TimeRiders 05 - Gates of Rome (22 page)

The landlord grimaced and shook his head. ‘Pity.’

But Bob casually twisted his body, yanking the handle of the sword protruding from his ribs out of the hands of the man who’d thrust it into him. He grasped the handle and wrenched the blade out of his side. One sword in each hand now, all the
collegia
thugs had successfully managed to do was arm him with two swords … and, of course, annoy him.

Bob swept the sword in his left hand down low, a round, scythe-like sweep that hamstrung one of them and lopped the foot off another.

In his other hand he flipped the short sword blade-over-hilt, catching it by its tip then throwing it end over end at the third man who’d swung his heavy sword carelessly for Bob’s neck. It thudded into his stomach, the man doubling over with a grunt and dropping to his knees in the dirt, beside the other two men clutching their legs, spurting arcs of dark crimson on to the ground.

Above the courtyard voices cheered out from the balconies. Liam glanced up at them.

They’re cheering for Bob.

Bob picked up another discarded weapon and again had a sword in each hand. His beefy hands were spinning the blades like marching batons; shimmering blurs of glinting metal, like rotary saw blades; a
whusk-whusk-whusk
of sharp edges slicing through the air.

‘Who’s next?’ Bob announced calmly in heavily accented Latin.

He’s a one-man army.
Liam shook his head in amazement.
Isn’t he always?

The
collegia
thugs were certainly now looking less sure of themselves. Liam guessed reputation was at stake here. He could see the gang leader weighing things up, wondering whether to withdraw from the courtyard with all these people still openly braying their support for Bob, or try and finish the ox-of-a-man off. A lesson to everyone watching that no one –
no one
, not even this extraordinary brute – was going to walk away after thumbing his nose at their
collegia
.

He barked at the rest of his men. ‘Enough of the play! Now finish him!’

All six began to close in, their eyes warily on the spinning blades and the mischievous grin spreading across Bob’s face.

Liam glanced at Sal. ‘Big mistake.’

She wasn’t listening, or didn’t hear him over the caterwauling from above. Instead, she closed her eyes and turned away, just as the first wet
thunk
of a blade slicing through muscle and cracking bone filled the air.

Liam watched the blur of Bob leaping forward – the grace of a woodland deer married to the rippling, muscular bulk of a giant bear. He was no longer spinning his blades like a manic circus performer; instead, with flashes of metal and bright droplets of blood, he deployed a sequence of fast and precise thrusts
and slices that dropped all six men in rapid succession; each wet thud accompanied by an increasingly raucous cheer of delight from above.

A hand severed at the wrist hit the dirt a yard away from Liam, clenching and unclenching the hilt of a short sword reflexively.

In less than half a minute all six men lay dying, clutching bloody stumps or cradling puckering stomach wounds, desperately holding their insides in.

The courtyard echoed with a hundred or more spectators cheering gleefully as those
collegia
men still alive withdrew back down the rat run. The voices of the apartment block’s tenants echoed off the clay brick walls. Someone even tossed a basketful of sunflower petals from the third balcony into the air; they spun like confetti all the way down, finally settling on Bob’s sweating head.

The landlord stared wide-eyed at Bob, muttering some oath under his breath.

‘Bob’s become some sort of celebrity,’ said Maddy.

Liam made a face and spat out an olive stone. ‘And what’s one of those?’

‘Famous people, you know?’

‘People who get rich for doing nothing,’ added Sal. ‘Mostly.’

‘He’s a hero to the people in this building,’ said Maddy, ‘aren’t you, Bob?’

He nodded. ‘I appear to have earned their approval.’

Maddy looked around the simple furnishings of the room: straw mat on the floor, a small low table between them, almost completely filled with food. They’d had a steady stream of offerings all evening. Gentle, polite knocks on their door, shy smiles through the grilled covered greeting hatch, whispers of gratitude and wooden platters of fruit, bread and amphoras of watered-down wine left behind. Food many of these people could ill afford to surrender so willingly.

The landlord, still wearing his blood-spattered leather apron, had even offered this room to them for nothing, although he’d not made clear how long that gesture of goodwill was intended for.

‘Bob humiliated those thugs,’ said Liam.

‘They run this district of Rome. The people do not like them,’ said Bob.

