Gates of Rome

CHAPTER 65

AD 54, Imperial Palace, Rome

Maddy gasped at the sight of it. Standing there, legs planted astride, sword drawn almost as if it had been patiently waiting for them.

But it was the thing’s appearance that surprised her: the breathtaking historical contradiction. Standing there, in the flickering light of a pair of oil lamps with a gladius held ready in one hand and a gladiator’s shield in the other, was something quite unmistakably from the twenty-first century. A soldier in military olive green. A soldier wearing a polygraphene torso plate, shoulder and forearm armour plates, thigh and shin plates and black combat boots. At a glance — except for the sword and shield, that is — little different from the kind of special-forces guys she was used to seeing in grainy night vision sliding down ropes on to the terrace roofs of Al Qaeda hideouts.

‘You are not permitted beyond this point,’ it said almost politely. ‘Leave immediately.’

Bob met its gaze. ‘You must step aside.’

The soldier studied Bob for a moment. A flicker of recognition, comprehension in his eyes. ‘You are a Heavy Combat Model.’

Bob nodded. ‘Affirmative. You are a Multi-role Reconnaissance Model. A later version?’

‘Yes, I am.’ He smiled. ‘Same manufacturer.’

Maddy could have sworn both clones nodded a quick ‘nice-to-meet-you’ greeting at each other.

‘You must step aside,’ said Bob finally.

‘You are not permitted beyond this point.’

‘Our priorities conflict.’

‘Agreed.’

Both units’ eyes flickered for a split second as they processed the same conclusion, but it was the soldier-unit who reacted first. He thrust his sword at Bob’s neck — with the speed of a snake bite. Bob dodged to one side, but not fast enough to avoid the tip skewering him deeply just above the collarbone.

Bob retaliated with a roundhouse swing of the sword in his right hand. The soldier parried the heavy blow with his shield; a clatter and ring that sounded deafening. Bob thrust with his other sword at the unit’s midriff. Its reaction time, or perhaps it was a module of combat-prediction code, anticipated the move and sidestepped it with an almost Becks-like ballerina grace, as it yanked its blade free from Bob’s shoulder.

Macro took a step forward and thrust his sword at the unit. It swept its bloody blade down from Bob and effortlessly blocked Macro with a jarring rasp of clashing sword edges.

Bob tried again with his right sword: this time a thrust not a swing. The shield snapped down to intercept it; another clang filled the passageway.

This time, though, the guard of Bob’s sword caught on the curved edge of the shield. Leverage for him; a chance to use his brawn. Bob flung his sword arm to the right, wrenching the small gladiator’s shield out of the unit’s grasp and hurling it against the passage wall.

The soldier-unit backed up a step. Eyes flickering from Bob to Macro, and now Liam as he took a faltering step forward to help them out.

‘Liam! No, don’t!’ hissed Maddy.

‘You will lose,’ rumbled Bob. ‘Stand down.’

‘He’s right,’ snarled Macro.

The unit was crouched like a rattlesnake ready to strike, passing its sword deftly from one hand to the other. ‘You do not have security clearance to pass. Please leave immediately.’

Macro and Liam were edging round either side of it, Cato warily holding his ground in front of it: a three-sided confrontation for the unit. But Maddy suspected it had already identified Liam’s as the weak side. He was no soldier.

‘Liam!’ she cried. ‘Please get back!’

‘I’m fine, so I am, Mads!’ he called back over his shoulder.

The soldier-unit took advantage of that — the split second of distraction.

It took a quick step in Liam’s direction and thrust its sword at his gut. The blade disappeared into his linen tunic and Liam yelped in pain. The unit quickly pulled the blade back, the tip spattered with blood.

Liam clutched his side, a blossom of crimson spreading through the material as he dropped to his knees. Macro thrust his old sword into the unit’s flank, exposed by the lunge towards Liam. Once again the unit’s mind, working in nanoseconds of prediction, anticipated that and successfully dodged the thrusting blade.

With both arms committed now, however, one withdrawing from Liam, the other blocking Macro’s thrust, the unit had nothing left to counter Bob’s sweeping downward stroke. His blade bit deep into the unit’s head — through the skull, deep enough to cause catastrophic, irrevocable damage to the organic-silicon processing centre inside.

Stern teetered unsteadily on his feet for a moment, a look of complete incomprehension in his grey eyes. A small trickle of dark blood ran between his brows, down the left side of his nose and on to his cheek.

He gasped something incomprehensible before falling forward, flat on his face. Quite dead.

‘ LIAMMMM! ’ screamed Sal, starting forward. She raced across the passage and scooted down beside Liam, still kneeling, holding his side. His face had turned grey, his skin waxy with beads of sweat.

‘Ahhh Jay-zus! This hurts! ’

Maddy was next to him. ‘Liam?’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Liam, how bad is it?’

He grimaced with the pain. ‘Do I look like a bleedin’ doctor? I… I don’t know!’

Macro and Cato joined the girls. ‘Macro’s looked after enough of his boys on the field.’

Macro nodded. ‘Let me take a look at you, lad.’

Bob grasped Maddy’s shoulder. ‘We do not have much time, Maddy. The other units are nearby somewhere.’

‘Your Stone Man is right,’ said Cato. He nodded at the door in front of them. ‘If whatever you seek is in there… then perhaps we should hurry?’

Maddy looked back down at Liam, now sprawled on the mosaic tiles, looking ashen, Macro ripping open the bloodstained tunic to get a look at the wound.

‘Sal…’ she said.

She nodded. Understood. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him. You go on.’

Maddy got up and followed Bob and Cato towards the door. A thick, iron locking bar ran across both doors and Bob easily slid it back with a heavy rasp that filled the short secret passageway. Maddy reached for a handle.

‘Be careful,’ said Cato. He tapped the heavy doors with his knuckles. ‘These seem like doors built more to keep something in than keep intruders out.’ The tribune took a deep breath, a sign perhaps that despite his rational mind, a part of him still held a wary suspicion that the supernatural realm of gods might just exist.

Maddy grasped the handle and pulled. The thick oak door rattled heavily, but didn’t budge. She cursed. ‘After all that, it’s freakin’ locked!’

Bob gently pushed against the other door. It swung inwards with an ominous creak.

‘Negative. You just need to push, not pull.’