will be born here and when Julius is able to return to the city he will come here first.’
‘What if he has been killed?’
She closed her eyes against the sudden stab of pain, feeling tears sting under the lids.
‘Father, please … Julius will come back to me. I … I am sure of it.’
‘Does he know about the child?’
She kept her eyes closed, willing the weakness to pass. She would not start sobbing, though part of her wanted to bury her head in her father’s chest and let him carry her away.
‘Not yet.’
Cinna sat on a bench next to a trickling pool in the garden. He remembered the conversations with the architect when he had been readying the house for his daughter. It seemed such a long time ago. He sighed.
‘You defeat me, girl. What will I tell your mother?’
Cornelia sat next to him. ‘You will tell her that I am well and happy and going to give birth in about seven months. You will tell her that I am preparing my home for the birth and she will understand that. I will send messengers to you when the streets are quiet again and … that we have enough food and are in good health. Simple.’
Her father’s voice was cracking slightly as he tried to find a note of firmness. ‘This Julius had better be a good husband to you – and a good father. I will have him whipped if he isn’t. Should have done it when I heard he was running about on my roof after you.’
Cornelia wiped a hand over her eyes, pressing the worry back inside her. She forced herself to smile. ‘There’s no cruelty in you, Father, so don’t try and pretend there is.’
He grimaced, and the silence stretched for long moments.
‘I will wait another two days and then I will have my guards take you home.’
Cornelia pressed a hand on her father’s arm. ‘No. I am not yours any more. Julius is my husband and he will expect me to be here.’
Then the tears could no longer be held back and she began to sob. Cinna pulled her to him and embraced her tightly.
Sulla frowned as his men raced to secure the main streets, which would give them access to the great forum and the heart of the city. After the first bloody scramble, the battle for Rome had gone well for him, with area after area taken with quick, brutal skirmishes and then held against an enemy in disarray. Before the sun had risen fully, most of the lower east quarter of Rome was under his control, creating a large area in which they could rest and regroup. Then tactical problems had arisen. With his controlled areas expanding in a line, he had fewer and fewer men to hold the border and knew he was always in danger from any sort of attack that massed men against a section where his were spread thinly.
Sulla’s advance slowed and orders flowed ever more swiftly from him, moving units around, or making them hold. He knew he had to have a secure base before he asked for any kind of surrender. After Marius’ last words to them, Sulla accepted that there was a chance his soldiers would fight to the last man – their loyalty was legendary even in a system where such loyalty was fostered and nurtured. He had to make them lose hope and a slowing advance would not do that.
Now he was standing in an open square at the top of the Caelius hill. All the massed streets behind him back to the Caelimontana gate were his. The fires had been put out and his legion were entrenched from there all the way to Porta Raudusculana at the southern tip of the city walls.
In the small square were nearly a hundred of his men, split into groups of four. Each man had volunteered and he was touched by it. Was this what Marius felt when his men offered their lives for him?
‘You have your orders. Keep moving and cause havoc. If you are outnumbered, get away until you can attack again. You are my luck and the luck of the legion. Gods speed you.’
As one, they saluted him and he returned it, his arm stiff. He expected most to be dead within the hour. If it had been night, they would have been more useful, but in the bright daylight they were little better than a distraction. He watched the last group of four squeeze through the barricade and hare off along a side street.
‘Have Marius’ body wrapped and placed in cool shadow,’ Sulla said to a nearby soldier. ‘I cannot say when I will have the leisure to organise a proper funeral for him.’
A sudden flight of arrows was launched from two or three streets away. Sulla watched the arc with interest, noting the most likely site for the archers and hoping a few of his four-man squads were in the area. The black shafts passed overhead and then all around them, shattering on the stone of the courtyard Sulla had adopted as a temporary command post. One of his messengers dropped with a barbed arrow through his chest and another screamed, though he seemed not to have been touched. Sulla frowned.
‘Guard. Take that messenger somewhere close and flog him. Romans don’t scream or faint at the sight of blood. Make sure I can see a little of his on his back when you return.’
The guard nodded and the messenger was borne away in silence, terrified lest his punishment be increased.
A centurion ran up and saluted.
‘General. This area is secure. Shall I sound the slow advance?’
Sulla stared at him.
‘I chafe at the pace we are setting. Sound the charge for this section. Let the others catch us up as they may.’
‘We will be exposed, sir, to flanking attacks,’ the man stammered.
‘Question an order of mine again in war and I will have you hanged like a common criminal.’
The man paled and spun to give the order.
Sulla ground his teeth in irritation. Oh, for an enemy who would meet him on an open field. This city fighting was unseen and violent. Men ripping each other with blades out of sight in distant alleyways. Where were the glorious charges? The singing battle weapons? But he would be patient and he would eventually grind them down to despair. He heard the charge horn sound and saw his men lift their barricades and prepare to carry them forward. He felt his blood quicken with excitement. Let them try to flank him, with so many of his squads mingling out there to attack from behind.
He smelled fresh smoke on the air and could see flames lick from high windows in the streets just ahead. Screams sounded above the eternal clash of arms and desperate figures climbed out onto stone ledges, thirty, forty feet above the sprawling mêlée below. They would die on the great stones of the roadways. Sulla saw one woman lose her grip and fall headfirst onto the heavy kerb. It broke her into a twisted doll. Smoke swirled in his nostrils. One more street and then another.
His men were moving quickly.
‘Forward!’ he urged, feeling his heart beat faster.
Orso Ferito spread a map of Rome on a heavy wooden table and looked around at the faces of the centurions of the First-Born.
‘The line I have marked is how much territory Sulla has under his control. He fights on an expanding line and is vulnerable to a spear-point attack at almost any part of it. I suggest we attack here and here at the same time.’ He indicated the two points on the map, looking round at the other men in the room.