Liam frowned and spat out another stone. ‘They’re vicious crooks. Extortionists, so they are.’

Maddy sipped at her cup of diluted, sour-tasting wine. ‘These people are looking at Bob as some sort of champion now, aren’t they?
Their
champion.’

‘That could be of some tactical use to us,’ said Bob.

‘On the other hand …’ She swilled the wine round her mouth and made a face. ‘Ugh! On the other hand it could attract unwanted attention. We do need to be discreet.’

Sal was fiddling around with one of the babel-buds. ‘Tactical use?
Jahulla!
We don’t even really have a plan!’ She looked up. ‘Do we?’

‘Visitors came by not so long ago,’ said Maddy. ‘Within living memory of some of the people in Rome. Perhaps some of the people in this very building saw them? We need to ask around, carefully of course. We need to figure out
when
they came back.
Precisely when
. And why? What was their game plan?’

‘More to the point,’ added Liam, ‘where the devil are they now?’

‘Who knows? They might be here still. They might have gone native. Blended in.’

They sat in silence. Outside, in the courtyard below, they could hear a dog snapping and yowling. Through the thin walls of clay brick they could faintly hear the muted exchanges of other families: somewhere a woman cried; somewhere angry voices snapped at each other; somewhere pots clattered on a brazier.

Liam made a face again. ‘Gah! So bitter.’ He spat out another stone on to the side of the plate of stale fruit, curling his lips in disgust. ‘These grapes are rubbish, so they are.’

Maddy looked at him, then at the olive stone. ‘God, you can be such a moron, Liam.’

It was a tap as gentle and as light as a feather’s touch. Quiet enough that neither Sal nor Liam stirred. Or Bob. He’d gone into one of his occasional ‘standby’ modes, sorting his memories into more efficient storage compartments. ‘De-cluttering’ was the term Sal used for it. Not quite what he was doing inside his head, but close enough.

Maddy sat up and listened carefully. The city, or at least this district of it, had finally quietened down for the night. Even the feral dogs had stopped their yapping.

Tap-tap.

Someone at their door. Maddy softly called, ‘Who’s there?’ before she realized, even if she knew how to ask that in Latin, she wouldn’t have a hope of making sense of the answer. She fumbled in the dark for the babel-bud and found it where Sal had left it on the table. She eased it into her ear, and then quietly – whispering to herself – asked the same question. The bud soothingly translated for her.

She stood beside the oak door. She could see the faint, flickering amber of candlelight coming through the door’s grated hatch and round the loose-fitting doorframe. She could see the shadows of somebody’s feet shuffling impatiently outside. She looked out into the passageway.

It was their landlord. ‘Yes? Can I help?’

‘I’ve got someone here,’ he grunted, ‘who’d like to meet your friend.’

She noticed a man beside him; tall and lean, his dark curls emerged from beneath a hood pulled up to hide as much of his face as possible. By the flickering glow of the candle, she thought at first he looked quite young, but then saw flecks of grey in his dark hair, the traces of lines around his eyes; his was a face that looked like it had seen the better part of thirty or forty years, but he was still very lean and fit.

A soldier perhaps.

Maddy tried the phrase of Latin the bud had whispered in her ear. ‘Who is that?’

The landlord replied in a soft growl, a ragged voice that sounded like it had spent a lifetime being abused. ‘He’s an old friend of mine from my army days. A good man.’

The younger man stepped forward. ‘May I speak to the one who got the better of Varelius’s men?’

‘He’s asleep.’ Which was kind of true.

‘I wish to discuss a matter with him. An important matter as it happens.’

Maddy narrowed her eyes – the only part of her they could see through the door slot. She hoped this expression of suspicion was universal and timeless enough that they’d understand she wasn’t opening this door for them, not on the strength of that.

‘We’re alone out here,’ he added. ‘I just wish to talk. That’s all.’

She peered through the slit both ways. The passage did appear to be empty as far as she could see.

‘About what?’

The tall man looked uncomfortable uttering his business aloud. ‘It would be better discussed inside … in private. Please?’

She looked at them both, wondering how much of a threat they posed. The tall one was athletic for a middle-aged man, but nowhere near as muscular as the thugs Bob had effortlessly despatched earlier. And although his older friend the landlord was thickset and squat with brawn that looked decades old beneath his tanned, wrinkled skin, she doubted Bob would even break into a sweat dealing with him.

