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 …’
‘Win? Who said we were going to win? When I saw Marius die, I knew we couldn’t win. I realised then that Sulla would break the back of the First-Born before enough could gather to cause him any real difficulty. This isn’t about winning, boy, it’s about fighting for a just cause, following orders and honouring a great man’s life and death.’
He looked at the men around the room. Only a few couldn’t meet his eyes and he knew he was among friends. He smiled. How would Marius have put it?
‘A man can wait a lifetime for a moment like this and never see one. Some just grow old and wither, never getting their chance. We will die young and strong and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘But, sir, perhaps we could break out of the city. Head for the mountains …’
‘Come outside. I am not going to waste a great speech on you buggers.’
Orso grunted and hobbled out of the door. In the street were a hundred or so of the First-Born, weary and dirty, with bandages wrapped around cuts. They looked defeated already and that thought gave him the words.
‘I am a soldier of Rome!’ His voice, by nature deep and rough, carried across them, stiffening backs.
‘All I ever wanted was to serve my time and retire to a nice little plot of land. I didn’t want to lose my life on some foreign ground and be forgotten. But then I found myself serving with a man who was more father to me than my own father ever was and I saw his death and I heard his words and I thought, Orso, this may be where you stand, old son. And maybe that’s enough, after all.
‘Anyone here think they will live for ever? Let other men plant cabbages and grow dry in the sun. I will die like a soldier, on the streets of the city I love, in her defence.’
His voice dropped a little as if he was imparting a secret. The men leaned close and more joined the growing crowd.
‘I understand this truth. Few things are worth more than dreams or wives, pleasures of the flesh or even children. Some things are, though, and that knowledge is what makes us men. Life is just a warm, short day between long nights. It grows dark for everyone, even those who struggle and pretend they will always be young and strong.’
He pointed to a mature soldier, slowly flexing his leg as he listened.
‘Tinasta! I see you testing that old knee of yours. Did you think age would ease the pain of it? Why wait until it buckles from weakness and have younger men shoulder you aside? No, my friends; my brothers. Let us go while the light is still strong and the day is still bright.’
A young soldier raised his head and called out, ‘Will we be remembered?’
Orso sighed, but smiled. ‘For a while, son, but who remembers the heroes of Carthage or Sparta today? They know how they ended their day. And that is enough. That is all there ever is.’
The young man asked quietly, ‘Is there no chance then that we can win?’
Orso limped over to him, using the crutch for support. ‘Son. Why don’t you get out of the city? A few of you could break off if you slipped past the patrols. You don’t have to stay.’
‘I know, sir.’ The young man paused. ‘But I will.’
‘Then there is no need to delay the inevitable. Gather the men. Everyone in position to attack Sulla’s barricades. Let anyone go who wants to, with my blessing. Let them find other lives somewhere and never tell anyone they once fought for Rome when Marius died. One hour, gentlemen. Gather your weapons one more time.’
Orso looked around him while the men stood and checked their blades and armour as they had been trained to do. More than a few clapped him on the shoulder as they went to their positions and he felt his heart would burst with pride.
‘Good men, Marius,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Good men.’
Cornelius Sulla sat idly on a throne of gold, resting on a mosaic of a million black and white tiles. Near the centre of Rome, his estate had been untouched by the rioting and it was a pleasure to be back and in power once more.
Marius’ legion had fought almost to the last man, as he had predicted they would. Only a few had tried to run at the end and Sulla had hunted them down without mercy. Vast fire trenches lined the outer walls of the city and he had been told that the thousands of bodies would burn for days or even weeks before the ashes were finally cold. The gods would notice such a sacrifice to save their chosen city, he was sure.
Rome would need to be cleaned when the fires were out. There wasn’t a wall anywhere that had not been speckled with the oily ash that floated in and stung the eyes of the people.
He had denounced the Primigenia as traitors, with their lands and wealth forfeit to the Senate. Families had been dragged out onto the streets by neighbours jealous of their possessions. Hundreds more had been executed and still the work went on. It would be a bitter mark on the glorious history of the seven hills, but what choice had he had?
Sulla mused to himself as a slave girl approached with a cup of ice-cold fruit juice. It was too early in the day for wine and there were so many still to see and to condemn. Rome would rise again in glory, he knew, but for that to happen the last of the friends and supporters of Marius – the last of Sulla’s enemies – had to be ripped from the good, healthy flesh.
He winced as he sipped from the gold cup and ran a finger over his swollen eye and the ridges of a purpling