Alex Scarrow - Gates of Rome

The decurion caught Fronto’s reply above the noise of his own men assembling in ranks behind him. ‘That’s not true! I have orders from the prefect!’ The decurion looked at Cato. ‘Orders for your arrest.’

‘It’s common practice in the Roman army to address a senior officer as sir, Decurion.’

‘Open the gates immediately!’ the decurion snapped as Fronto’s men lined up behind their shield wall. ‘This tribune is to be arrested for treachery!’

Macro snarled angrily and took several steps towards the gate. He grabbed the iron rails in his hands. ‘This tribune is your superior officer!’

The decurion offered him a patronizing smile. ‘And you? What are you, you fat old man? Nothing. Not even a soldier.’

Macro ground his teeth then spat through the bars. ‘I could still take you on… boy.’

The officer ignored him. ‘You will open the gates immediately or you will ALL be treated as traitors and punished accordingly!’

‘Lads!’ Cato turned to face his men. ‘Those men outside the gate… have become deserters! Mercenaries! They’re here to fill their pockets and then flee the city before our emperor returns! It is our sacred duty to hold this gate!’

‘He’s lying!’

‘Quiet!’ snapped Macro, smacking his fist against the bars of the gate.

‘Men!’ Cato shouted. His voice was never going to match the parade-ground roar of Macro or Fronto, but it carried the authority of rank and experience. ‘The emperor has entrusted this cohort and this particular century to guard his home. He favours us. He trusts us. If we allow those men outside,’ he laughed, ‘those horse-maidens to come in…’

The men shared his amusement. There was little love lost between any legion’s foot soldiers and its squadron of cavalry. Equites who considered themselves a class above the rest.

‘… then we are breaking his trust and disobeying a direct imperial order!’

The decurion sighed, shook his head. ‘Right… have it your own way.’

Cato joined Macro beside the gate. They watched as the young officer turned away from them and headed back to rejoin his men.

Fronto joined the pair of them. ‘Well done, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘Some of my lads were looking a bit twitchy for a moment there.’

‘This stand-off’s only going to last until someone turns up with a higher rank or a written order,’ said Cato. ‘Then those men will turn us over.’

‘Maybe not… they’re good boys all in.’ Fronto shot a glance at the anxious faces of his men, eyes glinting in the shadow of their helmets, eyes on their centurion. ‘They’re a loyal bunch.’

‘Loyal enough to be branded traitors alongside us?’ replied Cato. ‘To face Caligula’s wrath?’

The centurion pursed his lips, not entirely sure of his answer.

‘Like I say… this stand-off’s going to be over the moment we get a higher rank out there.’

‘Stand-off?’ Macro sucked air through his gap-teeth. ‘It looks like we’re up for a bit of a scrap if you ask me. Look.’

Cato followed the direction he’d nodded in and saw a cart being rolled forward through the assembled ranks. It was stacked high and heavy with sacks of animal manure, pushed by several dozen men and beginning to roll under its own momentum.

He reached up and tightened the strap on his helmet. ‘I think you might be right there, Macro.’

AD 54, Imperial Palace, Rome

The front rank of dismounted equites sidestepped to allow the trundling cart through. Its large iron-rimmed wheels clattered noisily across the paving stones of the square before the palace’s north-east gate.

‘That’s coming right through,’ grunted Macro.

Cato nodded. The iron gates were more decorative than they were utilitarian; the cart was going to knock them right off their hinges without any trouble at all.

‘Fronto, form up your men closer to the gate.’ He pointed to stone posts either side, and the eight-foot wall that continued all the way round the Imperial Palace. ‘Once they’ve barged those gates open we can hold them in that bottleneck for a while.’

‘Right you are, sir.’

Fronto advanced his men to within twelve feet of the gates, ready to press forward into the open space the moment the cart was pulled back to allow the equites in.

‘Where do you want me, Cato?’ asked Macro.

Cato smiled. ‘Where you feel most at home.’

‘In the thick of it, then.’ Macro flashed a dark grin at him. ‘Like old times, eh, lad?’

‘Like old times.’

The cart outside had found the gentlest incline and now was rolling freely towards the iron gates, shedding several sacks as it bounced and vibrated across the flagstones.

‘Steady, lads!’ bellowed Fronto.

Cato watched Macro shoulder his way in among the front rank of the centurion’s men. ‘Come on, ladies, make a hole!’ he heard his friend growl at them.

Like old times.

Cato remembered his first skirmish in the army. He was just a boy only a couple of weeks into basic training; Macro, on the other hand, had been little different from the way he was now: short and stocky, an impenetrable wall of foul-mouthed confidence. He remembered that first skirmish, being petrified beyond belief, but somehow, even in the middle of the clash of arms and the screams of the dying, knowing that standing right beside his centurion, right beside Macro… he was safe. That he’d always be safe. As if a cloak of invincibility surrounded that cantankerous old man.

‘Here it comes, boys!’ shouted Macro. ‘Who’s up for teaching these horse-girls how to fight?’ The men either side of him roared with nervous laughter.

Cato grinned as he stood beside Fronto. ‘You’ll have to excuse him.’

‘You once served under him?’

Cato nodded. ‘Oh yes… and he was just as bad then.’

The cart closed the final few yards and crashed into the iron gates, knocking the left gate so hard its hinges exploded from the stone pillar in a shower of dust. The gate collapsed inwards and they heard a roar from the Praetorian cavalrymen outside.

A moment later, the cart lurched as men behind it began to work it back, clear of the tangle of bent and crimped iron bars. The other gate, hanging from just one twisted hinge, clattered over on to the ground and, caught up on the cart’s axle, was dragged away as the cart was pulled clear of the gateway.

‘Advance!’ ordered Fronto.

The front rank, sixteen men wide, advanced behind their presented shield wall. One step at a time they approached until they finally filled the gap between the stone pillars.

Cato spotted the decurion now joined by a cluster of several others still mounted. He saw the plume of another ranking officer trotting through the kicked-up dust and haze outside. The praefectus alae… commanding officer of the Guard’s entire cavalry wing.

He cursed. The last thing he needed was that officer talking round Fronto’s men. Better that the talking was all done and the fighting had begun. He decided to hasten things along.

‘Fronto… let’s give them an opening volley.’

The centurion nodded, and barked an order for his men to ready-and-release on his command. The men, two ranks of sixteen, all took a step backwards, javelins drawn back in their right hands.

‘RELEASE!’

The modest volley arced through the air across thirty yards and picked out no more than a dozen victims. Not enough to make any sort of a difference, but enough to ensure the time for parlaying was over. The equites, many of them foreigners from across the empire — Batavians, Sarmatians, expert horsemen, but certainly no match for legionaries on foot — began to advance on the gateway in a ragged, loosely formed line, short spears protruding between their shields, a line of light oval shields designed for dextrous horseback melee, not closed formations. Spears instead of their swords… another cavalry habit. They were used to wielding a weapon with reach.