The legionaries had not paused to gape. As the blue-skins charged, arrows were fitted to bowstrings and a humming wave of death passed over the heads of Marcus and his men, giving them time to reach the path and turn to face the enemy. Marcus remembered having drawn his gladius and killing a warrior who had screamed at him right up to the moment when Marcus chopped his blade into the creature's throat.
For a moment, the legionaries were overwhelmed. Their strength was in units, but on the ragged path it was every man for himself and little chance to link shields with anyone else. Nonetheless, Marcus saw that each of the Romans was standing and cutting, their faces grim and unyielding before the blue horror of the tribe. More men fell on both sides and Marcus found himself with his back to a cart, ducking under a sword cut to bury his shorter blade in a heaving blue stomach and ripping it out to the side. The intestines seemed bright yellow against the blue dye, some part of him noted as he defended against two more. He took one hand off at the wrist and sliced another warrior in the groin as he tried to leap onto the cart. The snarling tribesman fell back into the choking dust, and Marcus stamped down on him blindly while slicing the bicep of the next. It seemed to last a long time, and when they finally broke and raced away up the banks into cover, Marcus was surprised to see the sun where it had been when they attacked. Only a few minutes had passed at most. He looked round for his unit and was relieved to see faces he knew well, panting and splashed with blood, but alive.
Many had not been so lucky. Rupis would never sneer again. He lay with his legs sprawled against one of the carts, a wide red smile opened in his throat. Twelve others had been butchered in the attack, and around them lay almost thirty of the still blue bodies, dribbling blood onto their land. It was a grim sight and the flies were already arriving in droves for the feast.
As Marcus called for Peppis to bring him a flask of water, Peritas began setting the guards again and called the commanders to him for a quick report. Marcus took the flask from Peppis and trotted to the head of the column.
Peritas looked as if the heat and dust had baked all moisture out of him over the years, leaving only a sort of hard wood and eyes that peered out at the world with amused indifference. Of the whole group, he was the only one who was mounted. He nodded as Marcus saluted.
"We could turn back, but my guess is we've seen the worst they have to offer at the moment. I think if we took the bodies back, that would be a little victory for the savages, so we go on. Strap the dead to the carts and change the guards over. I want the freshest men on lookout, just in case of more trouble. Well done, those men who surprised the enemy and made them show themselves early. Probably saved a few Roman lives. It's only thirty miles to the hill fort, so we had better press on. Questions?"
Marcus looked at the horizon. There was nothing to ask. Men died and were cremated and sent back to Rome. That was army life. Those who survived received promotions. He hadn't realized there was as much luck involved as there seemed to be, but Renius had nodded when asked and pointed out that although the gods may well have heroic favorites, an arrow doesn't care who it kills.
The real trouble started when the depleted company reached the last few miles of the journey. They had begun to see blueskins watching them from the undergrowth, a flash of color here and there. They hadn't the numbers to send a unit to attack, and the blueskins had never used missile weapons, so the legionaries just ignored the tribesmen and kept a good grip on their swords.
The closer they came to the fort, the more of the enemy they could see. At least twenty of them were keeping pace on a higher level than the path, using the trees and undergrowth for cover, but occasionally coming out into the open to hoot and jeer at the grim soldiers of Rome. Peritas frowned as his horse trotted on and kept his hand on his sword hilt.
Marcus kept expecting a spear to be thrown. He imagined one of the blue warriors sighting on him and could practically feel the spot between his shoulder blades where the point would land. They certainly carried spears, but seemed to avoid throwing them, or at least had in the past. It didn't stop the spot itching, though. He began willing the fort to be close and at the same time dreading what they might find. More than one tribe must be gathered; certainly none of the men had ever seen so many blueskins in one place before. If any of them lived to report back to the rest of the legion, someone would have to warn them that the tribes had grown in confidence and numbers.
At last they rounded a turn in the track and saw the last segment of the journey, half a mile of steeply rising path up to a small fortress on a gray hill. Roaming the flat lands around the outcropping were more of the blue men. Some were even camped in sight of the fortress and watched the caravan with slitted eyes. Footfalls on rock could be heard behind them, and rocks dislodged by scrambling bare feet spattered and bounced against the ground. With every man on edge, they had begun the slow climb to the fort, the ox drivers waving and cracking their whips nervously.
Marcus could see no lookouts and began to feel a sense of dull fear. They wouldn't make it—and what would they find if they did?
