Emperor's Spear

by Alex Gough

  ‘So they continued on from here, and the traitor in their ranks continued to mark their path.’

  Atius, where are you? Are you still alive? Gods, please let him still be alive.

  ‘How far to this Kalkriese place?’

  ‘Less than one day’s travel. More than half a day.’

  ‘It’s getting late. We’ll stay here for the night. At least we will be rested for whatever tomorrow brings.’

  Silus settled himself in a corner where the roof was still intact, and closed his eyes. Visions of battle, of rents in flesh and gouts of blood, sounds of anger and pain and death, filled his mind, until Morpheus finally claimed him.

  Januarius 213 AD

  Atius lined them up back to back, his team, his men, getting ready for their last stand. To his right stood Eustachys, where he felt he could best protect the least experienced fighter. To his left was Scaurus, the least predictable, where he could keep an eye on him. Behind him was the ever-dependable Memnon, and the tough Briton Drustan. They were good boys, he thought. He would have backed them to hold off opposition three times their number.

  But that wasn’t what they faced here. Two dozen German warriors, stripped for battle, armed with spears, axes and swords. They had closed within ten yards, ahead and behind now, and Atius could see them clearly. Most had a small round shield strapped to their left arm, but their leader, a real giant of a man, carried no shield, just a mighty double-headed axe which he held in both hands His long, tangled blonde hair draped around his shoulders like a lion’s mane.

  The giant stepped forward, holding his axe at an angle across his chest.

  ‘I am Wigbrand. Chief of these men.’ His deep voice, speaking heavily accented Latin, boomed through the wooded valley. ‘Who are you to break the peace of this land?’

  ‘I know this name,’ whispered Eustachys. ‘It’s Erhard’s uncle.’

  ‘Shit,’ replied Atius. ‘Do you think one of the others is Erhard?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never met the man.’

  ‘Speak, Roman. I have little patience.’

  Atius raised his voice, trying to match Wigbrand for vocal power and depth.

  ‘I am Atius, centurion of Rome. I demand the right to be allowed to pass unhindered.’

  Wigbrand laughed, and a small flock of birds were startled into flight by the noise.

  ‘You have no rights here, Roman, beyond what I grant you. And I say you trespass in my lands.’

  ‘We are here on a diplomatic mission,’ said Atius. ‘A mission of peace.’

  Eustachys gave him a warning glance, obviously worried that Atius would reveal too much, but Atius ignored him. They had little chance of fighting their way out of this. Could he talk their way out instead? Again, he wished Silus was here. Silus would find a way.

  ‘You come here armed for war, not peace. You bring swords, not trading goods. You Romans covet our lands, enslave our people. You don’t want peace.’

  ‘We have been attacked. Unprovoked, my men have been murdered, we have been assaulted and besieged. If we had been unable to defend ourselves, we would all be dead by now. And yet, still we ask for peace.’

  ‘You shall have no peace,’ yelled one of the other warriors lined up behind Wigbrand, shaking his axe at them.

  Wigbrand held up a hand to restrain him.

  ‘Hunfrid here is angry. And he has every right. You killed his brother.’

  ‘I’ve killed a lot of men,’ said Atius. ‘You will have to be more specific.’

  ‘His brother’s name was Aldric.’

  Atius took in a deep breath.

  ‘Well that’s us fucked then,’ said Scaurus. ‘You aren’t talking your way out of this.’

  ‘Hunfrid, like his brother, is of our friends the Brukterer. They warned us of your spying mission, and Hunfrid has followed you all the way from the place you call Colonia, with Aldric’s help.’

  ‘We aren’t spies,’ said Atius, but he couldn’t keep the note of desperation out of his voice.

  ‘Liar!’ yelled Hunfrid. ‘Murderer! Come out and face me in single combat. We will see who the gods favour.’

  Atius went cold. Hunfrid wasn’t as big as Wigbrand, but he was still huge by Roman standards. Atius, even with his Celtiberian blood, wasn’t his equal in pure bulk and brawn. Atius was no slouch in combat, but Hunfrid looked like he knew a thing or two about fighting as well, from the scars across his face and chest. He looked at Eustachys questioningly.

  ‘What will it gain us?’ asked Eustachys.

