TimeRiders 05 - Gates of Rome Read online

  ‘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.’

  CHAPTER 41

  AD 54, Subura District, Rome

  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!’

  Bob stirred protectively, taking a step towards Macro.

  ‘It’s OK, Bob. He’s right.’ She turned to the two Romans. ‘Sorry … that was careless of me.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Quite.’

  The candle’s flame guttered and twitched on the floor between them.

  ‘I should inform you, you are all now in some danger,’ he continued. ‘The collegia will know where you live; they’ll come with a lot more men. You understand … reputation is at stake? Reputation is everything to them.’ He turned to Bob. ‘They’ll particularly want your head mounted on a spike as a warning to anyone else.’

  ‘Then they will be unsuccessful,’ replied Bob matter-of-factly.

  Macro grunted appreciatively and smiled. ‘I like his spirit.’

  ‘Fighting off a dozen thugs is one thing. But they’ll muster as many men as it takes to bring you down.’ Cato gestured at the others. ‘That or they’ll make an example of one of your friends.’

  Liam turned to the others. ‘Uh … that doesn’t sound so good,’ he muttered in English.

  ‘What doesn’t?’ asked Sal, looking from him to Maddy. ‘Maddy? What are they saying to you?’

  Maddy ignored her. ‘What’s your proposition?’

  ‘Leave, come with me to a safe place for now. Away from here … where we can talk more comfortably.’

  ‘Talk about what?’

  Cato looked at Bob. ‘An arrangement.’

  ‘Arrangement?’ Bob rumbled. ‘Please clarify.’

  Cato shrugged. ‘For money. A lot of it if you’re successful.’

  ‘I do not need money,’ replied Bob.

  ‘Sure he does,’ Maddy cut in. ‘We’ll come with you.’

  Cato raised an eyebrow at her then looked back at Bob. ‘Am I talking to the horse or the cart?’

  Bob cocked his head. Confused.

  ‘Does this young woman normally make all your decisions for you?’

  ‘Affirmative. And the other two also.’

  ‘You’re their slave, then?’

  ‘Negative. I am their support unit.’

  ‘Look, we’ll come with you,’ said Maddy, ‘but we’re after information, not money.’

  ‘Not after money?’ said Macro. ‘They’re an odd bunch, this lot.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Information about what?’

  ‘Something that happened about seventeen years ago? Right here in Rome?’

  Macro and Cato looked at each other. ‘They must be talking about the Visitors.’

  ‘Visitors! Yes, that’s it,’ said Maddy. ‘We need to know as much as you know about them.’

  She got a dry laugh from the tribune. ‘Rome is filled with al
l manner of rumours and stories about that day. And every story is different. Most of them I fancy are superstitious nonsense peddled by Caligula’s acolytes.’

  ‘Stories for children and gullible fools,’ added Macro.

  ‘Somebody arrived here seventeen years ago,’ said Maddy. ‘Somebody not from this world.’

  Cato studied her silently. ‘And what makes you so certain of this?’

  ‘Something happened, didn’t it? Something that can’t be explained. Something Caligula has chosen to use to make people believe he’s a god.’ Another question occurred to her. ‘Around that time did he suddenly gain … powers? Special abilities? Some sort of device or tool, a weapon? Is there a reason why he has lasted so long?’

  The two men remained tight-lipped. More care was needed discussing such matters.

  ‘Why hasn’t someone replaced him? Tried to assassinate him?’

  In the dark, Sal squeezed her hand, a sign she’d spotted something. Maddy had spotted it too: the momentary flicker of a glance from both Romans at Bob.

  A support unit.

  ‘Have you seen someone like him?’ Maddy said, pointing at Bob. ‘Just like Bob? Is that it?’

  ‘No,’ Cato answered. Then he added, ‘Not of the same appearance … but if my friend Macro’s account of the fight this afternoon is not an exaggeration then …’

  ‘I saw him take a mortal wound, Cato. On his flank.’ Macro took a step towards Bob. ‘There … you can see the blood on his tunic!’

  Bob turned away to hide the dark stain.

  ‘Why not show ’em?’ said Liam. ‘Let ’em see!’

