nose and murmuring that they would ride later, when all the excitement was over. He paused for a moment.
‘You can see the future?’
Cabera grinned and hopped from one foot to the other, amused.
‘You want to know if you will live or die here, yes?’ he chattered. ‘That is what everyone asks.’
Renius found his usual sourness coming back in force.
‘No. I don't think I do want to know that. Keep it to yourself, magician.’ He led the horse away without looking back, his shoulders showing his irritation.
When he had gone, Cabera's face filled with grief. He liked the man and was pleased to find that a sort of decency still resided in his heart, despite the fame and money he had won in his life.
‘Perhaps I should have let you go and wither with the other old men, my friend,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You might even have found happiness somewhere. Yet if you had left, the boys would have been surely killed, so this is a sin I can live with, I think.’ His eyes were bleak as he turned to the great gates of the estate outer wall and began to push them closed. He wondered if he too would die in this foreign land, unknown in his own. He wondered if his father's spirit was close by and watching and decided that it probably wasn't. His father at least had the sense not to sit in the cave and wait for the bear to come home.
Galloping hoof-beats sounded in the distance. Cabera held the main gate open as he watched the approaching figure. Was it the first of the attackers, or a messenger from Rome? He cursed his vision that allowed him such fragmentary glimpses into the future, and never anything that involved himself. Here he was holding the door for the rider, so he had had no warning. The clearest visions were those in which he wasn't involved at all, which was probably meant to be a lesson from the gods – one rather wasted on him, on the whole. He had found that he could not live life as an observer.
A tail of dark dust followed the figure, barely showing in the gloom of the gathering twilight.
‘Hold the gate!’ a voice commanded.
Cabera raised an eyebrow. What did the man think he was doing
Gaius' father Julius came thundering through the opening. His face was red and his rich clothes were stained with soot.
‘Rome is on fire,’ he said as he jumped to the ground. ‘But they will not get my home.’ In that moment, he recognised Cabera and patted his shoulder in greeting.
‘How is my son?’
‘Doing well. I am …’ Cabera tailed off, as the vigorous older version of Gaius strode away to organise the defences. Tubruk's name echoed around the internal corridors of the estate.
Cabera looked puzzled for a moment. The visions had changed a little – the man was a force of nature and might just be enough to tip the balance in their favour.
His mind went blank again as he heard the shouts rise in the fields. Muttering in frustration, Cabera climbed the steps up to the estate wall, to use his eyes where his internal vision had failed.
Darkness filled every horizon, but Cabera could see pinpoint pricks of light moving in the fields, meeting and multiplying like fireflies. Each would be a lamp or a torch held by angry slaves, their blood warmed by the heat of the sky over the capital. They were already marching towards the great estate.
All the house servants and slaves stayed loyal. Lucius the estate doctor unwrapped his bandages and materials, spreading vicious-looking metal tools on a piece of cloth on one of the wide kitchen tables. He collared two of the kitchen boys as they were grabbing cleavers to help in the battle.
‘You two stay with me. You'll get your fill of cutting and blood right here.’ They were reluctant, but Lucius was more of an old family friend and his word had always been law to them before. The lawlessness that was rife in Rome had not yet spread to the estate.
Outside, Renius had everyone in the yard. Grimly, he counted them. Twenty-nine men and seventeen women.
‘How many of you have been in the army?’ his voice rapped.
Six or seven hands rose.
‘You men have priority for swords. The rest of you go and find anything that will cut or crush. Run!’
The last word shocked the frightened men and women out of their lethargy and they scattered. Those who had already found weapons remained, their faces dark and full of fear.
Renius walked up to one of them, a short, fat cook with an enormous cleaver resting on his shoulder. ‘What's your name?’ he said.
‘Caecilius,’ came the reply. ‘I'll tell my children I fought with you when this is over.’
‘That you will. We don't have to break a full assault. The attackers are out for easy targets to rape and rob. I mean to make this estate a little too hard to crack for them to bother with. How's your nerve?’
‘Good, sir. I'm used to killing pigs and calves, so I won't faint at a drop or two of blood.’
‘This is a little different. These pigs have swords and clubs. Don't hesitate. Throat and groin. Find something to block a blow – some sort of shield.’
‘Yes, sir, directly.’
The man attempted to salute and Renius forced himself to smile, biting back his temper at the sloppy manners. He watched the fat figure run away into the buildings and wiped the first beads of sweat from his brow. Strange that such men as that should understand loyalty where so many others threw it aside at the first hint of freedom. He shrugged. Some men would always be animals and others would be … men.
Marcus walked out into the yard, his sword out of its scabbard. He was smiling.
‘Would you like me to stand near you, Renius? Cover your left side for you?’
‘If I wanted help, puppy, I'd ask you. Until that time, take yourself to the gate and keep a lookout. Call me when you can see numbers.’
Marcus snapped off a salute, much crisper than that of the cook, yet held a little too long. Renius could sense his insolence and considered breaking the boy's mouth for him. No, right now, he needed that stupid confidence of youth. He'd learn soon enough what killing was like.
As the men returned, he sent them to positions along the walls. They were far too few, but he believed what he had said to Caecilius. The outbuildings would be burned, no doubt; the granaries would probably go and the animals would be slaughtered, but the main complex would not be worth the deaths it would take. An army could take it in minutes, he knew – but these were slaves, drunk on stolen wine and freedom that would vanish again with the morning sun. One strong man with a good sword arm and a ruthless temperament could handle a mob.
There was no sign yet of Julius or Cabera. No doubt the former was putting on his breastplate and greaves, the full uniform. But where had the old healer got to? That bow of his would be a useful asset in the first few minutes of bloodshed.
The