  ‘Maybe I can bargain for our freedom if I win.’

  Eustachys shook his head. ‘The best they will grant is a quick death if you win. And a slow one if you lose.’

  ‘What say you, Roman?’ Wigbrand asked. ‘Will you trust your life and your honour to your gods, and fight the brother of the man you killed?’

  ‘Do it,’ whispered Scaurus.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re screwed if it comes to a straight fight. And you’re getting nowhere with talking.’

  He was right. There was little to gain, but nothing to lose.

  ‘Will you grant our freedom if I win?’ asked Atius, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Wigbrand. ‘But at least you will not die a coward’s death.’

  Atius hesitated. What was the point? But honour was not a trivial issue. If this was his day to die, he wanted to go out like a warrior. And if he did defeat Aldric’s brother, then at least that was one warrior less in their ranks, before the battle was joined in earnest.

  Atius stepped forward. ‘I accept the challenge.’

  The German warriors closed in behind Atius as he advanced towards them. Those that were the far side of the small Roman contingent pressed forward to get as good a view as they could. Memnon and Drustan half-turned so they could watch the fight while keeping an eye on the barbarians confronting them.

  Atius stopped six feet from Hunfrid and looked into his eyes. He saw no fear, just hatred and anger. Hunfrid carried an axe in one hand, short-handled, single bladed, but Atius knew that it could cleave through bone and skull as easily as a knife cut a sausage, if wielded with sufficient power. And Hunfrid looked to have an abundance of power.

  The German carried a round shield on his left arm, covered in hide and edged with sharpened steel. Atius knew that this wasn’t just a piece of defensive equipment but was a weapon in its own right. He would have to keep a constant eye on what it was doing during their combat.

  Atius himself had no shield – it was an encumbrance too many when they were supposed to be travelling light, fast and undetected through enemy territory. Fighting their way out of trouble was always meant to be a last resort on this mission. He had his trusty gladius, which he held in his right arm, and since his left arm was free, he held his wickedly sharp pugio, a dagger designed for stabbing. He wore a chainmail vest, but was otherwise unarmoured. Again, lightness and speed had been the priorities in his choice of armour. He wondered whether he would regret those choices soon.

  At least Hunfrid was similarly unarmoured. In fact, despite the cold, like many of the other barbarian warriors lined up, he wore only shin-length trousers, and from this close, Atius could see the fine patchwork of scars that told of many battles fought and presumably won. Hunfrid was smacking the flat of his axe head across his chest, growling incoherently, working himself up.

  ‘When I give the signal, you will fight,’ said Wigbrand without preamble. ‘You will continue until one of you is dead. There will be no quarter, no mercy.’

  Atius nodded his acknowledgement. His heart was pounding, making his head throb rhythmically. But the fear and excitement washed away all feelings of pain from his injuries, of fatigue in his muscles. A sudden confidence suffused him. What came after wasn’t important. All that mattered, like in all battles, was defeating the man before you. He could do this. He was rea—

  ‘Fight!’

  Hunfrid rushed him with a roar, and Atius reali
sed he wasn’t ready at all. The Brukterer tribesman held his axe high, ready to bring it down in a single blow that would split him in half. But though he was in a fighting fury, he was not careless. A weapon raised overhead should leave the body vulnerable for a swift stab, but Hunfrid’s shield was held before him, and in the fraction of a heartbeat Atius had to calculate, he could see no way through. So instead, he hurled himself to one side as the axe came down, rolling over his injured shoulder, ignoring the sudden sting as the superficial wound tore open.

  He regained his feet, noticing the warm, wet feeling of blood trickling down the inside of his tunic. They hadn’t even made contact yet, and he was already bleeding, he thought. But further reflection was curtailed as Hunfrid swept his axe in a horizontal arc aimed at Atius’ midriff. He jumped backwards, and found himself prodded in the small of his back by a spear. The Germans behind him jeered, and one gave him a shove that sent him sprawling off balance towards Hunfrid.

  The Brukterer warrior wasn’t slow to take advantage, and as Atius fell forward, he brought his axe upwards in a swing designed to bury itself in the depths of Atius’ chest cavity. Atius twisted desperately to one side, feeling the breath of the axe, almost close enough to shave his beard. He was falling again, but he had time to slash out with his pugio. The tip merely nicked the top of Hunfrid’s forearm, but it was enough to enrage him even further.

