The Emperor Series Books 1-4. Conn Iggulden
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city, with no attempt at subterfuge. The lookouts reported a torchlit snake of men stretching for miles back in the darkness, with the tail disappearing over hills. It was a marching formation for friendly lands, not a careful approach to close with an enemy. The confidence of such a casual march made many raise eyebrows and wonder what on earth Sulla was planning. One thing was for certain: Marius was not the man to be cowed by confidence.
Sulla clenched his fists in excitement as the gates and walls of the fortress city began to glow with the reflected light of his legion. Thousands of fighting men and half as many again in support marched on through the night. The noise was rhythmic and deafening, the crash of feet on the stone road echoing back and around the city and the night. Sulla's eyes sparkled in the flames of torches and he casually raised his right hand. The signal was relayed, great horns wailing into the darkness, setting off responses all the way down the great snake of soldiers.
Stopping a moving legion required skill and training. Each section had to halt to order, or a pile-up would result, with the precision lost in chaos. Sulla turned and looked back down the hill, nodding with satisfaction as each century became still, their torches held in unwavering hands. It took almost half an hour from the first signal to the end, but at last, they all stood on the Via Sacra and the natural silence of the countryside seemed to flow back over them. His legion waited for orders, gleaming gold.
Sulla swept his gaze over the fortifications, imagining the mixed feelings of the men and citizens inside. They would be wondering at his halt, whispering nervously to each other, passing the news back to those who could not see the great procession. The citizens would hear his echoing horns and be expecting attack at any moment.
He smiled. Marius too would be chafing, waiting for the next move. He had to wait, that was the key weakness of the fortified position – they could only defend and play a passive role.
Sulla bided his time, signalling for cool wine to be brought to him. As he did so, he noticed the rather rigid posture of a torch carrier. Why was the man so tense, he wondered. He leaned forward in his saddle and noticed the thin trickle of boiling hot oil that had escaped the torch and was creeping towards the slave's bare hand. Sulla watched the man's eyes as they flicked forward and back to the burning liquid. Was there a touch of flame in the trickle? Yes, the heat would be terrible; it would stick as it burned the man. Sulla observed with interest, noting the sweat on the man's forehead and having a private bet with himself as to what would happen when the heat touched the skin.
He was a believer in omens and at such a moment, before the gates of Rome herself, he knew the gods would be watching. Was this a message from them, a signal for Sulla to interpret? Certainly he was beloved of the gods, as his exalted position showed. His plans were made, but disaster was always possible with a man like Marius. The flickering flames on the oil touched the slave's skin. Sulla raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirking with surprise. Despite the obvious agony of it, the man stood still as rock, letting the oil run on past his knuckles and continue its course into the dust of the road. Sulla could see the flames light his hand with a gentle yellow glow yet still the fellow did not move!
‘Slave!’ he called.
The man turned to face his master.
Pleased, Sulla smiled at his steadiness.
‘You are relieved. Bathe that hand. Your courage is a good omen for tonight.’
The man nodded gratefully, extinguishing the tiny flames with the grasp of his other palm. He scuttled off, red-faced and panting at the release. Sulla accepted a cool goblet graciously and toasted the walls of the city, his eyes hooded as he tipped it back and tasted the wine. Nothing to do now but wait.
Marius gripped the lip of the heavy wall with irritation.
‘What is he doing?’ he muttered to himself. He could see the legion of Sulla stretching away into the distance, halted not more than a few hundred paces from the gate that opened onto the Via Sacra. Around him his men waited, as tense as himself.
‘They are just outside missile range, General,’ a centurion observed.
Marius had to control a flare of temper. ‘I know. If they cross inside it, begin firing at once. Hit them with everything. They'll never take the city in that formation.’
It made no sense! Only a broad front stood a chance against a well-prepared enemy. The singlepoint spearhead march stood no chance of breaching the defences. He clenched his fist in anger. What had he missed?
‘Sound the horns the moment anything changes,’ he ordered the section leader and strode back through the ranks to the steps leading to the city street below.
Julius, Cabera and Tubruk waited patiently for Marius to come over, watching him as he checked in with his advisers, who had nothing new to offer, judging by the shaking of heads. Tubruk loosened his gladius in his scabbard, feeling the light nerves that always came before bloodshed. It was in the air and he was glad he had stayed on through the hot day. Gaius, no, Julius now, had almost sent him home to the estate, but something in the ex-gladiator's eyes had prevented the order.
Julius wished the band of friends could have been complete. He would have appreciated Renius' advice and Marcus' odd sense of humour. As well as that, if it did come to a fight, there were few better to have at your side. He too loosened his sword, rattling the blade against the metal lip of the scabbard a few times to clear it of any obstructions. It was the fifth time he had done so in as many minutes and Cabera clapped a hand to his shoulder, making him start a little.
‘Soldiers always complain about the waiting. I prefer it to the killing, myself.’ In truth, he felt the swirling paths of the future pressing heavily on him and was caught between the desire to get Julius away to safety or to climb up onto the wall to meet the first assault. Anything to make the paths resolve into simple events!
Julius scanned the walls, noting the number and positions of men, the smooth guard changes, the test runs of the ballistae and army-killer weapons.
The streets were silent as Rome held its breath, but still nothing moved or changed. Marius was stamping around, roaring orders that would have been better left to the trusted men in the chain of command. It seemed the tension was affecting even him.
The endless chains of runners were finally still. There was no more water to be carried and the stockpiles of arrows and shot were all in position. Only the breathless footsteps of a messenger from another part of the wall broke the tension every few minutes. Julius could see the worry on Marius' face, made almost worse by the news of no other attack. Could Sulla really be willing to risk his neck in a legal entry to the city? His courage would win admirers if he walked up to the gates himself, but Julius was sure he would be dead, killed by an ‘accidental’ arrow as he approached. Marius would not leave such a dangerous snake alive if he came within bow shot.
His thoughts were interrupted as a robed messenger jostled by him. In that moment, the scene changed. Julius watched in dawning horror as the men on the closest section of the wall were suddenly overwhelmed from behind, by their own companions. So intent were they on the legion waiting outside that scores fell in a few seconds. Water carriers dropped the buckets they held and sank daggers into the soldiers nearest them, killing men before they even realised they were under attack.
‘Gods!’ he whispered. ‘They're already inside!’
Even as he bared his gladius and felt rather than saw Tubruk do the same, he saw a flaming arrow lit calmly from a brazier and sent soaring into the night. As it arced upwards, the silence of murder was broken. From outside the walls, Sulla's legion roared as if hell had broken open and came on.
In the darkness of the street below, Marius had had his back to the wall when he noticed the stricken expression of a centurion. He spun in time to see the man clawing at the air, impaled on a long dagger that had been thrust into his back.
‘What is it? Blood of the gods …’ He pulled in a great gasp of air to rally the nearest sections and, as he did, saw a flaming arrow sweep out into the ink blackness of the starless night.
‘To me! First-Born to the gate! Hold the gate! Sound full warning! They come!’