Sword held high, the decurion charged into the mêlée. His men were fighting desperately, outnumbered two to one. As they fended off one attack they made themselves vulnerable to the next, and by the time their commander rejoined them, two were already down, bleeding on the ground beside the writhing form of the man the decurion had speared.
He sensed a movement to his left and ducked his helmet just as the edge of a sword cut through the metal rim of his shield. The decurion jerked his shield to the side, trying to tear the sword out of his opponent’s hand, at the same time swinging his sword in a wide are as he twisted to face the man. The blade flashed, the man’s eyes widened as he apprehended the danger and he threw his body back. The point ripped through his tunic, grazing his chest.
‘Shit!’ the decurion spat, nudging the flanks of his mount to edge closer to his foe for the backswing cut. The intent to finish the man blinded him to danger from another direction, and so he never saw the dismounted figure rush up to his side and thrust a sword towards his groin. He just sensed the blow, like a punch, and by the time he had turned back the man had leaped away, his sword stained crimson. The decurion realised at once that that was his blood, but there was no time to check the wound. A glimpse revealed that he was the only one of his men left. The others were already dead or dying, at a cost of only two of these strange, silent men who fought as if they were born to it.
Hands grabbed his shield arm, and the decurion was hauled savagely from his saddle and crashed down on to the hard earth of the track, the air driven from his lungs. As he lay on his back, winded and looking up into blue heavens, a dark silhouette came between him and the sun. The decurion knew this was the end, but refused to close his eyes.
His lips curled into a sneer. ‘Go on then, you bastard!’
But there was no sword thrust. The man just whirled away and was gone. Then scuffling sounds, horses snorting, the pound of hoofs, which quickly receded, and the supernaturally serene sounds of a summer afternoon. The shimmering drone of insects was punctuated only by the agonised groans of a man in the grass nearby. The decurion was shocked that he was still alive, that the man had spared him even as he lay defenceless on the ground. He struggled to draw breath, easing himself up into a sitting position.
The six surviving horsemen had renewed their pursuit of the Greek and a bitter rage welled up in the decurion. He had failed. Despite the sacrifice of the escort these strangers would still catch up with the Greek, and he could already imagine the harsh dressing-down he would receive when he, and what was left of the escort, limped back into the cohort’s fort.
The decurion suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous, and he had to put a hand on the ground to steady himself. The earth felt warm and sticky and wet beneath his fingers. He looked down and saw that he was sitting in a puddle of blood. His blood, he dimly realised. Then he was aware of the wound in his groin again. A major artery had been severed and dark blood pulsed out in jets on to the grass between his splayed legs. At once he clamped a hand over the injury but the warm flow pressed urgently against the palm and squirted through the gaps between his fingers. He felt cold now, and with a sad smile he knew that there was no longer any danger of being bawled out by the prefect of the cohort. Not in this life, at least. The decurion looked up, and focused on the tiny figures of the Greek and his bodyguards fleeing for their lives.
The seriousness of their plight no longer affected him. They were mere shadows, dimly flickering across the edge of his dwindling senses. He slumped back on the grass and stared into the clear blue sky. All the sounds of the recent skirmish had faded; all that remained was the drowsy hubbub of insects. The decurion closed his eyes and let the warmth of the summer afternoon wash over him as his consciousness gradually ebbed away.
Chapter Two
‘Wake up!’ The Praetorian shook the Greek’s shoulder. ‘Narcissus! Come on, man!’
‘You’re wasting your time,’ his companion said, on the other side of the Greek. ‘He’s out for the count.’
They both looked back up the track towards the skirmish on the brow of the hill.
‘Bastard has to come round. We’re all dead if he doesn’t. I doubt our lads up there are going to last long.’
‘They’re not.’ His companion squinted. ‘It’s over. Let’s go.’
The Greek groaned and raised his head with a pained expression. ‘What’s … happening?’
‘We’re in trouble, sir. We have to move quickly.’
