‘Look out!’
Julius barely had time to realise he was under attack before the shield boss hit him hard enough to rattle his teeth, a punching blow to his shoulder that rocked him back on his feet followed by a spear thrust that slithered across his mailed chest rather than punching through it purely by dint of the step back that he had taken to keep his balance. Tearing his sword from its scabbard in the knowledge that he had to step forward and counter-attack rather than wait for the barbarian’s next move, he found the Venicone ready and waiting for him with his feet set and shield raised, calm eyes in a hard face watching the Tungrian from behind a levelled spear. Julius’s sword thrust was delivered with more speed than finesse, and the enemy warrior easily batted the blade aside in a defensive move designed to leave his opponent wide open for the spear that the warrior held ready for the kill. Julius knew only too well what was coming, as the Venicone raised his front foot to stamp forward and bury the spear’s glinting iron head in his throat.
As the long blade thrust towards him the Tungrian desperately sidestepped to his left and swayed away from the attack, allowing the spear to slash past his face only to find himself on his back with the wind driven abruptly out of his lungs as the warrior expertly hooked his leg and upended him, raising his weapon again to drive its iron head down into his helpless enemy. With the polished blade poised momentarily above him, and as the Venicone pivoted forward on his right foot to deliver the killing thrust, the enemy warrior’s body suddenly shuddered, his eyes jerking wide open with shock as an axe hammered into his back. The soldier who had charged into the battle on Julius’s right tore his blade free from the gaping wound in the reeling barbarian’s torso and dropped him to the ground with a vicious kick to his knee, swinging his other axe in a flashing arc to behead the stricken warrior.
The soldier stood over Julius, his chest heaving from the effort of the brief fight as his first spear climbed back to his feet, his armour already running with the blood of the men who had died on the blades of his axes. A growling roar caught both men’s attention, and Julius’s anger was instantly rekindled at the sight of Titus embattled in the middle of half a dozen enemy warriors, the bodies of several more men at his feet as he fought furiously with his twin axes, the blades’ whirring arcs of silver flashing red in the light of the fire. As they watched he hammered one of his weapons down into a hapless warrior’s shoulder, cleaving the man’s chest down to his right nipple, staggering as another of the men around him slashed at him from behind with a long sword. Both men sprang forward towards their embattled comrade, Julius realising that the Venicone line was crumbling under the renewed attack from the Tenth Century’s enraged soldiers who were clearly desperate to rescue their officer from the enemy warriors swarming around him. Before they could reach the surrounded centurion, first one and then another of Titus’s assailants sank their iron deep into his unprotected back, his mail’s iron rings no defence against the swords’ sharp points. He sank to his knees with his face distorted into an animal snarl by the wounds’ pain, and with a roar of anger at the sight of their centurion being felled the Tungrians burst forward in a wave of berserk fury to send the remaining Venicones fleeing down the path before them. Julius caught the arm of the century’s chosen man as he made to pursue them, pulling him close and shouting in his ear over the combined din of fire and fight.
‘The Bear’s out of the fight, which means that you’re in command! Either carry your wounded or give them the mercy stroke, but get your fucking century moving down that path at the run! Pull yourself together and do it!’
The chosen man took a moment to gather his wits before nodding and turning away to shout instructions at the men following up behind those already pursuing the tribesmen away down the path. Julius sheathed his sword and took a deep breath before forcing himself to turn back to the stricken centurion lying motionless beside the path with his two comrades kneeling to either side. The man who had rescued Julius a moment before looked up at the first spear with a look of despair at his centurion’s plight.
‘I saw that.’ The big man’s voice was thin and strained, and a trickle of blood ran from his lips as he spoke, his words barely audible. Julius bent over him, putting his ear close to the wounded centurion’s mouth. ‘I felt the iron in my back, and I can feel it still. Not long left for me, is there Julius? Don’t you lie to me, boy …’
The first spear shook his head, feeling a presence at his side.
