She could smell smoke on the air. Ever since Sulla's attack on the city three days before, there had been fire, raging untended from house to house and street to street. It had not reached the stone houses of the rich yet, but the fire that roared in Rome would consume them all eventually, piling ashes on ashes until there was nothing left of dreams.
Metella looked out at the city that sloped away from the hill. She leaned against a marble wall and felt its coolness as a comfort against the thick heat. There were vast black plumes of churning smoke lifting into the air from a dozen points and spreading into a gray layer, the color of despair. Screams carried on the wind as the marauding soldiers fought without mercy and the raptores on the streets killed or raped anything that crossed their path.
She hoped Alexandria would get through safely. The house guards had deserted her the morning they heard of Marius's death. She supposed she was lucky they had not murdered her in her bed and looted the house, but the betrayal still stung. Had they not been treated fairly and well? What was left to stand on in a world where a man's oath could vanish in the first warm breeze?
She had lied to Alexandria, of course. There was no way out of the city for her. If it was dangerous to send a young slave girl on a journey of only a few streets, it was impossible for a well-known lady to transport her wealth past the wolves that roamed the roads of Rome, looking for just such opportunities. Perhaps she could have disguised herself as a slave, even traveled with one of the slaves. With luck, they might have got out alive, though she thought it more than likely that they would have been hurt and abused and left for the dogs somewhere. There had been no law in Rome for three days, and to some that was a heady freedom. If she had been younger and braver, she might have taken the risk, but Marius had been her courage for too long.
With him, she could stand the sniggers of society ladies as they discussed her childless state behind her back. With him, she could face the world with an empty womb and still smile and not give way to screaming. Without him, she could not dare the streets alone and start again as a penniless refugee.
Metal-studded sandals ran past the gates and Metella felt a shiver start in her shoulders and run through her. It would not be long before the fighting reached this area and the looters and murderers that moved with Sulla would be breaking down the iron gates of Marius's old city home. She had received reports for the first two days, until her messengers too had deserted her. Sulla's men had poured into the city, taking and holding street after street, using the advantage that Marius had created for them. With the First-Born spread all around the city walls, they could not bring the bulk of their forces against the invader for most of the first night of fighting, and by then Sulla had dug in and was content to continue a creeping battle, dragging his siege engines through the streets to smash barricades and lining the roads behind him with the heads of Marius's men. It was said the great temple of Jupiter had been burned, with flames so hot that the marble slabs cracked and exploded, bringing down the columns and the heavy pillars, spilling them onto the piazza with thunderous reports. The people said it was an omen, that the gods were displeased with Sulla, but still he seemed to be winning.
Then her reports had ended, and at night she knew that the rhythmic victory chants echoing across Rome were not from the throats of the First-Born.
Metella reached up to her shoulder and took hold of the strap there, lifting it away from her skin. She shrugged it off and reached for the other. In a moment, her dress slipped into a puddle of material and she stepped naked from it, her back to the gates as she walked through the arches and doors, deeper into the house. The air felt cooler on her uncovered skin and she shivered again, this time with a touch of pleasure. How strange it was to be naked in these formal rooms!
As she walked, she slipped bangles from her hands and rings from her fingers, placing the handful of precious metal on a table. Marius's wedding ring she kept, as she had promised him that she would never take it off. She loosed her hair from the bands and let it spill down her back in a wave, tossing her head to make the crimps and curls fall out.
She was barefoot and clean as she entered the bathing hall and felt the steam coat her with the tiniest trace of gleaming moisture. She breathed it in and let the warmth fill her lungs.
The pool was deep and the water freshly heated, the last task of the departing slaves and servants. She let out a small sigh as she stepped down into the clear pool, made dark blue by the mosaic base. For a few seconds, she closed her eyes and thought back over the years with Marius. She'd never minded the long periods he spent away from Rome and their home with the First-Born. Had she known how short the time would be, she would have gone with him, but it was not the moment for pointless regrets. Fresh tears slid from under her eyelids without effort or any release of tension.
She remembered when he was first commissioned and his pleasure at each rise in rank and authority. He had been glorious in his youth and the lovemaking had been joyous and wild. She had been an innocent girl when the muscular young soldier had proposed. She hadn't known about the ugly side of life, about the pain as year after year passed without children to bring her joy. Each one of her friends had pressed out screaming child after child, and some of the babies broke her heart just to look at them, just from the sudden emptiness. Those were the years when Marius had spent more and more time away from her, unable to cope with her rages and accusations. For a while she had hoped he would have an affair, and she had told him that she would even accept a child from such a union as her own.
He had taken her head tenderly in his hands and kissed her softly. "There is only you, Metella," he had said. "If fate has taken this one pleasure from us, I won't spit in her eye."
She had thought she would never be able to stop the sobs that pulled at her throat. Finally he had lifted her up and taken her to bed, where he was so gentle she cried once more, at the end. He had been a good husband, a good man.