  Maddy nodded. ‘Yeah, good idea … Bob, let them see. Lift your tunic.’

  He reached for the hem, lifted it slowly up, exposing the top of his britches, the ribbed muscles of his stomach and finally the flesh of his wound, like puckered lips, raw and red and crusted with dried blood. Slowly he turned to show his back, and an exit wound.

  ‘This man should be dead,’ said Macro. ‘Run completely through. He should be dead!’

  Cato nodded. ‘He’s one of them.’

  ‘Them?’ Maddy cocked her head. ‘You said them?’

  Cato’s eyes remained warily on Bob.

  ‘You’ve seen others like him?’ She addressed her question to them both. ‘You’ve seen others like Bob?’

  Cato nodded. ‘Yes. We call them Stone Men. They guard Caligula night and day.’

  CHAPTER 42

  AD 54, Rome

  ‘Who in the name of the gods are these people?’

  Liam didn’t get the impression they were entirely welcome. The man was small and slim and wearing nothing more than a towel round his narrow waist. The parchment skin of an old man hung in wattles from his neck, wrinkled into slack bands over his knobbly knees.

  ‘Crassus, they’re not safe where they are!’ replied Cato, ushering them into the senator’s atrium.

  ‘So? This isn’t a public refuge for waifs and strays!’

  ‘They could help us, Crassus.’ Cato pointed at Bob. ‘Particularly this one.’

  ‘My gods …’ muttered Crassus, eyeing the support unit up and down. ‘He’s a giant!’

  ‘And fast, very fast,’ added Macro.

  Crassus nodded. The old senator turned back to Cato. ‘But at this time of night! Caligula’s eyes are everywhere! You arrive at my home at this hour, you’re asking to attract attention!’ Crassus looked a little out of breath. ‘And can you not see I’m being washed? Whatever this is about, it can wait, can’t it?’

  ‘We need to talk, Crassus.’ Cato’s tone conveyed everything it needed to. ‘An important matter.’

  Crassus nodded slowly. ‘All right.’ He wafted his hands at the slave lathering his legs and feet with oil. ‘Off you go, Tosca.’ He smiled. ‘I can finish here myself, thank you.’ He waited until his slave was gone and the atrium was empty but for himself and his unexpected visitors. He stepped out of the wash bowl on the floor and padded wet-footed across the cool granite floor to a seat.

  ‘Cato …’ he began cautiously, eyeing Bob and the others. ‘If this is “a matter” that might be best discussed in a dark corner, I suggest we –’

  ‘This big one –’ Cato pointed at Bob ‘– is a Stone Man.’

  ‘Oh please.’

  ‘He is.’ Macro nodded. ‘Seen him fight with my own eyes. He took a sword that would kill any man.’ He turned to look up at Bob. ‘Why don’t you show him?’

  Bob looked at Liam, who nodded.

  ‘Go on,’ muttered Liam. ‘Might as well show him too.’

  Bob lifted his tunic to expose the six-inch line of puckered flesh across his ribcage.

  ‘To the hilt and out the back,’ added Macro. ‘I’ve seen that wound too many times. If it doesn’t kill you outright … it’ll finish you within hours.’

  Crassus shuffled over towards Bob, one hand holding the towel round his waist for modesty; he reached the other out and lightly ran his fingers along the seam of knitting flesh. ‘This must be an old wound.’

  ‘Actually it happened earlier this afternoon,’ said Cato.

  Macro nodded. ‘Took down a dozen of Varelius’s collegia as if they were children.’

  Crassus stared at the wound. Up at Bob. ‘Does this monster speak?’

  Bob’s grey eyes panned down to him. ‘Of course I do.’ His deep voice made a nearby vase vibrate and ring like a tuning fork.

  ‘Are … are you a man of stone?’

  Bob looked again at Liam and Maddy. ‘Go on,’ said Maddy, ‘you tell ’em what you are.’

  ‘I am a support unit. A genetically engineered life form with advanced adaptive artificial intelligence. I am capable of delivering a strength-to-weight ratio of seven hundred per cent.’

  Crassus shook his head. ‘I don’t understand the words you are speaking.’

