this foreign land, unknown in his own. He wondered if his father’s spirit was close by and watching and decided that it probably wasn’t. His father at least had the sense not to sit in the cave and wait for the bear to come home.
Galloping hoof-beats sounded in the distance. Cabera held the main gate open as he watched the approaching figure. Was it the first of the attackers, or a messenger from Rome? He cursed his vision that allowed him such fragmentary glimpses into the future, and never anything that involved himself. Here he was holding the door for the rider, so he had had no warning. The clearest visions were those in which he wasn’t involved at all, which was probably meant to be a lesson from the gods – one rather wasted on him, on the whole. He had found that he could not live life as an observer.
A tail of dark dust followed the figure, barely showing in the gloom of the gathering twilight.
‘Hold the gate!’ a voice commanded.
Cabera raised an eyebrow. What did the man think he was doing?
Gaius’ father Julius came thundering through the opening. His face was red and his rich clothes were stained with soot.
‘Rome is on fire,’ he said as he jumped to the ground. ‘But they will not get my home.’ In that moment, he recognised Cabera and patted his shoulder in greeting.
‘How is my son?’
‘Doing well. I am …’ Cabera tailed off, as the vigorous older version of Gaius strode away to organise the defences. Tubruk’s name echoed around the internal corridors of the estate.
Cabera looked puzzled for a moment. The visions had changed a little – the man was a force of nature and might just be enough to tip the balance in their favour.
His mind went blank again as he heard the shouts rise in the fields. Muttering in frustration, Cabera climbed the steps up to the estate wall, to use his eyes where his internal vision had failed.
Darkness filled every horizon, but Cabera could see pinpoint pricks of light moving in the fields, meeting and multiplying like fireflies. Each would be a lamp or a torch held by angry slaves, their blood warmed by the heat of the sky over the capital. They were already marching towards the great estate.
All the house servants and slaves stayed loyal. Lucius the estate doctor unwrapped his bandages and materials, spreading vicious-looking metal tools on a piece of cloth on one of the wide kitchen tables. He collared two of the kitchen boys as they were grabbing cleavers to help in the battle.
‘You two stay with me. You’ll get your fill of cutting and blood right here.’ They were reluctant, but Lucius was more of an old family friend and his word had always been law to them before. The lawlessness that was rife in Rome had not yet spread to the estate.
Outside, Renius had everyone in the yard. Grimly, he counted them. Twenty-nine men and seventeen women.
‘How many of you have been in the army?’ his voice rapped.
Six or seven hands rose.
‘You men have priority for swords. The rest of you go and find anything that will cut or crush. Run!’
The last word shocked the frightened men and women out of their lethargy and they scattered. Those who had already found weapons remained, their faces dark and full of fear.
Renius walked up to one of them, a short, fat cook with an enormous cleaver resting on his shoulder. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Caecilius,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll tell my children I fought with you when this is over.’
‘That you will. We don’t have to break a full assault. The attackers are out for easy targets to rape and rob. I mean to make this estate a little too hard to crack for them to bother with. How’s your nerve?’
‘Good, sir. I’m used to killing pigs and calves, so I won’t faint at a drop or two of blood.’
‘This is a little different. These pigs have swords and clubs. Don’t hesitate. Throat and groin. Find something to block a blow – some sort of shield.’
‘Yes, sir, directly.’
The man attempted to salute and Renius forced himself to smile, biting back his temper at the sloppy manners. He watched the fat figure run away into the buildings and wiped the first beads of sweat from his brow. Strange that such men as that should understand loyalty where so many others threw it aside at the first hint of freedom. He shrugged. Some men would always be animals and others would be … men.
Marcus walked out into the yard, his sword out of its scabbard. He was smiling.
‘Would you like me to stand near you, Renius? Cover your left side for you?’
‘If I wanted help, puppy, I’d ask you. Until that time, take yourself to the gate and keep a lookout. Call me when you can see numbers.’
Marcus snapped off a salute, much crisper than that of the cook, yet held a little too long. Renius could sense his insolence and considered breaking the boy’s mouth for him. No, right now, he needed that stupid confidence of youth. He’d learn soon enough what killing was like.
As the men returned, he sent them to positions along the walls. They were far too few, but he believed what he had said to Caecilius. The outbuildings would be burned, no doubt; the granaries would probably go and the animals would be slaughtered, but the main complex would not be worth the deaths it would take. An army could take it in minutes, he knew – but these were slaves, drunk on stolen wine and freedom that would vanish again with the morning sun. One strong man with a good sword arm and a ruthless temperament could handle a mob.
There was no sign yet of Julius or Cabera. No doubt the former was putting on his breastplate and greaves, the full uniform. But where had the old healer got to? That bow of his would be a useful asset in the first few minutes of bloodshed.
The noise of the men on the walls was like a flock of geese, cackling in excited nervousness.
‘Silence!’ Renius snapped. ‘The next man to speak will get back down here and face me.’
In the sudden absence of chatter, they could again hear the screams and yells of the slaves in the fields.
‘We need to listen to what is going on outside. Keep silent and stretch a few muscles. Keep a distance from the next man along, so you can swing without cutting his head off.’
The men shuffled apart from the little knots that had formed out of a need for contact. The fear was in all their eyes. Renius cursed to himself. Ten good men from his old legion and he could hold this place until dawn. These were children with sticks and knives. He took a deep breath as he tried to find words to encourage them. Even the iron legions had needed speeches to fire their blood and they were confident of their skills.
‘There is nowhere to run to. If the mob breaks past you, everyone in this house will die. That is your responsibility. You must not leave your position – we are stretched thinly enough as it is. The wall is four feet wide – one long pace. Learn it – if you take more than one step back, you will fall.’
He watched as the men shuffled around on the wall, checking the width for themselves. His face hardened.
‘I will keep fighters in the courtyard to deal with any that get over the wall. Do not look down, even if you see your friends being killed before you.’
Cabera came out of the buildings, his bow restrung in his hand.
‘This is how you inspire them? Your empire is built on this sort of speech?’ he muttered.
Renius frowned at him. ‘I have never lost a battle. Not with my legion,