‘And now you want to know why, don’t you?’ Radu stepped around his brother, drawing his own sword and pointing it at Marcus. ‘Why didn’t we just wait for you to get out of earshot before killing him and taking the eagle?’
The Roman lowered his own sword’s point to the ground, shaking his head in response.
‘I already know why. You’ve been paid to retrieve the eagle, and make sure its discovery remains hidden, for whatever purpose, but there’s something more that you’ve been offered money to deliver back to your new master, isn’t there?’
Ram stepped over Drest’s slumped body to stand beside his brother, his bloodstained weapon levelled at Marcus’s face.
‘Yes. We’ve been paid to bring back the eagle, but the price is trebled if we have your head in the bag with it.’
Radu grinned at Marcus in anticipation.
‘And it’ll be the easiest money we’ll ever make.’
The Roman raised his spatha, drawing the eagle-pommelled gladius and putting the shorter weapon’s blade alongside it.
‘You’re forgetting two things.’
The twins edged forward, their interest in the conversation clearly limited to the amount of distraction it would provide for them while they moved slowly apart, seeking to outflank the Roman and attack him from both sides at once.
‘And what are those two things, dead meat?’
Marcus grinned mirthlessly at Ram.
‘Firstly, I’ve already had a knife at your throat once, and this time I won’t be dropping my swords.’
The Sarmatae snorted derisively, and took another pace to the side.
‘And the other thing, before we cut you down and take your head?’
The Roman turned sideways on to the two men, swinging the spatha in a quick, whirring arc that left an eddy in the riverbank’s mist-laden air.
‘I’ve already held my god’s hand once today. And once was enough.’
‘We’ve ridden the path from here to the rim of the Frying Pan.’
‘And seen nothing?’
Silus nodded at Julius’s question. The cavalry detachment had met the marching cohort a mile west of the fork in the path, and the first spear had called a rest break while he consulted with his decurion.
‘And seen nothing at all. This forest is as quiet as the grave, First Spear, so if this is the path you want to use to get back to the wall then I suggest we get on with it before the ink monkeys stop being quite so accommodating.’ Julius nodded decisively, and was turning away to start issuing orders when Silus spoke again. ‘One more thought, First Spear?’
The senior centurion turned back to him, one eyebrow raised in sardonic challenge of the unaccustomed formality.
‘Decurion?’
‘My boys and I were talking through that story the tribune told us the other night, the one about the three legions that were lost to the barbarians in Germania, and one of my brighter lads came up with a decent idea to put the bluenoses on the back foot if they were to spring an ambush on us out here.’
Julius frowned.
‘I thought you said the path was clear?’
Silus spread his hands.
‘I did. And I also said that the forest was as quiet as the grave. But that’s not the same as knowing for sure that the Venicones have all taken the tribune’s bait and gone charging off to the north-east, is it?’
The first spear nodded slowly.
‘So what was the bright idea then, being ready to run like fuck at the first sign of unpleasant men with sharp iron?’
Silus nodded, his face lighting up with genuine amusement.
‘Pretty much, although he did have one small wrinkle to add to that basic tactic.’
Julius listened to the decurion’s proposal with a guarded expression, nodding slowly as the point of Silus’s suggestion became clear.
‘Not bad, even if it is as risky as anything the tribune might have come up with. You’ll soon be giving Scaurus a run for his money in coming up with devious schemes that will either work like miracles or get us all killed.’ He turned to his chosen man. ‘Fetch me the tribune and centurions, will you Pugio? I think this needs a bit of a wider discussion …’
The two Sarmatae stepped forward again, both men taking another careful step to either side in order to further spread themselves out, and split the Roman’s attention to both sides at once. Ram spoke again, his face creased into a self-satisfied smile.
‘Tribune Sorex told us that if we don’t bring your head back then we might as well not come back at all. He really doesn’t like you, Centurion, although he seemed to have a better opinion of your wife.’