The slow march continued until they were close enough to see the details of the fort. Still there was no one on the ramparts, and Marcus knew with a sinking heart that no one could be alive inside. He had his sword drawn and was swinging it nervously as he walked.
Suddenly a great howl went up from every blueskin around. Marcus risked a glance back down the path and saw what must have been a hundred of the warriors charging at them.
Peritas rode down the line of legionaries.
"Abandon the wagons! Make for the fort. Go!" he shouted, and suddenly they were running. The howls increased in savage joy behind them as the drivers leapt off and sprinted the last hundred feet. Marcus held his sword away from his body and ran, not daring to look back again. He could hear the slap of hard bare feet and the high screaming of a blueskin attack too close for comfort. He saw the gate come up and was through it with a knot of shoving, heaving soldiers, turning immediately to yell encouragement to the slower men.
Most made it. Only two men, either too tired or too scared to make the sprint, were run down, turning in the last moment like trapped animals and spitted with many blades. Wet red metal was raised in defiance as the survivors shut and barred the gate, and Peritas was off his horse and shouting to search and secure the fort. Who could understand the sick reasoning of the savages? Perhaps they had more men waiting inside, just for the pleasure of picking them off when they thought they had reached safety.
The fort was empty, however, except for the bodies. A Fifty manned each fort, with twenty horses. Man and beast lay where they had been killed and then mutilated. Even the horses had their stinking guts spread over the stone floor, and clouds of blue-black flies buzzed into the air as they were disturbed. Two men vomited as the smell hit them, and Marcus's heart sank even more. They were trapped, with only disease and death in the future. Outside, the blueskins chanted and whooped.
CHAPTER 30
Before night fell, Peritas had the bodies of the legionaries locked in an empty basement store. The dead horses proved a more difficult problem. All weapons had been stripped from the fort, and there wasn't an axe to be found anywhere. The slippery carcasses could be lifted by five or six of the men working at once, but not carried up the stone steps to be put over the ramparts. In the end, Peritas had stacked the heavy, limp bodies against the gate to slow down attackers. It was the best they could hope for. No one expected to make it through the night, and fear and resignation hung heavily on all of them. Up on the walls, Marcus watched the campfires with narrowed eyes.
"What I don't understand," he muttered to Peppis, "is why we were allowed back into the fort. They have taken it once and they must have lost some lives, so why not cut us down on the trail?"
Peppis shrugged. "They're savages, sir. Perhaps they enjoy a challenge, or humiliating us." He carried on with his task of sharpening blades on a worn concave whetstone. "Peritas says we will be missed when
we don't get back by morning and they'll send out a strike force by tomorrow evening, perhaps even earlier. We don't have to hold out for long, but I don't think the blueskins will give us that kind of time." He continued wiping the stone along a silver blade.
"I think we could hold this place for a day or so. They have the numbers, granted, but that's all they have. Mind you, they did take it once."
Marcus paused as a chant began in the near darkness. If he strained his eyes, he could see dancing figures silhouetted against the flames of the fires.
"Someone is having a good time tonight," he muttered. His mouth watered. The fort well had been poisoned with rotting flesh, and everything else edible had been removed. Truth to tell, if the reinforcements didn't get to them in a day or two, thirst would do the blueskins' job for them. Perhaps they intended the Romans to die with dry throats in the burning sun. That would match the cruel tales he had heard about them, given a fresh airing amongst the nervous soldiers as night fell on the fort.
Peppis peered over the wall into the gloom and snorted. "There's one of them peeing against the wall down there," he said, his voice caught between outrage and amusement.
"Watch yourself, don't lean out or put your head up too high," Marcus replied as he pressed his own head closer to the rough stone, trying to peer over the edge while exposing as little of himself as possible.
Astonishingly close and directly below them was a swaying blueskin holding his parts and spraying the fort with dark urine in short sweeping arcs. The grinning figure caught sight of the movement above and jumped, recovering quickly. He waved a hand at the pair who watched him and waggled his privates in their direction.
"He's had a little too much to drink, I'd say," Marcus murmured, grinning despite himself. He watched the man pull a bloated wineskin around his body and suck on the mouth of it, spilling more than he took in. Blearily, the blueskin shoved in the stopper on his third attempt and gestured up again, calling out something in his slushy tongue.
Tiring of their lack of response, he took two steps and fell flat on his face.
