Torquatus recoiled at the challenge. ‘Then in the name of the Emperor I sentence you to death.’ The words brought another disapproving glance from the decurion. He had experience of fighting men who had been given no hope, and therefore had no fear. Better to make them think surrender was possible. Even if it wasn’t.
‘Get on with it!’ the Praetorian commander ordered.
The decurion drew his sword and turned to his men. Fourteen. The others were searching the rest of the house. He pointed to the barricade. ‘It’s nothing but a few pieces of furniture with unarmed slaves behind it. They’ll shit themselves when they hear you coming, so let’s hear you roar when we hit the stairs. Now!’
They ran at the stairway in two columns with the young officer in the lead. He took the steps two at a time, screaming at the top of his voice, but the scream died in his throat when he saw the heavy wooden cabinet being manhandled over the top of the barrier. ‘No!’ he shouted. Too late. Five feet of lacquered oak caught him in the chest on its first bounce and crushed his breastplate. He felt his ribs splinter as he was hurled backwards along with two of the men in the right-hand file. A moment later the cabinet was followed by a bed that smashed the first soldier in the left column over the banister to plummet head first on to the stone floor below. The man just had time for relief that his helmet had taken the impact that would have crushed his skull before his neck snapped like a rotten twig.
The setback won Marcus and Serpentius a moment’s respite, but the cavalrymen were experienced enough to know that the key to victory was ignoring their losses and maintaining momentum. There were still plenty of them to do the job and they’d make these slaves pay in blood when they got to the top. The first man to reach the barrier grabbed at the legs of the nearest couch and tried to haul it clear.
Marcus had watched with satisfaction as the missiles thrown by Heracles and Isaac the Christian smashed into the attacking ranks. Four down. Eleven to go. When the Praetorian started tugging at the couch he rose to his feet, reached over the barricade and swept his sword downwards.
The soldier screamed and stared at the blood arcing from the stump of his wrist. He looked up into the scarred face snarling down at him and threw himself backwards away from the glistening blade. To Marcus’s left another Praetorian hacked at the barricade, throwing lumps of horsehair stuffing into the air until Serpentius stabbed him in the eye and he fell back spouting gore over the stairs. Something round sailed out over the barricade and hit the helmet of a third a glancing blow that sent him staggering to the rear. The old gladiator turned and found Valerius’s father ready to throw a second marble bust from the pile behind them.
‘Fall back.’ The hoarse shout brought the first attack to a halt and the remaining Praetorian cavalrymen retreated, carrying their wounded and dead with them.
‘Are your men cowards or just fools?’ Torquatus demanded as the decurion hauled himself to his feet, gasping as the ends of his broken ribs ground together. The young soldier ignored the insult. He knew he’d been guilty of underestimating the men holding the barrier, but Torquatus had been at fault for insisting on an immediate assault. Now he looked up at the barricade and saw it as a military problem instead of an inconvenience. The answer came to him quickly.
‘Grappling hooks.’ He gave the order through gritted teeth, pointing to one of the men recovering from being hit by the cabinet. ‘Get rope and anything we can use to haul this clear, and call up as many of the others as you can find.’
Torquatus looked on impatiently as the decurion groaned while one of his men strapped his broken ribs with cloth torn from a bed. The injured cavalryman returned with another four men, each carrying a length of rope to which was tied the snapped-off top of a pitchfork with the tines bent at an angle that turned the implement into an improvised hook.
The decurion tested one of the forks for strength. Not perfect, but it would only take one of them to hold and the men defending the top of the stairway were finished.
On the landing above, the tense silence worried Marcus more than the earlier assault. ‘They’re up to something, and it’s not going to be pleasant.’
‘Fire?’ Serpentius suggested.
‘Not much we can do about it if they do. Heracles, get the Christians to find sheets and start twisting them together and tell them to be ready to retreat to the balcony at the back of the house.’
‘What about the girl?’
Marcus looked behind him through the open doorway where Lucius now crouched holding his daughter’s hand as Petrus led the Christians in prayer. ‘She’ll just have to take her chances like the rest of us.’ Valerius was a soldier; he would understand.
The giant Sarmatian went to pass on his instructions. Petrus looked up at him expectantly. Heracles shook his head. No point in giving false hope. He crouched beside Lucius as he sat holding his daughter’s hand. What a waste. She was beautiful as an alabaster statue and her helpless innocence moved something inside him, but Heracles had seen enough death to make him a practical young man. Marcus was right, there was nothing to be done. He handed his dagger to the father.
‘If it comes to it,’ he said, ‘it would be a kindness. Things will not go well for us if they succeed.’
The look on the old man’s face reminded him of one of the tragic masks they used in the theatre. Heracles left them together and returned to Marcus and Serpentius.
‘Now!’
All three reacted to the shout, but Marcus was momentarily distracted by the lack of action that followed it. When something fell beside him with a metallic clatter he instinctively jumped away as it was pulled back to hook on to the couch in front of him. In quick succession four more hooks landed and two of them caught their targets. Too late Marcus realized what they were and reached to free the hooked claws. The barricade began to disintegrate in front of him.
Heracles was the only one of the defenders to get a hand to one of the grapples and immediately used his enormous strength to fight the power of the men on the other end of the rope. If he won the deadly tug of war at least part of the barricade would survive and give the defenders something to fight for. Lose, and the way would be open for the attackers. Serpentius ran to his friend’s side, but it was impossible to get his hands on the rope or the metal hook without obstructing Heracles. The Praetorians too understood the significance of the rope and three men sprinted to add their weight. Heracles’ face reddened and the muscles of his enormous shoulders bulged as he put every ounce into the struggle. At first it appeared he was holding his own, but slowly, inch by painful inch, the giant Sarmatian was forced to give ground. The feral snarl that twisted his face never altered as the incredible pressure on the rope first pulled him upright and then toppled him down the stairs along with what was left of the barricade.
Now the cavalrymen attacked, with the bandaged decurion at their head, dodging the furniture that tumbled around them. Heracles was stunned by the impact of his fall and he struggled dazedly to his feet as the soldiers reached him. The first man stabbed the young giant through the body and wrenched his spatha free in a savage gut-spilling twist. The blood drained from Heracles’ face, but still he stayed upright, his hands vainly trying to contain the coil of blue intestines bulging from his torn stomach. As he swayed on the blood-soaked stair a second cavalryman swung a cut at his neck which almost severed his head. At last the big man fell, and, as they passed him, each of the enraged attackers hacked at his defenceless body until it looked as if he had been mauled by a pack of wild beasts.