"Ho, the ship!"
A strong, familiar voice rang out. A tall man with a singular red beard shoved through the crowd to the retaining wall. Barely a half-dozen men still fought at his side, several of them sorely wounded. Only yards away, through the mob, Sextus saw the Arabs pressing, blades rising and falling in fierce, brutal cuts. People were screaming now and the entire mob seemed to wake with a start. It moved, a herd surging, spooked by summer thunder. Twenty or thirty people—those jammed closest to the water—were shoved into the harbor with a mighty splash. Sextus jerked as if struck with a whip.
"Throw them ropes," he shouted, turning again to the other legionaries. They stared back, faces blank. "Fools!" the engineer snarled at them, then ran along the railing. He found a heavy rope knotted at intervals and snatched up the coil. He ran back, screaming curses at the other men on the ship.
He reached the gangway and knelt, hands quick as they wound the rope into a heavy bolt stapled to the deck. Sextus braced his foot, standing, and hurled the coil into the water. On the dock, the legionaries turned at bay, forming a too-small circle with their shields. The engineer leaned out, screaming at the top of his lungs—"Here! Here! Swim to the ship!"
The red-bearded man looked back over his shoulder, a spatha bare in his hand. Sextus recognized him at last. "Lord Aurelian! Here, Lord Prince, here!"
Shrieking, the mob parted, men and women trampling those too slow to flee. The Arabs pushed through behind a thicket of spears. The legionaries on the wharf locked shields and the ring and clatter of steel on steel drifted across the water. Sextus bit his thumb, silently begging the prince to leap into the water. Instead, his powerful head was clearly visible among the others, his long blade flashing, driving back the first rush of the enemy.
Oars rose, shedding brown, silty water, and the ship crabbed out into the harbor. Two burly legionaries bent to the steering oars on the rear deck, trying to turn the grain hauler to catch the wind. The sails—huge squares of stitched canvas—luffed as the ship turned. For a moment, forward motion ceased, though all four oars dug deep into brown water, the crews on the sweeps groaning with effort.
"Here, my lord," Sextus screamed again, beckoning.
A towering Arab clashed with the prince and the two men—each head and shoulders above his companions—exchanged a fierce series of cuts and slashes. The ringing clang of blade on blade was clear even on shipboard. The prince held his own, then advanced, whirling the spatha in a driving attack. The Arabs fell back, stabbing at his feet and head with their spears. A clear space emerged, though in the brief interlude, two more of the legionaries—already wounded—had been stricken down.
More green turbans pushed through the crowd and the engineer realized the avenues leading down to the docks were now filling with a rustling, shuffling mob far different from the panicked citizens who had first rushed down to the shore.
"My lord," Sextus wailed, hand hanging in the air. "Please!"
The Arabs rushed forward, shouting a sharp, high cry. Aurelian met their attack head-on, smashing one man to the ground, then slashing his blade back, catching another behind the head. The Arab toppled, helmet smashed down over his eyes, spine bared white to the sky. The others jostled, trying to get at the prince. Spinning, Aurelian took two, long racing steps and leapt over the retaining wall. His trim, powerful body speared into the water with a sharp splash.
Sextus shouted in relief, leaning over the side to grasp the knotted rope, flipping it out towards the shore. The Arabs rushed forward, the last legionnaire slumping back against the marble wall, four or five spears grinding into his chest, his neck, his armpit. Blood splashed across white stone. A young man with a sharp face and neat, coal-black beard leapt atop the wall.
The engineer threw the rope again, though he could not see Aurelian beneath the turgid surface, not yet.
A forest of green-and-tan crowded at the wall. The young Arab shouted, pointing. Aurelian's head burst from the waters, more than halfway between the ship and shore. He took his bearings, then struck out for the hull, swimming strongly. Sextus felt a chill, realizing the prince was still in full armor. The strength of ten! his mind gibbered, calculating the weight of metal and leather. "Here, a rope!"
The knotted line flew out again, splashing into the water only yards from the prince. Aurelian caught sight of the rope and turned, muscular arms cleaving through the low waves.