‘Lying down on the job again, eh Titus?’
A smile cracked their comrade’s face as he looked over Julius’s shoulder.
‘Just too late for the fight again, eh Dubnus?’ He raised a trembling hand, reaching out to grasp his brother officer’s shoulder. ‘You missed a good one, little brother, there were enough of the tattoo boys for all of us. Our first spear here fought like a barbarian …’
Julius smiled gently.
‘And our colleague here fought like a warrior king.’ He gestured to the grievously wounded centurion. ‘Cocidius himself would have been envious.’
Titus coughed, more blood seeping from between his lips, his voice almost inaudible.
‘He’ll have the chance to tell me so soon enough. Now, get me standing up. I’ll not die here on my arse.’
Julius and Dubnus nodded to each other, gently lifting the man to his feet and then allowing the two men who had accompanied centurion and first spear into battle to take their officer’s arms and hold him upright, tears streaking the drying blood that masked both men’s faces. The centurion’s back was sodden with blood from his wounds, and Dubnus realised that there were half a dozen rents in his armour, wounds inflicted from behind as he had laid about him with his axes. A tear ran down his face as he stared at the ruin of his brother officer’s body.
‘You threw yourself into them like a bear into a pack of dogs, didn’t you?’
Titus stared down at him with eyes struggling to focus, swaying on his feet and only kept upright by the support of his men to either side.
‘No man lives forever, Julius.’ He coughed again, and this time a gout of blood fell onto his mailed chest. ‘Time for us all to be leaving, I’d say. You have to go that way …’
He nodded a weary head at the path and the soldiers marching past, many of whom averted their glances as they passed, unable to take the sight of the seemingly indestructible centurion brought so low, while others stared numbly at the sight. The fire’s roar was growing around them, and Julius realised that the blood that coated his friend’s body was beginning to steam off in the extreme heat.
‘We must indeed leave now, before the fire you bade me start consumes us all.’ Qadir was standing behind them with a look of sadness. ‘Farewell, Brother Titus. I would have liked more time in which to know you better, but the gods clearly have another purpose for you. I will include you in my prayers to my goddess, the Deasura, and ask her to intercede for you.’
Titus smiled wearily, his eyes closing.
‘That’s good enough for me, even if you are still an eastern bum boy.’ He was silent for a moment, his body shuddering in his soldiers’ hands, and then he reached a shivering hand to the amulet that dangled from his other wrist, pulling it off and putting the charm into Dubnus’s hand. ‘Take command of my men, little brother, if you have the balls for it, and ask Cocidius to gather my soul to him. Now, prop me against a tree and let me burn with the rest of these corpses. Raise a cup to me and sing the old marching songs in my memory every now and then, will you?’
His head sagged, and the soldiers holding him up looked at Julius.
‘We could carry him away, but I think it best to do as he asks. Lean him back against that tree and let’s get away from here before the fire takes us as well as our brother.’ He turned to Dubnus and Qadir. ‘Get back to your centuries and get them moving faster. We’ve got several miles to run before we reach the lake. We’ll worry about who’s commanding what once we’re out from under this fire.’
The two me
n saluted and headed away down the path in pursuit of their centuries, and Julius put a hand into his belt pouch for a small coin which he pushed into the dead centurion’s mouth with a swift prayer to the big man’s chosen god. He turned away from his brother officer’s corpse to find Scaurus waiting for him, and his own First Century jogging past at the column’s end. The tribune shouted above the fire, pointing to the ground nearby where Julius’s helmet and vine stick lay in the long grass.
‘I won’t ask you what happened, we don’t have time, but you might want to collect your kit and come with the rest of us for a bit of a run. This is an unhealthy place to be now that some madman’s set light to a million bloody trees!’
8
‘Faster … they’re getting … closer.’
