Renius stared at him. Would nothing work properly? Fat cooks, girls with knives, arrogant children? And now his orders were to be ignored just before a fight? His right fist lifted in a smashing uppercut that seemed to lift Tubruk up and backward. He hit the dust unmoving and Renius ignored him, turning to Cabera.

"When he awakes, tell him the boy can look after himself. I know. Tell him to take his place or I will kill him."

Cabera smiled, his eyes wide, but the old man's face was like winter. In the distance, there was a sudden clamor of metal beating on metal. Sound rose in a wave and chants filled the black night. The torches were lit just as the first few slaves reached the estate wall. Behind them were hundreds from Rome, burning everything in their path.

It very nearly ended before it had begun. As Renius had thought, the wild-looking slaves that streamed up to the estate walls had little idea of how to overcome armed defenders and milled around, shouting and screaming. Although it was a perfect opportunity for bowmen, Renius had shaken his head at Cabera and Lucius, who watched with arrows ready and cold eyes. There was still a chance the slaves would look for easier targets, and a few arrows might fan their rage into white-hot desperation.

"Open the gates!" someone shouted from the mass of torchbearers. In the flickering light, it could have been a festival if it were not for the brutal expressions of the attackers. Renius watched them, weighing options. More and more came from the rear. Clearly there were already more than a small estate could support. Rogue slaves from Rome swelled the ranks with nothing to lose, bringing hate and violence where reason might have won the day. Those at the front were pushed forward and Renius raised his arm, ready to have his two lonely archers send the first shafts into the crowd. They could hardly miss at this range.

A man stepped forward. He was heavily muscled and sported a thick black beard that made him look like a barbarian. Probably, only days previously, he had been meekly carrying rocks in a quarry, or training horses for some indulgent master. Now his chest was splashed with someone else's blood and his face was a sneer of hate, his eyes glimmering in the flames of his torch.

"You on the walls. You are slaves like us. Kill those who call themselves your betters. Kill them all and we will welcome you as friends."

Renius dropped his arm and Cabera put a feathered shaft through the man's throat.

In the moment of silence, Renius roared at the crowd of slaves: "That is what you will get from me. I am Renius and you will not pass here. Go home and wait for justice!"

"Justice like that?" came a scream of rage. Another man ran to the walls and jumped for the high ledge. The moment had arrived and suddenly the crowd howled and came forward in a rush.

Few had swords. Most were armed, like the defenders, with whatever they could find. Some had no weapons except their frenzied rage, and Renius dispatched the first of these with a slick blow to his neck, ignoring the quivering fingers that scrabbled at his breastplate. All along the line, screams rose above the crash of metal on metal and metal into flesh. Renius could see Cabera drop his bow and raise a wicked-looking short knife, with which he stabbed and leapt away, letting the bodies fall back on their fellows. The old man stamped on fingers that gained easier and easier holds on the wall as the bodies of the dead served as props for new attackers.

Renius grew slightly light-headed and knew his shoulder had torn again, feeling the sudden warmth from the bandages accompanied by a blistering pain. He set his teeth against it and slammed his gladius into a man's stomach, almost losing the weapon in the slimy grip of his guts as he toppled backward. Another took his place and another, and Renius could not see an end to them. He took a blow from a length of timber that left him dazed for a second. He staggered back, reeling, trying to find the energy to lift the sword to meet the next one. His muscles ached and the exhaustion he had felt fighting Marcus came back to hit him once again.

"I am too old for this," he muttered, spitting blood over his chin. There was a movement to his left and he swung to meet it, too slowly. It was Marcus, grinning at him. He was covered in blood and looked like a demon from the ancient myths.

"I am a little worried about the speed of my low guard. I wonder if you could observe it for me? Let me know where the trouble is?"

As he spoke, he shoulder-barged a man as he tried to straighten. The man fell badly, toppling backward onto his head with a yell.

"I told you not to leave your position," Renius gasped, trying not to show his weakness.

"You were going to be killed. That honor is mine-not to be given away lightly to motherless scum like these, I think!" He nodded over to the other side of the gate, where the man Caecilius, known to most simply as Cook, was grinning hugely, cutting around him with abandon.

"Come, pigs, come, cattle. I will cut you to pieces." Underneath the fat there must have been muscle, for he waved the enormous cleaver as if it were made of light wood.

"Cook is holding them without me. In fact, he is having the time of his life," Marcus went on cheerfully.

Three men breasted the wall at once, leaping from the pile of bodies that was now half as high as the top. The first swung a sword at Marcus, who slid his own into the man's chest from the side, letting the wild lunge carry the man onto the cobbles of the yard below. The second he dispatched with a reverse cut that caught the man at eye level, cutting into meat and bone. He died instantly.

The third whooped with pleasure as he closed on Renius. He knew the old man for who he was, and in his mind was already telling the story to friends as Renius brought his sword up under his guard, ripping into his chest.

Renius let the man fall, and the sword slid clear. His left arm was hurting again, but this time it was a deep ache. His chest pulsed with pain and he groaned.

"Are you hurt?" Marcus asked, without taking his eyes off the wall.

"No. Get back to your post," Renius snapped, his face suddenly gray.

Marcus looked at him for a long moment. "I think I'll stay awhile longer," he said softly. More men surged over the wall and his sword danced, licking from one throat to the next unstoppably.

Gaius's father barely noticed those who fell beneath his sword. He fought as he had been trained: thrust, guard, reverse. The bodies piled most thickly at the foot of the gate, and a little voice was telling him they should have broken by now. They were only slaves. They did not have to pass this wall. Why didn't they break? He would have the wall raised to the height of three men when this was over.

It seemed as if they threw themselves onto his sword, which wetted itself in their blood, drenching the wall and gates with the gushing fluids, drenching him. His shoulders ached, his arm was leaden. Only his legs were still strong beneath him. They must break soon and look for easier targets, surely? Thrust, guard, and reverse. He was locked in the legionary's rhythm of death, but more and more were climbing the piles of flesh to get into the estate. His sword had lost its edge on bone and blades, and his first cut only scraped a man leaping at him. A dagger punctured the hard muscle of his stomach and he grunted in agony, whipping his sword through the man's jaw and dropping him.

Alexandria stood in the yard, in a pool of darkness. The other women were crying softly to themselves. One was praying. She could see Renius was exhausted and was disappointed when the boy Marcus stepped in to save him. She wondered why he had done it and widened her eyes at the contrast between them. On the one side, the grizzled warrior, veteran of a thousand conflicts, slow and in pain. On the other, Marcus, a smooth-moving murderer, smiling as he brought death to the slaves that met his sword. It did not matter if they had swords or clubs. He made them look clumsy and then took away their strength in a slice or a blow. One man clearly didn't realize he was dying. His blood poured from his chest, but he still kept hacking away with a broken spear shaft, his face manic.