On the retaining wall, the young Arab was arguing with his soldiers, gesturing violently toward the man swimming in the water. Two of them—older men with heavy beards—shouted back. The sound of defiance in their voices drew Sextus' attention. One, a tall, hook-nosed man carrying a long, curved bow shook his head sharply in refusal. The young Arab turned away, face twisted in fury, and snatched a spear from one of his fellows.
"Dive, my lord!" Sextus screamed at the prince, seeing the Arab take a hurling stance, shoulder sliding back, the iron head of the spear poised at his chin. "Dive!"
Aurelian doubled his pace, surging through the water. The rope was only feet away. The Arab whipped around, spear leaping from his fingers, arcing into the sky. Aurelian grasped the rope and slid under the waves, the weight of his armor dragging him down. Sextus hauled, feeling the line stiffen and spring out of the water. Other hands grasped hold, a whole crowd of men around him, and they pulled for all they were worth.
The prince's head shot from the water, his arm tangled in the line, and a wake foamed around his shoulders. Glittering, the spear flashed down. Sextus shouted again, though there were no comprehensible words. Aurelian twisted, flinging himself away from the missile. The spear plunged into the water, only a hand span away. On the ship, a hundred legionaries cheered lustily in relief. Sextus continued to haul, rope burning between his fingers. A moment later, as more spears plunged into the water, Aurelian was dragged against the side of the ship. Arrows flashed past the prince's head, burying themselves in the oaken planks of the ship with a meaty thack!
A dozen hands reached down, dragging Aurelian up to the railing. The knotted rope wound tight around his arm and shoulder, biting deep into bruised flesh. Sextus grasped hold of the prince's shoulder strap, hauling him—clanking, water spilling from his armor—over the side. Everyone collapsed to the deck in a sodden heap, Aurelian's pale, drained face framed by wet iron and glistening leather.
"My lord," Sextus cried, tears streaming down his grimy face. "You live!"
Aurelian grimaced, bluish lips drawing back from clenched teeth. His fingers clutched Sextus' hair. "Do I?" the prince gasped, shuddering, and Sextus looked down. Blood flooded from Aurelian's side. A long gash tore open his lower stomach, some unseen blow severing the prince's armored skirt. His belt was missing and the lower edge of the lorica was twisted and bent.
"No!" Sextus pressed desperately against the wound, feeling gelatinous, coiled tubes squirm away under his fingers. "No! We saved you, my lord, we saved you!"
Aurelian's face drained of color, though someone was trying to force the nipple of a wineskin into his mouth and his body shook with a racking cough. Blood covered Sextus' forearms and the prince died, there on the deck of the ship as she wallowed out into the harbor, away from the fallen city.
"Oh no." Frontius leaned over the prince, his face gone ashy white. The other men drew back, and a mutter of despair coursed from dozens of lips. Sextus, his arms washed red, laid the prince down, taking care his head did not crack against the planks. Still kneeling, the engineer turned to stare back at the docks. The hosts of the enemy crowded the wharfs, and even at this distance Sextus could see the young captain and the two older men.
They raised their spears and swords in salute, a bright forest of flashing steel. A great basso shout rang out over the turgid waters and a thousand naked blades thrust to the sky in a single, sharp movement. Frontius stepped to the railing, staring in incomprehension. Again the blades flashed, and the roar of sound rolled out. The sound seemed to fill the air, driving back the heavy pressure that had grown over the city. Then again, as the Roman ship reached the long sandstone breakwater.
"What are they doing?" Frontius looked back at Sextus. The engineer stood, thin streams of blood spilling from his arms.
"They praise a brave man," Sextus said, though his voice was nearly unrecognizable. "As we will praise him. As he deserves." The engineer turned to the crowd of legionaries crowding the deck. Every man seemed as one dead—eyes hollow, faces caked with soot and sweat, armor dotted with blood—yet their gaze turned to him as he raised a hand.
"Bring a priest—if any survives among us—and a winding shroud. We will not burn our lord Aurelian at sea, but upon our homecoming. For him, we will spill the blood of beasts, of men. For him we will spill wine, and send a great smoke to the heavens. He will not go into the dark alone, without servants, without grain, without wine. He will not suffer in darkness, for we—the Legion—will always remember him!"
