Gates of Rome

CHAPTER 71

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.

Cato pointed that out and Fronto nodded. ‘Idiots haven’t got a clue how to fight on foot.’

A moment later, the gap between them was closed and the clatter and ring of blades on shields and spear tips on armour began to fill the ominous stillness that had descended over the smoke-shrouded city.