  Atius rolled sideways, coming upright with his knees bent, ready to spring. He kept the distance to the wall of German spears behind him firmly in his mind’s eye as he worked out ranges and trajectories, trying to gauge Hunfrid’s speed and reach. Hunfrid seemed to be making no such calculations as he closed again, swinging his axe diagonally downwards.

  This time Atius was able to dodge without bringing himself in reach of the hostile boundary, and kept his balance enough to be able to sweep his sword round in a counter-stroke. The gladius was often thought of as a stabbing weapon, but that was just its main function in battle, where you had tall shields, legionaries either side of you, and a wall of enemies to the fore. In looser combat, the gladius was as effective at cutting as stabbing, and Atius always kept all the edges sharp enough to use his sword as a razor. So he slashed sideways, and although his gladius wasn’t as heavy as Hunfrid’s axe, if the stroke had made contact it would have been a disabling blow.

  But Hunfrid, for all his bulk, had some dexterity, and he fended the stroke away with his shield. Then he followed up by bringing the shield with its sharpened edges round in a sweep that had Atius dancing away again, with no way of parrying. But this gave him an opening, and he stabbed forward, slicing deep into Hunfrid’s upper arm.

  Blood flowed freely down the limb, dripping from Hunfrid’s fingers and the rim of the shield. It wasn’t a finishing blow, but it would hamper him. Atius pressed forward, sweeping a low cut towards Hunfrid’s legs, forcing him to lean across to his right to block with his shield, which momentarily exposed his left side and put his axe out of action. Atius slashed with his pugio and it bit deep into the muscle of Hunfrid’s upper thigh.

  Hunfrid howled and swept his shield sideways. Although the sharp edge didn’t make contact, the front face caught Atius under the chin, snapping his jaw shut with an impact that staggered him. He wobbled, feeling the ground spin under his feet, forcing himself not to pass out by sheer willpower.

  Hunfrid took a step forward, axe raised, but his injured leg buckled and he had to throw his hands out to the sides to steady himself. Atius took a deep breath and widened his stance, planting his feet as the dizziness receded. Hunfrid advanced again, but he was limping badly, and Atius was able to step out of reach to give himself time to recover. The German crowd howled derisively as he kept out of reach of his opponent, but he could also hear shouts of encouragement from Memnon, Drustan and Scaurus.

  ‘Kill that fucker! Gut him, Atius!’

  Atius circled, backing away as Hunfrid staggered towards him, cursing and challenging in furious German. Atius knew now he would just need to bide his time. As his own strength recovered, from the blow to his head and the exertion, Hunfrid’s would ebb away in red rivulets down his thigh and arm. Even as he watched, Hunfrid slowed, head drooping.

  A German warrior stepped from the line and pushed Atius forward.

  ‘Finish him, Roman.’ Wigbrand’s voice was deep and commanding. ‘Let him die like a man.’

  Atius hesitated, then took a step forward, ready to deliver a killing thrust.

  But Hunfrid, for all his anger, had shown cunning too, and was not as weak as he had seemed. As Atius came close, Hunfrid threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around Atius’ torso and bowling him over. Atius fell on his back and the heavy German landed with his full weight on Atius’ chest, making his ribs howl, at least two cracking, and all the air was squashed from his lungs.

  Atius’ sword flew from his hand, skittering out of reach. The straps on Hunfrid’s shield broke and it rolled away before coming to rest in an ever-decreasing circle, like a spun coin. Still, he kept his grip on the axe, but lying against Atius as he was, it was impossible to bring it to bear. The German put his injured shield arm beneath him, trying to push himself upright. Atius, seeing the danger, wrapped his sword arm around Hunfrid’s neck, hugging him close. The German’s meaty breath wafted around him. He tried desperately to suck air back into his lungs, fighting against both the winding and Hunfrid’s bulk. Hunfrid struggled against him, and Atius knew that if he got into a kneeling position over him, he was finished.

  Panic washed over him as he felt his air supply dwindling, a crushing, suffocating feeling. But through the panic, he became aware of his left hand. It still gripped the pugio.