The four remaining members of the raiding party half ran and half staggered down the gravel path towards the ruins of Gateway Fort, the baying of the Vixens’ hounds seemingly hard on their heels as they paced through the thinning mist towards the illusory safety of the customs post’s burned-out shell. Arminius threw a glance back over his shoulder before replying to Marcus’s gasped words, his own voice strained with exertion.
‘If they … catch us … you two … keep running. Lugos and I … can deal … with a … few dogs.’
The hounds’ barking changed abruptly from its previous howling and baying to a chorus of excited yelps, and the runners looked at each other with a shared realisation of what was about to happen. Lugos was still running easily, two of his slow, loping strides covering the same ground as three of the other men’s, and his voice was untroubled when he spoke, taking the heavy war hammer down from his shoulder and turning to face back down the path.
‘Venicones send dogs to stop our run. Now we have to fight.’
The German turned to join him, and Arabus pulled his bow from its place on his shoulder, stepping off the path to give himself a clear shot past the two barbarians. Pausing to wrap his cloak about his bow arm, he stabbed a handful of arrows into the ground at his feet before putting one to the string, lowering the weapon to point the missile at the ground before him rather than hold up his heavily padded arm and risk tiring the muscles. Marcus dropped the thief’s cloak and drew his long spatha, putting his thumb to the intaglio of Mithras and muttering a swift prayer to the Lightbringer.
‘I thought … we agreed …’
The Roman overrode Arminius’s protest with a swift shake of his head, taking his place beside the two men on the far side of the path from the tracker as he fought to get his wind back.
‘You might have agreed … but I didn’t … If there’s a fight to be had … then my place is here … not running for safety … while your lives are at risk.’
They waited in silence, staring down the track as the dogs’ frantic barking grew louder, the only sound a gentle creak as Arabus drew back the arrow that he had nocked to his bowstring a moment before, bending the weapon until it was all he could do to hold the arrow from flying. In a flurry of movement the first half-dozen dogs charged out of the mist towards them in a rippling carpet of fur and flesh, and the tracker loosed his arrow into the onrushing pack, reaching for another even as the first struck home with a piercing yelp of pain from whichever of the dogs had stopped the missile’s heavy iron head, as it tumbled into the gravel. He sent a second arrow after the first with a similar result, but dropped the bow and ripped his long hunting knife from its scabbard rather than attempt a third shot as the remaining four dogs leapt at their waiting swords.
Arminius took a step to his left and cut horizontally with his sword, leaning into the stroke as the leading dog leapt at him. The iron blade severed the animal’s front legs just below its chest and dropped it writhing and screaming in agony at his feet. Another pair of hounds jumped at Lugos, who stunned the first with a stab of his hammer’s heavy iron head and then pivoted to meet the other with the thick metal-shod staff on which it was mounted, smashing the leaping hound’s face with a crack of bone. The last of the dogs went for Arabus, but the tracker was ready with his long hunting knife, holding out the arm he had padded with his cloak. Seizing hold of the presented limb with its powerful jaws the beast made to pull its intended victim to the ground, but the Tungrian was faster to the decisive blow, driving his knife’s long blade up under the dog’s jaw and cutting its throat with a flick of his wrist before shaking the choking, writhing animal from his arm and finishing it with another quick stroke of the weapon. Sheathing the knife he nocked a pair of arrows to the bow’s string and turned the weapon from vertical to horizontal, levelling it down the path with a nod to Marcus, who had watched him slaughter the dog with a raised eyebrow.
‘There are wild dog packs in the Arduenna forest, Centurion. My years of hunting taught me that the lure of a padded arm is the best way to bring the animal close enough for my knife to take his life. Dogs can make good eating, if the animal is not too old.’