There was a stir among the crowd and the men parted, letting a white-haired centurion approach. Sextus was greatly relieved. Here was a priest of Mars Ultor, come to give a soldier a soldier's rites. Frontius gripped his shoulder. "Father Wolf," Sextus called, kneeling again beside the prince. "Give our comrade a blessing grace, to carry him across the Dark River. You men—where are the eagle standards, the golden plaque, where is the name of the city? Here is a son of Rome—its bravest son—and he needs know we pray for him, the city prays for him, that he is not alone in the cold darkness."
Again the crowd on the deck parted and the banners and sigils of the Legion approached, passed hand to hand among the soldiers. The ship was beginning to roll, buffeted by northerly waves and the sails filled with wind, driving them west at a steady pace. Someone in the mass of men packed onto the deck began to beat a drum. Father Wolf bent down, seamed face pinched tight in grief. The priest of Mars reached down, as the legionaries began to chant the "passage of the fallen" and closed Aurelian's eyes for the last time.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Via Campana, Just West of Rome
Golden light slanted through a stand of willows surrounding the way station. Gaius Julius, carefully dressed as a patrician on holiday, tipped back his wide-brimmed straw hat and squinted with interest against the glow of late afternoon. Two men were riding hard towards him along the horse path paralleling the highway, cloaks billowing behind them, faces half-masked by scarves. Despite the dust and grime of travel, he recognized them immediately.
"Ho!" he shouted, stepping out of the shady trellis in front of the cistern. His guardsmen stood up as well, a round-dozen men in bulky tunics and ill-disguised weapons. "Master Nicholas! Hie too, my friends."
The two horsemen reined in, the thin, dark-haired man in the lead staring at Gaius in surprise. The old Roman saw both the Latin and the Walach had ridden hard—hair lank and greasy, clothes caked not only with good Roman dust but also salt and tar—and he forced a welcoming smile.
"Here," the old Roman said, lifting a wineskin. "Something to drink. And there is food inside, hot from the brazier."
Nicholas blinked, finally recognizing his employer and tension drained from him, leaving the young man slump-shouldered with weariness. Vladimir was no better, though he was quick to slide from the nervous horse. The Walach staggered into the shade of the arbor, barely able to walk.
Gaius Julius helped Nicholas down, then waited patiently while the man drank deep from the skin. A brisk, crunching sound filtered from inside the way station and when Gaius and Nicholas entered, they found Vladimir busily devouring a huge section of roasted mutton.
"Eat first," the old Roman said, guiding Nicholas to a stone bench. "Then we'll talk."
—|—
The last tinge of gold faded from the sky as servants moved through the vine-covered arbor, lighting copper lamps from long, smoking tapers. Gaius' guardsmen were outside, sitting with the horses, making sure no wayward travelers disturbed their master's conversation.
"...so the Urbes Brigantium landed at Portus today and we made haste up to the city." Nicholas stared at the old Roman with a hollow-eyed look. "How did you know to meet us?"
"There is a messenger relay from the port," Gaius said, lifting his head slightly to indicate the distant coast. "The captain of the Brigantium sent a note ahead to the Palatine, which came to my hands from a friend. I left immediately, of course. But you did well to make such a fast passage from Africa."
"Bad news travels swiftly," Vladimir said, his head bent. The Walach refused to meet the old Roman's eyes. Nicholas seemed similarly despondent. "Have you heard anything of our... companions?"
"The traitors, you mean!" Nicholas roused himself, anger glittering in his pale eyes. "Curse Thyatis, her maid and her mistress! We had the telecast in our very hands and then we had nothing..."
Gaius Julius nodded, his quick mind burning with rage, anger, envy—deftly done, he allowed—and Nicholas' singular hatred of the Duchess' agent loomed large in his thoughts. "This Thyatis Julia Clodia... describe her more fully."
"Tall," Nicholas muttered, his face twisting with mingled distaste and admiration. "Gray-eyed, strong, quick—very quick—with a blade. A deadly opponent. A whirlwind of steel. I've never seen such a woman before."