  Hugging Hunfrid tighter, Atius plunged the dagger into his kidneys. Hunfrid’s head snapped back, his mouth opening as he let out a howl. But Atius wasn’t going to give him any chances. He took the dagger out and thrust it back, again and again, frenzied stabs between ribs and into soft organs, until Aldric’s brother slumped forward and was still.

  Atius closed his eyes and concentrated on heaving air back inside him. The weight was suddenly lifted from him, and he looked up into Wigbrand’s eyes.

  ‘You fought well, and with honour, Roman.’

  For a moment, a sprout of hope germinated inside Atius. Wigbrand stamped on it.

  ‘Would you like a clean death, here and now, at my hands? Or would you like to return to your men and die in battle?’

  Atius didn’t answer at first, just breathed. Then he extended his hand. Wigbrand looked at it thoughtfully, then nodded and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘You understand what you are doing?’ asked Wigbrand. ‘If you go back to your men now, and I take you alive, your death will be slow and dirty and lacking in honour?’

  Atius bent down to retrieve his sword and turned to face Wigbrand. For a moment, he wondered whether to plunge his dagger into the giant chief’s throat. He saw in Wigbrand’s eyes that the chief knew what he was thinking. A smile played at the corner of the giant’s mouth.

  Atius brought his sword up and placed it before his face in a respectful salute he hoped Wigbrand would appreciate and understand. Wigbrand nodded, and mirrored the gesture with his axe. Atius turned and limped painfully back to his men.

  Scaurus clapped him on the back.

  ‘Well done, sir.’

  Memnon and Drustan gave muted congratulations over their shoulders too, while they continued to watch the Germans opposing them.

  ‘That was pointless,’ said Eustachys.

  ‘We’re still alive, aren’t we?’ said Scaurus. ‘It might all be over by now if Atius hadn’t accepted the challenge.’

  ‘It’s just delayed the inevitable.’

  Scaurus reached across Atius and smacked Eustachys around the side of the head, bringing forth a little yelp.

  ‘We don’t give up,’ he said sternly. ‘Not until the last breath has left our bodies. Right, sir?’

  Atius nodded, trying not to show the helplessness he felt.r />
  Before and behind them the Germans began to bang their weapons on their shields, slow at first, rhythmic, then increasing in volume and tempo. They let out a low, loud ‘huh’ with each blow, and as the sound amplified and reverberated around them, Atius felt the panic rising once more. He gripped his sword and dagger, and he thought of all those he cared for. The list wasn’t long, he realised with dismay. His mother. His lover, Menenia, though she had left him. Silus.

  Had he wasted his life? Had he been a good person? Would Christos accept him into his father’s kingdom when it was over?

  The banging on shields became an overwhelming rattle, the vocal noises a roar. Then it all stopped, and the forest path was silent. Not even a bird sang.

  ‘It’s been an honour serving with you all,’ said Atius. ‘Now brace yourselves. Here they come.’

  Chapter Seven

  Martius 213 AD

  Silus felt anxious in a way that was new to him. When he had been serving in the north of Britannia, he had known his way around the enemy territory. Even though the barbarian Caledonians and Maeatae could be dangerous and terrifying, they were familiar, and he had grown up with them on his doorstep. The big cities he had explored, Rome, Syracuse, Alexandria, had been extraordinary and magnificent and bizarre, but they were within the Empire, populated in theory at least by friendly inhabitants.

  Here everything was strange. The trees were taller, more angular. The birds sang different melodies and the flowers displayed unusual shapes and colours. And the peoples of this land spoke languages completely alien to him.

  So he found himself completely reliant on Odo, and he didn’t like that one bit. Fortunately, he trusted this likeable German, and he found himself opening up to him more and more as they journeyed on.

  It was Odo’s ears that saved them. Silus was venting his spleen about the Praetorian Guard, how over-trained, over-polished and over-paid they were, and how he wouldn’t trust them in a fight or with the Emperor’s life, when Odo stopped abruptly and held out a hand. Silus was instantly silent and on alert. They were on a winding road that ran between lightly wooded slopes, and Silus scanned the trees for whatever it was that had alarmed Odo.