On the Roman’s right Radu advanced forward another pace, putting his sword points so close to Marcus’s spatha’s blade that the slightest of lunges would start the fight.
‘Oh yes, he had an eye for her all right. He’ll have been up that pretty little thing like a prize stallion at the first chance, in fact he’s probably balls-deep right now—’
He snapped the longer of his two swords forward in a powerful lunge, bending his knee to launch the point at Marcus’s chest with the other blade held high, ready to either parry or strike. Ram leapt into the fight from the Roman’s other side, looking for the opening through which to land a killing blow. Making the snap decision to take the fight to him, the twin he had previously bested, Marcus quickly sidestepped away from Radu’s attack, parried Ram’s initial strike and feinted with the gladius in his left hand before spinning low between the two men, aiming to slice a deep cut into Ram’s thigh with a sweep of his spatha’s long blade. The Sarmatae jumped back almost quickly enough to evade the blow, the spatha’s blade slicing a gash across his leggings and leaving a thick red line of blood welling from the wound, but as the Roman took guard again a line of cold fire across his left bicep told him that Radu had managed to put iron upon him as he had spun past. The Sarmatae grinned widely at him, pacing around a dark patch in the reeds and raising his swords again, nodding at a drop of blood as it ran down the angled blade of his spatha.
‘You’re bleeding, Centurion. A few more of those will give you lead boots soon enough.’
Ignoring the jibe Marcus backed away towards the river, knowing that he needed something to provide him with the opportunity to attack one of the brothers without the other taking advantage of his distraction. The Sarmatae warriors followed closely, still split to take him from both sides, and Ram crabbed further round to his right with a slight limp from the flesh wound in his thigh, stepping over Drest’s crumpled body with his eyes locked on Marcus’s.
‘We don’t need to bleed him! I’ll have his fucking head clean off for cutting me. I’ll—’
His face abruptly contorted in pain, as Drest rose white-faced from the reeds and gripped his foot, sinking his teeth deep into the tendon at the back of the Sarmatae’s ankle. Ram turned awkwardly to hack his sword down at the stricken Thracian’s head, the heavy blade’s impact sounding like a cabbage being attacked with a heavy cleaver. Knowing that the opportunity Drest’s suicidal attack had won him would be fleeting, Marcus went for Radu with sudden, urgent speed, repeating the trick he had played on Ram on the Arab Town parade ground by parrying the Sarmatae’s blades wide and then throwing his own swords aside, stepping in close to grab the other man by the tunic. His opponent grinned in his face, pulling his head back to prevent a snapped butt from the Roman’s head and changing his grip on his short sword, angling the blade ready to stab it deep into his opponent’s defenceless left side. Marcus roared with anger and effort, hoisting the amazed Sarmatae from the ground and feeling the sting in his wounded bicep as he strained the muscle, then straightened his arms convulsively to throw Radu backwards into the mist with all his power. Not waiting to see the result he spun and sprinted forward at Ram, reaching to his belt for the small knife he’d had forged from the deadly sword blade of a bandit leader he had killed in Tungria the year before. Ram had managed to hack Drest into a state of insensibility, and with a screa
m of frustration and pain he reached down and levered the dying man’s locked jaws from his ankle. As he turned back to face Marcus, the charging Roman hit him hard, smashing him down into the reeds and pinning him with his free hand while he punched out with the knife’s evilly sharp blade. Once, twice, three times the rippling steel darted between the Sarmatae’s ribs, and with each impact Ram grunted as if in surprise, his eyes snapping wide open as the knife’s questing point tore into his body.
Marcus rolled away from his victim, coming up onto his feet in a fighting crouch, but realised that Ram was dying where he lay. Foaming blood was leaking onto his chest with every beat of his heart as he shook his head, eyes unfocused, and attempted in vain to raise the swords that were still gripped in his numb hands.
‘Ra … Ra-du!’
Marcus looked over to where the other twin had landed, shaking his head at the gurgled entreaty for assistance.
