The men drew blades and strolled across the open road to block their path. Brutus swore softly.

“Tabbic? If I go down, don’t stop. Alexandria knows the estate as well as I do. They won’t turn her away.”

As he spoke, Brutus lengthened his stride, drawing his gladius in one smooth sweep. He felt a rage in him that men such as these should threaten the innocents of his city. It struck at his most basic beliefs and he was spurred on by the wail of the children behind him.

The men scattered as Brutus took the head of the first, shouldering the body down and killing two more even as they turned to run. In moments, the rest of them were sprinting away, yelling in fear. Brutus let them go, turning back to the group that Tabbic and Alexandria were shepherding along, trying to stop the children from looking back at the bloody corpses Brutus had left in his wake.

“Jackals,” Brutus said shortly as he rejoined them. The children looked at him in terror and he realized his silver armor was splashed with blood. One of the youngest began to sob, pointing at him.

“Keep moving toward the gate!” he snapped, suddenly angry with them all. His place was with the legion of Rome, not shepherding frightened girls. He looked back and saw the men had gathered again, staring hungrily after him. They made no move in his direction and Brutus hawked and spat on the stones in disgust.

The streets were practically empty as they made their way to the gate. As far as possible, Brutus followed the main roads, but even there the signs of normal city life were missing. The great meat market owned by Milo was empty and desolate, with the wind whipping leaves and dust around their feet. They passed a whole row of gutted shops and houses, and one of the young ones began screaming at the sight of a charred body caught in a doorway. Alexandria pressed her hand over the child’s eyes until they were past, and Brutus saw her hands were shaking.

“There’s the gate,” Tabbic said to cheer them, but as he spoke, a mob of laughing, drunken men turned a corner into the road and froze as they saw Brutus. Like the group before them, they were filthy with ash and dirt from the fires they had started. Their eyes and teeth shone against their grimy skin as they scrabbled for weapons.

“Let us pass,” Brutus roared at them, frightening the children at his back.

The men only sneered as they took in his ragged followers. Their jeering was cut short as Brutus launched himself amongst them, spinning and cutting in a frenzy. His gladius had been forged by the greatest Spanish master of the blade, and each of his blows sliced through their clothes and limbs, so that great gouts of blood sprang up around him. He did not hear himself screaming as he felt their blades slide off his armor.

A heavy blow stunned him down to one knee, and Brutus growled like an animal and pushed himself up with renewed strength, jerking his gladius up into a man’s chest from below. The blade ripped through ribs just as Brutus was sent staggering by a hatchet. It was aimed at his neck but cut into the silver armor, remaining wedged. He didn’t feel any pain from his wounds and only dimly knew that Tabbic was there with the younger men. For once, he lost himself completely in the battle and made no defense in his lust for killing. Without the armor, he would not have survived, but Tabbic’s voice came through his fury at last and Brutus paused to look at the carnage around him.

None of the raptores had survived. The stones of the road were covered in scattered limbs and bodies, each surrounded by dark spreading pools.

“All right, lad, it’s over,” he heard Tabbic say, as if from a great distance. He felt the man’s strong fingers press into his neck where the hatchet was lodged, and Brutus’s mind begin to clear. Blood streamed from his armor and as he looked down he saw it pumping sluggishly from a deep wound in his thigh. He prodded the gash in a daze, wondering at the lack of pain.

Brutus motioned with his sword toward the gate. They were so close and the thought of stopping was unbearable. He saw Alexandria tear her skirt to bind his leg while he panted like a dog, waiting for breath to tell them to keep moving.

“I daren’t take that axe out until I know how deeply you’ve been cut,” Tabbic said. “Put your arm around my shoulder, lad. I’ll take your sword.”

Brutus nodded, gulping rubbery spit. “Don’t stop,” he said weakly, staggering forward with them. One of the young men supported his other arm and together they moved under the shadow of the gate. It was unmanned. As the stones changed beneath their feet, a light snow began to fall on the silent group and the smell of smoke and blood was torn away by the breeze.

Clodius took a deep breath of the icy air, wondering at the sight of the forum around him. He had thrown everything into a last-ditch attempt to bring Milo down, and the fighting had ripped through the center of the city, spilling at last into the forum.

As the snow fell, more than three thousand men struggled in groups and pairs to kill each other. There were no tactics or maneuvers and each man fought in constant terror of those around him, hardly knowing friend from enemy. As one of Clodius’s men triumphed, he would be stabbed from behind or have his throat cut by another.

The snow fell harder and Clodius saw a bloody slush being churned up around the feet of his bodyguard as a group of Milo’s gladiators tried to reach him. He found himself being forced back against the steps of a temple. He considered running into it, though he knew there would be no sanctuary from his enemies.

Were his men winning? It was impossible to tell. It had started well enough with Pompey’s legion lured away to the east of the city to quell a false riot and a string of fires. Milo’s men were spread all over the city and Clodius had struck at his house, smashing down the gates. He had not been there and the attack had faltered as Clodius searched for him, desperate to break the stalemate of power that had to end with the death of one or the other of them.

He could not say exactly when their silent war had erupted into open conflict. Each night had forced them closer and closer until suddenly he was fighting for his life in the forum, with snow swirling all around and the Senate building overlooking them all.

Clodius turned his head as more men rushed in from a side street. He breathed in relief when he saw they were his own, led by one of his chosen officers. Like Milo’s gladiators, they wore armor and cut through the struggling men to reach him.

Clodius spun to see three figures leaping at him with blades outstretched. He downed the first with a crushing blow from his sword, but the second shoved a dagger into his chest, making him gasp. He felt every inch of the metal, colder than the snow that lay so lightly on his skin. Clodius saw the man dragged off him, but the third attacker scrambled through and Clodius roared in agony as a knife entered his flesh over and over.

He sank onto one knee as his great strength gave out, and still the man stabbed at him while Clodius’s friends went berserk in fury and grief. At last they reached his attacker, but as they tore him away Clodius sank gently down into the bloody snow around him. He could see the Senate steps as he died, and in the distance he could hear the horns of Pompey’s legion.

Milo fought a bitter retreat as the legion came smashing into the open space of the forum. Those who were too slow or entwined in their own struggles were cut down by the machine, and Milo bawled for his men to get away before they were all destroyed. He had yelled with excitement when Clodius fell, but now he had to find a safe place to plan and regather his strength. There was nothing left to stand in his way if he could only survive the legion’s charge. He skidded in the snow as he ran with the others, streaming in their hundreds like rats before the scythe.