying to produce a word.

‘Caution!’ said Bob more insistently. ‘I am detecting two more idents! Approaching from the east quickly!’

‘Two of them? We don’t stand a chance against two of them!’

‘What is your Stone Man saying?’ asked Cato.

Maddy turned to look at the doorway. ‘The others are coming!’ she hissed in Latin to Cato. ‘Sal!’ She started towards the doors. ‘SAL! Get Liam inside! HURRY!’

A moment later, she saw Macro and Sal with Liam dangling between them, shuffling inside.

‘We’ve got to close the doors!’ screamed Maddy. ‘Help me!’ She jogged across the floor and began to wrestle with one of the oak doors. Macro grabbed the other, the doors creaking on solid iron hinges. Bob was beside her a moment later and with a heavy, rattling thud, the wan light from the oil lamps in the small passage outside was gone.

By the light of her candle she could see there was no way to secure the doors, no locking bar on this side, no padlocks, nothing.

‘They are twenty yards away,’ said Bob.

‘Everyone! We’ve got to hold the doors!’ she barked, wedging her shoulder against one of them.

Cato was beside her now. ‘No! They’ll lock us inside and we’ll be trapped in here!’

Macro nodded. ‘Cato’s right. We’ll be dead men if we’re stuck in here when Caligula returns.’

Cato drew his sword. ‘We should fight them now. We have a chance against them.’

‘They’ll kill us all!’ Maddy cried.

‘Better that,’ said Macro, ‘than Caligula finding us in his palace.’

‘They are now directly outside,’ said Bob.

The doors suddenly boomed and rattled under the impact of something. A shaft of light spilled in as the doors momentarily parted. Bob threw his weight against them both and they clattered shut again.

‘There’s no knowing how long we have,’ said Cato. ‘Fronto’s lads are loyal to the emperor and their prefect, Quintus. They’re following my orders for now because they think I’m loyal too. But they catch a glimpse of what’s gone on here… Do you understand? They’re our men until they realize they’re being fooled.’ Cato shook his head. ‘We have to find whatever contraption it is you need to put things right and we have to leave this place quickly.’

Bob’s voice rumbled out of the gloom. ‘He is correct, Maddy. We are trapped in here. This is not tactically advisable.’

‘All right…’ Maddy panted in the dark. ‘All right… OK… we’ll — ahh Jeeesus, this is freakin’ crazy! So, I guess, what? We’re gonna fight them?!’

‘Your Stone Man, Macro and I… I say we have a chance.’

‘Wait!’

The voice came from out of the dark. She heard the slap of bare feet approaching. ‘Wait! I… know… this…’ His voice was weak and brittle, the words slurred and almost incomprehensible.

‘The word!’ he croaked. ‘The word! There’s a word… I know it! There’s a word!’

They didn’t have time for this. ‘Does everyone have a w-weapon?’ Maddy whimpered nervously. ‘Oh God, I can’t believe we’re doing this. We’re going to die!’

‘The word!!’ cried the old man. ‘I… I have the wo-o-o-o-ord!’

‘Stand back, old man,’ barked Macro, readying the sword in his hands.

‘On three,’ said Cato to Bob. ‘You open those doors on three. Is that clear?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Get back, Sal,’ whispered Maddy, holding the hilt of a knife in trembling hands.

‘Shadd-yah! Maddy? What? We’re letting them in?’

‘One… two… and… three!’

Bob pulled both doors inwards, stepping backwards into the room as the dancing light of oil lamps outside spilled in to meet them. He pulled the sword from his belt. The two Stone Men charged into the room, side by side — not a single microsecond wasted in offering a challenge.

‘ S-s-s-s-SPONGEBUBBA! ’ screamed the old man, an insane, wild, banshee scream that peeled round the darkness like the cry of some nocturnal forest creature.

The units instantly froze.

They dropped their swords and shields at their feet; a deafening clatter and rasp of metal on ceramic. Their heads dipped in unison, their eyes slowly closed as they straightened their posture, arms dropped to their sides, and they planted their feet heel by heel: soldiers standing to attention.

Ten, twenty seconds passed, the silence filled with a chorus of panting breath.

‘What are they doing?’ gasped Maddy.

Presently both units raised their heads and opened their eyes, gazed quite neutrally, almost benignly, at them.

‘Diagnostic mode reinitialized,’ they both calmly announced. ‘Please state your username and password.’

AD 54, Imperial Palace, Rome

Centurion Fronto heard the impatient clatter of hooves; nonetheless his optio called out the obvious. ‘Horses, sir!’

‘I can hear them.’ He stepped towards the iron gate and looked out on to the Vicus Patricius. An hour earlier there had been several hundred citizens gathered out there, pleading to be let in, begging for food and water. No rough-talking plebeians these, but the better-off citizens, well-to-do merchants, friends and hangers-on of the court.

They’d been there grasping the iron bars and rocking the gate menacingly. He’d had to muster several sections of his century to form up inside the palace compound, open the gates and present an advancing shield wall to flush them away. They’d dispersed eventually, but not before a few of them had felt the probing tip of a gladius between their ribs.

Since then, it had been relatively quiet outside. Little but the occasional shout and scream echoed from back streets and across rooftops, the faint rasp and clang of blades here and there as collegia and neighbourhood militias fought each other.

He looked through the iron bars and saw a column of cavalry making their way hastily up the Vicus Patricius towards them. For a moment he wasn’t sure if it was an advance party of scouts from Lepidus’s legions or their own Praetorian cavalry squadron.

‘Septimus? Can you make them out?’

The optio squinted. The sun was approaching the skyline of roofs and terraces; the men on horseback were a jiggling, silhouetted mass of helmet plumes, oval shields and the bucking heads of horses.

‘Not sure, sir.’

But as they drew closer, Fronto caught a flash of purple tunic. His heart sank. Imperial purple. They’re ours. That didn’t bode well. If those had been red tunics, they’d be horsemen from the Tenth and Eleventh. It would mean Lepidus had won and Caligula was finished.

The column of horsemen drew up outside the gates and a decurion dismounted quickly, striding towards the gates. Fronto ordered the gates open and went outside to meet him. The young officer stopped and saluted him.

Fronto acknowledged the junior officer. ‘Make your report. What’s happened?’

‘Sir!’ The young man gasped for breath. Clearly he and his men had ridden hard. ‘General Lepidus… has been beaten, sir!’

Fronto nodded, forced a grin on to his face. ‘That is good news. And the general?’

‘He’s dead, sir.’

Fronto struggled to contain a sigh of relief. Dead, at least Lepidus wasn’t going to be able to tell Caligula anything. Name any names. Hopefully he’d done the honourable thing and taken his own life before he could be captured alive.

‘Sir! I have orders from the prefect.’