  ‘Which means,’ added Liam, ‘he’s seven times stronger than any human.’

  Crassus, already round-eyed, found a way to open them even wider.

  ‘I have advanced damage limitation and healing systems. Blood with a thickening agent when exposed to air. High concentration of red blood cells delivering oxygen-rich –’

  ‘Which means he’s almost impossible to kill.’

  Crassus’s jaw suddenly sagged with horror. ‘You brought me one of Caligula’s …?’

  ‘No! He’s not one of the Palace Guard!’ said Cato. ‘He’s new. These people are new to Rome. They’ve just arrived.’

  Crassus’s rheumy eyes, small like slits, narrowed even further. ‘Arrived? From where?’

  Cato lowered his voice. ‘You were there, Crassus. The day the acolytes, the priests, talk about? You told me you were there in the amphitheatre, the Statilius Taurus, seventeen years ago. You were one of the few who saw!’

  Crassus nodded. ‘Yes, I … I was one who bore witness.’ He was still studying Bob. ‘I have never been certain of what we all saw. You know, Cato, I do not believe in such things as gods or the emperor’s foolish notions.’

  Cato smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I have no other explanation for the visitation … I …’

  ‘I do, Crassus,’ cut in Cato. ‘These people are like the Visitors. They come from the same place as them.’

  The old man’s breath hitched. ‘The same place …?’

  ‘Not the heavens, Crassus, for sure. A strange place, though.’

  Crassus reached out again and probed the healing wound. The old man looked up at Bob’s face, at the ridge of bone that shadowed his eyes, the jaw that jutted forward like the prow of a ship. Thick cheekbones that looked as if they’d been sculpted from stone.

  Crassus’s lips were dry; his old eyes glinted. Widened. ‘And you?’ he said to Bob. ‘You are your own man? You serve no master?’

  ‘I take orders from Liam O’Connor, Madelaine Carter and Saleena Vikram,’ he replied. ‘They are my team.’

  ‘So, you … you are not one of Caligula’s Stone Men – not one of them?’
r />   Bob shrugged. ‘I do not understand the question. Who is “them”?’

  Crassus shared a conspiratorial meeting of eyes with Cato. A silent, barely noticeable nod of agreement.

  ‘The Visitors.’

  They were given a couple of cubicula in the guest wing of Senator Crassus’s home, comfortable rooms. Through several small square, iron-grated windows the first pale blue light of approaching dawn seeped in. Rome was still fast asleep, the only sound the first twitter of sparrows, impatient for the day to start, and the rasp of some trader’s cart wheel across cobblestones.

  In the blue-grey gloom of the receding night, the four of them sat together on a bed of silk and linen. Earlier Maddy and the others had listened as the old man, Crassus, and the Praetorian tribune, Cato, had talked for several hours. Men talking carelessly, impatiently, about their intention to end Caligula’s disastrous rule before it was too late.

  They learned that Crassus was one of the few members of the dissolved Senate still alive. The entire political class of Rome entirely wiped out by years of purges. Alive solely because he was a wily politician. Self-serving. Because he’d been one of the few senators to understand their emperor was in an unassailable position, and willing, very publicly, to vote in favour of Caligula’s order that the Senate should dissolve itself.

  They’d listened to the old man’s regrets. That a stronger, more moral man would have stood beside his fellow senators and registered his outrage. Instead, his finely-tuned political senses had anticipated Caligula’s agenda. The imperial order had been Caligula’s rather unsubtle attempt to identify which senators and their families were to face the lions first.

  ‘I am not a brave man,’ he’d said. ‘I have far too weak a stomach for that kind of thing. Courage is a thing for young men … or dying men.’

  Marcus Cornelius Crassus had his life still, and his home and wealth, because along with a handful of other equally wily old men, he’d made the right choice at the right time. He’d managed to quickly distance himself from that foolishly planned attempt on Caligula’s life nearly fifteen years ago. Because, since then, he’d been prepared to praise Caligula’s imperial decrees, to flatter the man, to endure his poetry recitals, to clap enthusiastically at his grotesquely one-sided demonstrations of gladiatorial skills. But, most importantly, to donate generously to the emperor.