Narcissus shook his head to clear the dull fug clouding his mind. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Dead. Sir, we have to go.’
Narcissus nodded, took hold of his reins and urged his mount along the track. His horse suddenly lurched forward as the Praetorian behind him goaded the animal with a swift prod from his sword.
‘Easy there!’ Narcissus snapped.
‘Sorry, sir. But there’s no time to lose.’
‘Now look here!’ Narcissus turned round angrily to remind the Praetorian who he was speaking to. Then his eyes flickered back up the track just as their pursuers finished off the last of the escort and renewed the chase.
‘Point taken,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s be off.’
As the three of them spurred their horses on, Narcissus looked towards the distant camp and prayed that some of the more alert amongst the sentries would catch sight of the parties of horsemen and raise the alarm. Unless there was some help sent from the general’s camp he might not reach it alive. The sunlight reflecting on the polished surfaces of arms and armour might as well have been the twinkle of distant stars, so cold and far off and unreachable did it seem.
Behind them, now no more than a quarter of a mile away, thundered the hoofs of their pursuers. Narcissus knew he could expect no mercy from those men. They were not interested in prisoners. They were simply assassins, tasked with murdering the Imperial Secretary before he could reach General Aulus Plautius. The question of who had hired them plagued Narcissus. If the tables were turned and one of them should fall into his hands, he knew there were torturers on the general’s staff who were adept at breaking the will of even the strongest men. But even then, the information, he suspected, would be of little use. The enemies of Narcissus and his master, Emperor Claudius, were shrewd enough to ensure that any killers were hired via anonymous and expendable middle men.
This was supposed to be a secret mission. As far as he knew, only the Emperor himself and a handful of Claudius’ most trusted officials were privy to the knowledge that the Emperor’s right-hand man had been sent to Britain to meet with General Plautius. The last time he had met the general, a year ago, Narcissus had been part of the imperial retinue when Claudius had joined the army just long enough to witness the defeat of the native army outside Camulodunum, and then claim the victory as his own. The imperial retinue had numbered thousands and no luxury or security had been spared for the Emperor and Narcissus. This time discretion was paramount and Narcissus, travelling in secret without any of his cherished adornments, had asked the prefect of the Praetorian Guard to lend him the two best men of this elite unit. So he had set out from a quiet backstreet exit of the palace in the company of Marcellus and Rufus.
But somehow the news had leaked out. Almost as soon as he was out of sight of Rome Narcissus suspected that they were being watched and followed. The road behind them had never been quite deserted – always some solitary figure dimly visible far down the road behind them. Of course, such figures might have been quite innocent, and his suspicions groundless, but Narcissus was haunted by fear of his enemies. Haunted enough to take every precaution he could, and he had lasted longer than most men in the perilous world of the imperial household. A man who played for high stakes, as Narcissus did, had to have eyes in the back of his head and see everything that happened around him: every action, every deed, every quiet tilt of the head amongst aristocrats as they exchanged whispers at palace banquets.
It often reminded him of the god Janus, the two-faced guardian of Rome
, who watched for danger in both directions. Being part of the imperial household required wearing two faces: the first an eager servant willing to please his political master and social superiors; the second a fixer of utter ruthlessness and determination. The expression of his true thoughts was only permitted when confronting men he had had condemned to execution, when there was great satisfaction to be had in releasing his scorn and contempt for them.
Now, it seemed, it might well be his turn for extermination. Much as he was terrified of death, Narcissus was consumed with the need to know who, amongst the legions of his bitter enemies, wanted him dead. There had already been two attempts, the first at an inn in Noricum, where a fight had started over a few spilled drinks and quickly escalated into a general brawl. Narcissus and his bodyguards had been watching from a cubicle when a knife had flown across the room straight at him. Marcellus saw it coming and shoved the Imperial Secretary’s head down into his bowl of stew, the blade thudding into the timber post behind Narcissus an instant later.