She reached over to the side of the pool without opening her eyes. Her fingers found the thin iron knife she had left there. One of his, given after his century had held a hill fort for a week against a swarming army of savages. She gripped the blade between two fingers and guided it blindly down to her wrist. She took a deep breath and her mind was numb and filled with peace.
The blade cut, and the strange thing was, it didn't really hurt. The pain was a distant thing, almost unnoticed as her inner eye relived old summers.
"Marius." She thought she'd said the name aloud, but the room was still and silent and the blue water had turned red.
Cornelia frowned at her father.
"I will not leave here. This is my home and it is as safe as anywhere else in the city at the moment."
Cinna looked about him, noting the heavy gates that blocked off the town house from the street outside. The house he had given as her dowry was a simple one of only eight rooms, all on one floor. It was a beautiful home, but he would have preferred an ugly one with a high brick wall around it.
"If a mob comes for you, or Sulla's men, looking to rape and destroy..." His voice shook with suppressed emotion as he spoke, but Cornelia held firm.
"I have guards to handle a mob, and nothing in Rome will stop Sulla if the First-Born cannot," Cornelia replied. Her voice was calm, but inside, doubts nagged at her. True, her father's home was built like a fortress, but this belonged to her and to Julius. It was where he would look for her, if he survived.
Her fathers voice rose almost to a screech. "You haven't seen what the streets are like! Gangs of animals looking for easy targets. I couldn't go out myself without my guards. Many homes have been set on fire or looted. It is chaos." He rubbed his face with his hands and his daughter saw that he hadn't shaved.
"Rome will come through it, Father. Didn't you want to move out to the country when the riots were going on a year ago? If I had left then, I would not have met Julius and I would not be married."
"I wish I had left!" Cinna snapped, his voice savage. "I wi
sh I had taken you away then. You would not be here, in danger, with..."
She stepped closer to him and put her hand out to touch his cheek. "Calm, Father, calm. You will hurt yourself with all your worries. This city has seen upheavals before. It will pass. I will be safe. You should have shaved." There were tears in his eyes and she stepped into a crushing hug.
"Gently, old man. I am delicate now."
Her father straightened his arms, looking at her questioningly. "Pregnant?" he asked, his voice rough with affection.
Cornelia nodded.
"My beautiful girl," he said, gathering her in again, but carefully.
"You will be a grandfather," she whispered into his ear.
"Cornelia," he said. "You must come now. My house is safer than this. Why take such a risk? Come home."
The word was so powerful. She wanted to let him take her to safety, wanted very much to be a little girl again, but could not. She shook her head, smiling tightly to try to take away the sting of rejection.
"Leave more guards if it will make you feel happy, but this is my home now. My child 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 fathers 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 anymore. 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's 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 was 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's body wrapped and placed in cool shadow," Sulla said to a nearby soldier. "I cannot say when I will have the leisure to organize 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 melee below. They would die on the great stones of the roadways. Sulla saw one woman lose her grip and fall headfirst onto the heavy curb. 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. Like Orso, they were tired and dirty.
Few had slept more than an hour or two at a time in the previous three-day battle, and like their men, they were close to complete exhaustion.
Orso himself had been in command of five centuries when he had witnessed Marius's murder at the hands of Sulla. He had heard his general's last shout and he still burned with rage when he thought of smug Sulla shoving a blade into a man Orso loved more dearly than his own father.
The following day had been chaos, with hundreds dying on both sides. Orso had kept control over his own men, launching short and bloody attacks and then withdrawing before reserves could be brought up. Like many of Marius's men, he was not highborn and had grown up on the streets of Rome. He understood how to fight in the roads and alleys he had scrambled along as a boy, and before dawn on the second day he had emerged as the unofficial leader of the First-Born.
His influence was felt immediately as he began to coordinate the attacks and defenses. Some streets Orso would let go as strategically unimportant. He ordered the occupants out of houses, set the fires, and had his men withdraw under arrow cover. Other streets they fought for again and again, concentrating their available forces on preventing Sulla from breaking through. Many had been lost, but the headlong rush into the city had been slowed and stopped in many areas. It would not be over quickly now, and Sulla had a fight on his hands.
Whatever Orso's mother had called him, he had always been Orso, the bear, to his men. His squat body and most of his face was covered in black, wiry hair, right up onto his cheeks. His slab-muscled shoulders were matted with dried blood, and like the others in the room who had been forced to give up their Roman taste for cleanliness, he stank of smoke and old sweat.
The meeting room had been chosen at random, a kitchen in someone's town house. The group of centurions had walked in off the street and spread the map out. The owner was upstairs somewhere. Orso sighed as he looked at the map. Breakthroughs were possible, but they would need the luck of the gods to beat Sulla. He looked around at the faces at the table again and was hard put not to wince at the hope he saw reflected there. He was no Marius, he knew that. If the general had remained alive to be in this room, they would have had a fighting chance. As it was...