‘Radu can’t help you, not this time. I would tell you to go and meet your gods, but since your head will shortly be at the bottom of the Dirty River while the rest of you festers here, there doesn’t seem to be much point.’
He turned away from the dying man, listening as the sound of frantic paddle strokes grew louder. The boat scudded out of the mist and slapped into the riverbank, disgorging a pair of warriors who stopped in their tracks at the sight of their centurion standing waiting for them, cleaning his swords on Ram’s cloak. Lugos shook his head in relief, pointing back across the river.
‘We hear iron in mist. Vixens hear it too. We hear them follow.’
The Roman nodded, slotting his spatha into its sodden scabbard.
‘It seems that Ram and Radu were just waiting for their chance to strike without you two around to spoil things. I knew I had to flush them out soon, or they would probably have given us up to the Venicones and looked to make their escape in the confusion. They put Drest down with a sword in the back, but they didn’t kill him. If he hadn’t sunk his teeth into Ram’s leg and distracted him for long enough that I could deal with Radu, then the two of you would probably have got here too late to do anything but bury the pair of us.’
As if on cue the Thracian twitched, raising a shaking white hand as he stared sightlessly at the grey sky above him, his lips moving noiselessly. Marcus bent close to him, putting his ear to the dying man’s face.
‘Lord … Jesus … grant … me … eternal …’
He shuddered and lay still, and the Roman shook his head as he stood up.
‘He was a Christian, it seems. I wonder if Prefect Castus had any idea he had taken a religious maniac into his familia.’
Arminius laughed curtly, pointing at the twin whose leg Drest had savaged.
‘Christian or not, he saved your life with nothing more than his teeth. If that’s Christianity we’ll have to be careful of them if they ever manage to get an army together.’
He leaned over the gasping Ram, shaking his head at the ferocity of the chest wounds Marcus had inflicted on him. Putting the blade of his sword to the dying Sarmatae warrior’s throat, he casually pushed it down to relieve the dying man of his doomed struggle for life.
‘It seems they underestimated just what an animal you can be when you’re roused, eh Centurion?’
Marcus nodded tiredly.
‘You know how it is. Other men start fights …’
Arminius shrugged.
‘Where’s the other one?’
‘He here.’
The German turned to find Lugos looking down at something half a dozen paces away, his head shaking with bemusement. He looked back at Marcus with a raised eyebrow.
‘You put him there?’
The Roman shrugged.
‘It was a lucky throw.’
Arminius looked down at Radu, whose face was staring back up at them from the centre of a sinkhole, his mouth defiantly shut tight against the water that was lapping over his chin, then played an appraising stare on Marcus for a moment.
‘Well you of all people know just how that feels.’ He turned back to the doomed Sarmatae. ‘Have your feet touched bottom yet, eh Radu?’
The Sarmatae glared back up at them, his eyes hard in a face suddenly pale at the prospect of his impending death, holding his head back to gasp for breath before shouting up at the men watching him.
‘Fuck you! Fuck you all! I curse you! In the name of Targitai the thunder god and by the spirits of my ancestors, I curse you to—’
As he screeched his final defiance at them, Lugos reached out with his hammer, putting the flat side of the massively heavy weapon onto the top of Radu’s skull with surprising delicacy. Without waiting to find out what it was the Sarmatae wished them to suffer as payment for his life, he pressed down upon the weapon’s shaft until the helpless man’s mouth was under water, his eyes bulging with hatred. Lugos laughed down at the Sarmatae, shaking his head.
‘Curse not work if I not hear it.’
Radu struggled briefly, the rotten swamp mud covering his nose and coming up to the bottom of his hate-filled eyes, then slid silently under the surface, leaving a trail of greasy bubbles as he sank from view. Marcus lifted the cloak containing the eagle and looked about himself wearily for the path.
‘We have to get moving, before the hunters cross the river and come after us. I’m just worried that—’
‘No, Centurion, just this once let’s not speculate about what else might happen.’