On the second occasion a party of horsemen had appeared on the road behind them as they headed towards the port of Gesoriacum. They had taken no chances and galloped ahead of the horsemen, arriving in the port on blown horses that had been pushed to the limits of their endurance. The quay was packed with shipping; supplies destined for Plautius’ legions were being loaded on vessels bound for Britain, while ships returning from the island were busy unloading prisoners of war destined for slave markets across the Empire. Narcissus took berths on the first ship to leave for Britain. As the freighter pulled away from the chaotically busy quay Marcellus had gently touched his arm and nodded to a group of eight men silently watching the ship depart. The same men, no doubt, who were pursuing them now.
Narcissus glanced back and was shocked to see how much they had closed the gap. By contrast the camp seemed as far away as ever.
‘They’re catching us up,’ he cried out to his bodyguards. ‘Do something!’
Marcellus spared his Praetorian companion a quick glance and both men raised their eyes.
‘What do you reckon?’ Rufus called out. ‘Save ourselves?’
‘Why not? Damned if I’m going to die for some Greek.’
They hunkered down beside their horses’ necks and spurred them on with wild shouts.
As they pulled ahead Narcissus cried out in panic, ‘Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!’
The Imperial Secretary kicked his heels in and his mount gradually caught the others up. As the acrid odour of horseflesh filled his nostrils and every jolt of the horse threatened to hurl him down on to the ground rushing past in a blur, Narcissus gritted his teeth in terror. He had never been so afraid in all his life, and vowed not to ride one of these animals ever again. From now he would travel in nothing faster, or less comfortable, than a litter. As he drew level with his bodyguards Marcellus tipped him a wink.
‘That’s more like it, sir … not so far now!’
The three of them pounded on, wind roaring in their ears, but every time that Narcissus or one of the bodyguards glanced back the horsemen were nearer. As the track drew closer to the camp the horses of prey and pursuer alike began to flag and the riders felt their mounts’ chests expand and contract like huge bellows as the animals struggled for breath. The breakneck gallop subsided into an exhausted canter as the men became more savage in their attempts to wring every last effort out of their horses.
When the track reached the next bit of high ground Narcissus saw that they were no more than two miles from the safety of the camp and numerous parties of men were training or foraging in the open ground before the ramparts. Surely the approaching riders must have been seen by now? The alarm must have been raised and a force sent out to investigate. But the three men gazed down on a serene and undisturbed scene as they spurred their tired mounts on. And all the time the gap between them and their pursuers closed.
‘They must be fucking blind!’ Rufus called out bitterly, wildly waving an arm. ‘Over here, you dozy bastards! Look over here!’
The track dipped down again, towards a brook that meandered along the edge of a small wood of ancient oak trees. The placid surface of the water exploded as Narcissus and his bodyguards splashed through the ford and emerged glistening on the far side. The horsemen were no more than two hundred paces behind as their prey galloped along the track winding through the oak trees. The path was well worn and deep wagon ruts forced them to the side to spare their mounts the risk of broken legs. There was gorse in the undergrowth and Narcissus felt it tear at his breeches as they raced on, heads lowered to avoid being knocked by projecting branches. The distant thrashing of water revealed that their pursuers had reached the ford.
‘Nearly there!’ Marcellus shouted. ‘Keep going!’
The route wound through the trees, sunlight dappling the ground where it broke through the green canopy above the riders. Then the way opened out ahead of them and in the distance lay the fortified gate of the camp. Narcissus felt a surge of joy at the sight and the realisation that they might be spared after all.
The horses, dripping with water and perspiration, galloped out into the sunshine.
‘You there!’ a voice barked out. ‘Halt! Halt!’
Narcissus saw a party of men resting in the shade of the trees at the fringe of the wood. Around them lay piles of freshly cut wood, and pack mules grazed contentedly. Javelins were stacked within easy reach and the men’s shields were standing on their curved bases, ready to be snatched up at a moment’s notice.