Looking at his comrades to either side Marcus stepped backwards three long paces, measuring the distance between himself and the other men with a slight nod of his head as he raised the long spatha’s dappled blade and angled it to his right in readiness for the first stroke. As he readied himself to fight, another wave of hounds broke from the fog, the slower and heavier animals that had lagged behind their faster pack mates, a massive beast that Marcus realised must be Monstrum at their heart. As they charged fearlessly at the waiting men Arabus loosed his arrows, one sticking cleanly into a leading dog and dropping the animal in wailing agony, while the other flew cleanly over the oncoming pack and was lost in the mist. The remaining beasts bored in to attack despite the piteous yelping of the legless dog still writhing at Arminius’s feet, their numbers so great that the men waiting for them unconsciously shuffled closer together.
With a collective, rippling snarl the pack launched itself at them as one animal, the dogs scorning the waiting sword blades and hurling themselves bodily at the men behind them exactly as they had been trained. Arminius managed to behead the first of them to attack him with his sword before another two took him down, one of them darting in low to fasten its jaws on his ankle while the other leapt at his sword arm, catching his wrist in its jaws and pulling him to the ground. The German reached for his dagger with a shout of pain as the dog savaging his legs sank its teeth deep into his calf, but a third animal bit into his hand with a grinding snarl, reducing his attempt to draw the weapon to an impotent struggle. Lugos smashed his first attacker’s skull with a crushing sweep of the hammer’s heavy beak, but as he lifted the huge weapon to strike again a pair of dogs leapt upon him, the fearsome Monstrum hitting the massive Briton in the chest hard enough to send him sprawling headlong onto the path’s gravel surface.
As Marcus watched the ferocious dog sprang forward upon its victim’s body, raising its head with the jaws momentarily gaping wide as if it were considering where best to place the bite before lunging bodily at Lugos’s vulnerable throat to make a swift kill. As the dog’s head darted forward to strike, and before the Roman had the chance to defend his friend, the Briton’s spade-like hand closed around the root of the animal’s penis and its dangling testicles, his face contorting as he clenched the fingers into a tight fist and wrenched the arm down his body, pulling the beast away from his face. Screaming like a gut-stabbed tribesman the animal snapped at empty air as its head was bodily dragged away from the Briton’s neck, and Marcus stepped forward with his spatha only to watch in amazement as the dog tensed its muscles and then defied the Briton’s vice-like grip to spring forward again, opening its jaws wide ready to tear into the prostrate giant’s head. Turning his face away from the lunging attack, Lugos bellowed in pain as the beast tore away a chunk of his right ear, the muscles of his right arm knotting as he wrenched at the dog’s balls, twisting his hand violently to double the animal up with an agonised shriek.
Marcus raised his sword again, poising himself to put the blade through the dog’s throat, but before he could strike the beast pivoted on Lugos’s
chest and ripped itself free from the ravaging pain that he was inflicting upon it, springing away into the fog without a backward glance. Turning away from the big Briton the centurion set about the dogs worrying at Arminius, hacking at their backs with swift, efficient killing blows to leave their bloodied corpses littering the ground about his friend. The German climbed to his feet with a wild-eyed look, picking up the sword he’d dropped during the attack and staring at Marcus as the Roman wiped and sheathed his own weapon.
‘No sooner do I free myself from your blood debt and you put me under a fresh one!’ He looked over at Lugos as the Briton retrieved his hammer with blood streaming down the side of his head. ‘And what the fuck happened to you?’
Lugos put a hand to his bloodied and mangled ear, cursing as his fingers discovered the extent of the damage, the upper third of his ear torn raggedly away.
‘Monstrum.’
The German laughed dryly.
‘Looks like he won that round.’
Marcus gathered up the cloak, turning away towards the ruined fort.
‘We need to go, before the Vixens get here and take us in the open.’
They ran again, Arminius limping on the ankle which had been badly bitten during the attack, hearing the sounds of the Vixens’ pursuit behind them as the Venicone hunters fruitlessly called out their dogs’ names. They had covered less than five hundred paces when a high-pitched wail keened out through the mist, a woman’s voice raised in anguish. Arminius increased his pace, wincing at the pain in his leg and muttering almost inaudibly despite the fact that any chance of concealing their whereabouts was now long dissipated.
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