‘All right … just a moment.’

She turned round. ‘Bob! You two! Wake up!’

Liam and Sal stirred, sat up groggily. Bob was instantly alert.

‘We’ve got guests!’ said Maddy, gently sliding the door’s bolt aside.

They entered, the landlord’s guttering candle filling the small room with dancing amber light. Bob was on his feet with a sword in his hand, alert, ready for trouble, warily watching as both men came in, closed the door behind them and settled down on wooden stools.

Maddy looked at the tall one. ‘Who are you?’

The men looked at each other, silently communicating. ‘It doesn’t matter if they know
my
name, does it?’ shrugged the landlord. He turned back to her. ‘I’m Macro. Lucius Cornelius Macro.’

The younger man nodded. ‘And as a gesture of trust, of goodwill, I’ll tell you my name. It’s Cato. Quintus Licinius Cato.’ He lowered his hood so that she could see his face more clearly. ‘I’m a tribune of the Praetorian Guard.’

‘What do you want?’

Both men looked at Bob. ‘We wish to discuss a proposition.’

Cato studied them in silence, Bob in particular, before he finally spoke. ‘He is every bit as big as you said, Macro. I thought you were exaggerating.’

‘Never seen a brute this size move so quickly.’

Maddy found herself smiling. The bud in her ear was working hard to find and settle on suitable simulated voices and appropriate translations for the coarse soldiers’ Latin they were using. For Cato, it came up with a cultured-sounding British accent. For their landlord, Macro, it produced the tone, accent and mannerisms of a parade-ground sergeant.

Maddy whispered in a question then parroted the Latin to them. ‘What proposition did you want to discuss?’

‘You are newcomers to Rome, visitors?’

Maddy and Liam nodded. Sal, without a bud translating for her, could only look on in silence.

‘And you?’ Cato directed his question at Bob. ‘Where have you come from?’

‘He’s from Britain,’ said Liam. ‘In fact, we all are.’

Cato stroked his chin. ‘Can he not talk for himself? Is he mute?’

‘I am able to talk,’ replied Bob.

Cato recoiled at his deep voice. Macro laughed. ‘Told you, lad. He’s a monster.’

‘You’ve come here … on what business?’

‘Uh … just to see a bit of Rome, so we did.’

Macro laughed at Liam’s response. ‘With all manner of plagues going on, starvation and riots on the streets, you’ve picked a daft time to be tourists!’

Cato waved him quiet. ‘Macro’s quite right: this is not a good time to be in Rome. There’ll be blood washing the streets soon if matters don’t change.’

‘We noticed on the way in,’ said Maddy. ‘People on crucifixes … hundreds of them.’

Cato frowned. ‘Why do you whisper once before you speak? What’re you saying?’

‘It’s just … just how our, uh … how our
tribe
talk. It’s a custom.’ She shrugged. ‘We’re odd that way.’

‘Not a custom I’ve ever encountered before,’ grunted Macro.

‘Your emperor’s gone totally insane, hasn’t he?’ said Liam.

Macro barked a cough. Cato stiffened. ‘That’s not something you should say too loudly these days, lad.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There are purges going on in every district. Rival families, the wealthy ones, stripped of their villas, farms and money. Informers rewarded handsomely by Caligula for betraying those who openly doubt his divinity. Many of the
collegia
are bribed by him. The Praetorian Guard are paid well …’

‘You’re a Praetorian, aren’t you?’ said Maddy.

Cato stopped, nodded with a hint of shame. ‘For my sins, I am.’

‘So why are you here?’ she asked. ‘What’s this proposition?’

She noticed a shared glance between both men. A look that spoke of old friendship. More than that: trust; the kind of trust from which the thread of a life could hang.

‘There are a few of us,’ began Cato, ‘only a few of us left, prepared to meet and discuss this.’

‘Discuss what?’

‘A
change
.’

Change? Maddy listened to the word whispered into her ear. A word loaded with intent. Danger.

‘You’re talking about
removing
Caligula?’ she said.

Macro swore under his breath and stepped forward. ‘Foolish woman!’ he hissed. ‘You don’t just blurt it out like that!’