Quintus Rufius was half asleep when the horn sounded, so that he dreamed it a summons to a great banquet hall whose tables groaned with food. But the only groaning was his comrades as they threw off blankets and wearily sat up. The horn died away. For a moment there was silence. Another false alarm, thank the gods. Rufius closed his eyes and tried to return to his banquet hall and the only food he’d likely see today; but then a man came running screaming down the street outside, and suddenly there were horns blasting on every side, and he knew that it had happened.
The barbarians were at their gates.
The barracks door banged open and Gaius Villius marched in, a flaming torch in his hand to show the grimness of his expression. He marched along the aisle, kicking the feet of anyone still abed, yelling at them to suit up. Rufius’s hands shook wildly as he pulled on chest padding and then his suit of rusting chain mail. He’d never fought in earnest before, just with wooden swords – and those had hurt enough to make him weep. The prospect of doing it for real was the stuff of nightmares, not just being wounded or even killed himself, but of having to do it to others, piercing their flesh with his long sword, their blood gushing and entrails spilling. He couldn’t imagine hating anyone enough for that. Not even Alaric and his murderous horde.
Villius was still yelling at them. It made it impossible to think, let alone resist. Rufius strapped on his helmet, buckled on his sword then grabbed his shield and ran out with the others. A few people were fleeing from the Salerian Gate. Villius ignored them. He marched them to where the street narrowed then had them form defensive lines across it. Rufius tried to shuffle to the back, but so did everyone else – and they proved better at it than he. So, to his consternation, he found himself at the front.
God, but he needed a piss. Too late now.
The street emptied as fugitives found houses to hide in. An eerie silence fell. The moon hung fat and low above the houses at its far end. And red, too – that particular watery red of a slit wrist in a public baths. Rufius felt a terrible foreboding, as when that fortune teller hadn’t even met his eye. She’d known something, he was sure of it. She’d known this. What the hell was he even doing here? He was no soldier; he was a farmer. He should be in Sabina helping his family with the harvest. His elder brother had cut off his thumb rather than be conscripted. But not he. He’d told them that his sister had to be revenged. But the shameful truth was that the thought of mutilation had given him nightmares.
He suffered badly from nightmares, did Rufius.
War cries. The pounding of feet. It was happening. It was happening right now. He couldn’t believe how quickly they’d got inside the city. They must have been betrayed from within – it was the only explanation. His body stiffened and tingled. Everything grew slow and sharp and bright. Around the turn of the road they charged, yelling and screaming and waving their long swords above their heads, others carrying flaming brands or spears already drawn back to hurl. And the size of them – he couldn’t believe how fucking big they were; it was unfair, for they themselves were a ragtag group made up of those too old and too young for proper units, infirm and weak with hunger too. They drew closer, so that he could now see the crazed bloodlust on their faces. Fuck, but they didn’t stand a chance. He was going to die, he knew it suddenly. He was going to be run through and left to bleed out upon the cobbles. Barely seventeen, and never once even having lain with a woman in—
A spear hurtled out of the gloom towards his face. He saw it only at the last second. He jerked up his shield and it thumped into it like a blow from a double-handed war axe, knocking him back against the man behind, who cursed and shoved him forward again. The spear’s barbed tip had pierced the leather of his oval shield so that its shaft now hung down heavily onto the cobbled ground in front of him. Before he could pluck it free, the Visigoths were on them. One of them stamped hard upon the spear’s shaft, dragging down Rufius’s shield and exposing him to his sword. He cried out and threw himself to the ground a moment before the blow could cleave off his head. His helmet fell off and bounced away. He lay there in a huddled ball as the barbarians smashed into their feeble line, treading on his face and body. Swords clashed, people shrieked. And then it was over, footsteps charging onwards, the war cries growing fainter, and all he could hear now was the wailing and sobbing of his wounded comrades.
He was still lying there when a hand grabbed him by his short hair and hauled him to his feet. A knife as sharp as a razor but the size of a small sword was pressed against his throat. He was manhandled through a fast-striding line of Visigoth warriors to find himself face-to-face with four high-ranking officers. ‘This one seems fearful enough,’ his captor told them. ‘If his bladder’s anything to go by.’
It was only then that Rufius felt the hot wetness on his leg and the piss squelching in his boot. Shame burned his cheeks. The tallest of the four men turned to look at him. He was maybe forty years old, handsome yet battle-scarred, his long, fair, grey-threaded hair combed into ropes that were then tied in an ornate side knot. ‘You know who I am, boy?’ he asked.
It wasn’t his face that told Rufius the answer, though it matched all the descriptions he’d ever heard. It was his bearing and the deference of those around him. All kinds of flatteries came instantly to Rufius’s mind. The kind of flatteries that prudent people paid to rulers in order to stay alive. But he couldn’t do it. At this moment of great crisis, his cowardice failed him utterly. He lifted his chin instead, and gazed into the monster’s eyes. ‘You’re the man who starved my sister,’ he told him.
The knife cut even sharper into his throat. ‘He’s our king, you little shit. Address him as such.’
But Alaric only waved his hand for his soldier to relax. ‘An honest one, at least,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what we need?’ He turned to Rufius again. ‘I’m sorry for your sister. But your emperor could have saved her at any moment by honouring his promise to my people. He chose to feed his chickens instead.’
Rufius stared helpless at him. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Look around,’ said Alaric. ‘Your city is already lost. The only question is how many more must die before we leave again. So I want you to take a message to your commander for me.’
‘But I don’t even know where—’
‘Of course you do. Good honest foot soldiers like yourself always know the beds their generals skulk beneath. I want you to tell him how it will be: the places of sanctuary I’m designating, how his soldiers and citizens can keep themselves safe. All I ask is three days and nights unimpeded to take the plunder we’re rightly owed and then we’ll be on—’ A door banged to his left. Two Vandal warriors came out of a tall, thin house, laughing and dragging a half-naked girl by her long black hair. They froze when they saw Alaric standing there. Their faces blanched as he marched across. ‘There’s to be none of that,’ he told them furiously. ‘How many times must I give the order?’
‘They started it,’ muttered one of the Vandals mulishly, still holding the girl by her hair. ‘These bastards raped my wife and then they killed her.’
‘Yes,’ said Alaric. ‘And would you not have wanted someone there, to stop them before they did?’
The Vandal lowered his eyes. The girl tore herself free of his weakened grasp and fled back indoors, slamming and bolting the door behind her. Alaric seemed satisfied. He turned on his heel and marched back across. Rufius gazed at him in astonishment. This man bestrode the Western Empire right now. He had more power than almost anyone else alive. And Rufius knew all too well what power was. Power was their feeble-minded emperor choosing to let this great city fall rather than lose face. Power was the plutocrat who sold out his nation in order to add more land to his already vast estates. Power was the senator who spoke movingly of justice, then went home to beat his wife and rape his slave. Power was the ambitious general who threw his soldiers into pointless battles to advance his own career. Rufius had never protested or even questioned this. It was simply how life was.
‘Well,’ said Alaric curtly. ‘Will you take my message, or not?’
A strange perturbation roiled Rufius’s heart. ‘Yes, my king,’ he said. ‘I will.’