Marcellus jerked his reins in savagely and his horse slewed towards the firewood detachment. He drew a deep breath and shouted, ‘To arms! To arms!’
The men reacted at once and jumped up and ran for their weapons as the three horsemen galloped towards them. The optio in charge of the detachment strode forwards, his sword raised warily.
‘And who the hell do you think you are, sunshine?’
The three riders only slowed their mounts to a stop once they were in amongst the legionaries. Marcellus slipped from the back of his horse and thrust his arm back towards the track.
‘Behind us! You must stop them!’
‘Who’s behind you?’ the optio growled irritably. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘We’re being pursued. They’re trying to kill us.’
‘You’re not making sense! Calm down, man. Explain yourself. Who are you?’
Marcellus jerked his thumb at Narcissus, bent over his saddle as he struggled for breath. ‘Special envoy from the Emperor. We’ve been attacked. The escort’s been wiped out. They’re just behind us.’
‘Who is?’ the optio demanded again.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Marcellus. ‘But they’ll be on us any moment. Form your men up!’
The optio glanced at him suspiciously and then shouted the order for his men to assemble. Most had already armed themselves and quickly fell into line, javelin in one hand and shield in the other. Their eyes fixed on the opening in the trees where the track emerged from the shadows and headed across the grassy plain towards the camp. A stillness fell over them as they waited for the horsemen to appear. But there was nothing. No sound of hoof-beats, no war cries, nothing. The oak trees stood still and silent and not a breath of life issued from the track that led into the wood. As the legionaries and the three others stood in tense expectation a pigeon made its throaty warble from the branch of a nearby tree.
The optio waited a moment before turning to the three strangers who had ruined his peaceful break from the rigours of woodcutting.
‘Well?’
Narcissus tore his gaze away from the track, and shrugged. ‘They must have withdrawn the moment they knew we were safe.’
‘Assuming they were ever there in the first place.’ The optio raised an eyebrow. ‘Now then, would you please tell me what the hell is going on here?’
Chapter Three
‘I don’t think the beard suits you.’
Narcissus shrugged. ‘It serves it
s purpose.’
‘How was the journey?’ General Plautius enquired politely.
‘What? Aside from having to spend every night of the last month holed up in some flea-bitten inn. Aside from having to eat the indescribably awful slop that goes by the soubriquet of “food” amongst the poorer travelling classes. Aside from being hunted down by a gang of hired killers on your very doorstep …’
‘Yes. Aside from all that,’ the general smiled. ‘How was the journey?’
‘Quick.’ Narcissus shrugged and took another sip of citron-scented water. The Imperial Secretary and the general were sitting under an awning that had been erected on top of a small knoll to one side of the sprawl of tents that made up army headquarters. A small marble-topped table squatted between their two chairs, and an ornate jug of the water and two glasses had been quietly set out by a slave by way of refreshment. Narcissus had shed his sweat-drenched riding clothes and sat in a light linen tunic. Perspiration pricked out of the skin of both men and the breathless air hung heavy as the late afternoon sun burned brilliantly in the clear sky.
Around them the camp stretched out on all sides. Narcissus, used to the smaller scale displays put on by the Praetorian Guard cohorts back in Rome, was impressed by the spectacle. Not that it was the first time he had seen the army of Britain massed for campaigning. He had been present when the four legions and the host of auxiliary units had crushed Caratacus a year earlier. There was something very comforting about the ordered lines of tents. Each one marked the presence of eight men, some of whom were drilling inside the camp. Others were busy grinding sharp edges on to the army’s blades, or returning from foraging expeditions laden with baskets of grain, or driving farm animals they had seized from the lands nearby. It all smacked of order and the irresistible might of Rome. With such a huge, well-trained force taking the field it was hard to believe that anything might frustrate the Emperor’s aim of adding this land and its tribes to the inventory of empire.
The Eagle's Prey Page 2