Arminius sheathed his sword, turning away from the rippling surface of the marsh and shaking his head with a grimace.
‘A suicidal Christian, a matched pair of murderous barbarians and a whole pack of women with sharp iron all desperate to be the one to cut off my dick and feed it to their hunting dog is enough for one day, it seems to me. If there’s any way for this to get any worse you can keep it to yourself, thank you.’
‘Halt!’
The Tungrian column shuddered to a stop at Julius’s command for the third time in an hour, men leaning on their weapons as their first spear marched forward up the now gently climbing path, his head cocked to listen for any noise other than the wind’s passage through the trees and the background sounds of the birds. He stood stock still for a long moment, his head cocked to listen, then shook his head in bemusement.
‘Nothing, eh First Spear?’
Scaurus had followed him forward with a hand on the hilt of his gladius, an eyebrow raised at his senior centurion. Julius shook his head.
‘Nothing, and yet if there’s going to be an ambush on us anywhere, this would be the place, somewhere between here and the rim of the bowl. I wish we had Marcus’s Tungrian tracker with us, we could just send him away into the trees and he’d find anything out of the ordinary quickly enough. I—’
‘First Spear, Tribune. Might I ask the indulgence of a moment of your time?’
The two men turned back to the column to find a respectful Qadir waiting for them. Away down the path behind him a thin, almost invisible line of smoke was rising from a spot in the middle of the cohort’s long column, more or less where his century was positioned in the line of march.
‘What is it Centurion?’
The Hamian saluted, taking a tablet from his belt.
‘Sirs, when I open this tablet you will see that it contains nothing more than a list of my century’s strength from the morning meeting. I am showing this to you in order to allow us to talk without arousing the suspicions of the men that I believe are watching us.’
Scaurus nodded, pursing his lips and pointing a finger to the writing on the tablet.
‘So you believe that we have walked into an ambush?’
Qadir nodded, gesturing to the lines of script on the wax.
‘I think we are part of the way in, Tribune, and that they are waiting for us to move deeper into their trap before springing their attack. Unless, of course, we show any sign of having realised our predicament.’
Julius put his hands on his hips, forcing himself not to look around for any sign of an impendi
ng assault.
‘And you know this how, exactly?’
Qadir pointed back down the column.
‘A partial bootprint in the mud of this track, First Spear, the heel only, as if the wearer was jumping over the path so as not to leave any trace which might give us reason to suspect their presence but fell just a little short. The impression is crisp, and certainly fresh. One of my men noticed it almost as soon as we stopped, and called it to my attention. I told him to keep it to himself and then took a quick look at the foliage around the print. There are signs of recent passage by more than one man, as if a party of hunters had crossed the path without wishing to leave any obvious sign. I think that there are tribesmen very close.’
He pointed to a line of text in the tablet’s soft wax, and Julius nodded decisively.
‘Very good, Centurion, in that case we’ll just have to go with Silus’s idea. You know what to do.’
The Hamian nodded and saluted again, his face still devoid of expression.
‘I have taken the appropriate steps. I will pray to the Deasura that we will be successful.’
He turned away and marched briskly back down the column.
‘We’re actually going to put the decurion’s wild imaginings to the test?’
Julius chuckled at his senior officer’s bemused tone, turning to him with a broad smile.
‘Unless you have a better idea, Tribune? The instant that whoever’s out there realises we’re not going to take a single step deeper into the trap they’ve laid out for us they’ll do what they always do. Their archers will shower us with a few volleys of arrows and then the warriors will storm in from both sides, looking to chop us up into century-sized groups and then destroy each cluster of men individually. There’s probably a good few hundred of them waiting at either end to close the front and back doors and bottle us up, and given that they know our numbers I’d expect whoever sent them to have given their leader at least twice our strength. No, I say we go with Silus’s idea in the absence of anything better. You don’t have anything better, I presume?’
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