Marcus and Peppis watched him. He was still.
"Not dead; I can see his chest moving. Dead drunk maybe," Peppis whispered. "It's bound to be a trap. Devious, the blueskins are, everyone says."
"Maybe, but I can only see one of them and I can take one. We could do with that wine. I know I could, anyway," Marcus replied. "I'm going down there. Fetch me a rope. I can drop over the wall and climb back up before there's any real danger."
Peppis scurried off on his errand and Marcus focused on the prone figure and the surrounding ground. He weighed the risks and then smiled sardonically. They were all going to die in the night or at dawn, so what did the risks matter? The problem receded and he felt his tension relax. There was something about almost certain death that was quite calming in its way. At least he would have a drink. That wine sack had looked full enough to give nearly all of them a cupful.
Peppis tied up his end of the rope and sent the rest uncoiling silently down the twenty-foot drop. Marcus made sure his gladius was secure and ruffled the hair of the lad.
"See you soon," he whispered, putting one leg over the parapet and disappearing into the gloom below. The dark was so complete that Peppis could barely make him out as he crept toward the still figure, the gladius drawn and ready in his hand.
Marcus felt the itch again and clenched his jaw. Something was wrong with the scene and it was too late to avoid the trap. He reached out a foot to stir the drunken blueskin and wasn't surprised when the man suddenly sprang up. Marcus took his throat out before the expression of triumph could fully form. Then two more blue men rose out of the dirt. It was their presence he'd sensed, hidden in shallow graves and lying perfectly still for hours with almost inhuman discipline. They had probably dug themselves in to wait before the Roman caravan even appeared, Marcus realized as he attacked. They were not wild savages, but warriors.
There seemed to be just the three of them, young men out for status or a first kill. They had risen with swords in their hands, and his first backhand blow was blocked with a loud ring of metal that made Marcus wince. There would be more of them coming. He had to get clear before the whole blueskin army arrived.
Marcus's blade slid along the dust-covered warrior's and clashed against a crude bronze guard. The man leered and Marcus punched him in the stomach with his other fist, ripping the blade back and through him as he doubled over in pained surprise. He collapsed as his neck veins parted, and hit the ground wretchedly.
The third was not as skilled as his companion, but Marcus could hear shouts and knew time was running out. His haste made him careless and he ducked late on a wild slash that nicked his ear and scored a line in his scalp.
He slid to his left and punched the blade into the man's heart through the blue-stained ribs from the side. As the warrior fell with a gurgling cry, Marcus could hear the slap of running feet he remembered so vividly from the afternoon scramble into the fort. It was too late to run for the rope, so he turned and detached the wineskin from the first body, pulling out the stopper and taking a deep draft as the night around him filled with swords and blue shadows.
They formed a circle around him, swords ready, eyes bright even in the darkness. Marcus eased the wine bag to his feet and held his gladius high. They made no move and he saw eyes roam over the bodies. Long seconds stretched in silence, then one of them stepped forward, large, bald, and blue, and carrying a long, curved blade.
The warrior pointed off into the distance and gestured at Marcus. Marcus shook his head and pointed back at the fort. Someone jeered, but a curt hand signal from the man cut their noise off. The warrior stepped forward fearlessly, his sword pointed at Marcus's throat. With his other arm he pointed again at the campfires and then at the young Roman. The circle tightened silently and Marcus could feel the closeness of the men behind him.
"Tortured to death over the fire it is, then," he said, pointing to the campfires himself.
The big blue warrior nodded, his eyes never leaving Marcus. He spoke a few words of command and another warrior placed his hand on Marcus's sword blade, gently removing it from his grip.
"Oh, unarmed and tortured to death—I didn't understand at first," Marcus continued, forcing his voice to pleasant tones and knowing they didn't understand. He smiled and they smiled back at him.
They left the fort behind in the darkness, and it was probably just his imagination that he caught a glimpse of Peppis's face outlined against the sky for a moment when he looked back.
They walked with strutting confidence into the blueskin camp with their prisoner. Marcus could see they were readying themselves for war. Weapons were stacked in bundles and the warriors danced and howled at the fires, spitting what must have been raw alcohol, judging by the blue flames that burst and flickered as the streams of liquid hit them. They whooped and wrestled and more than one sat slathering a pale mud onto his arms and face—the source, Marcus guessed, of the blue dye.
He barely had time to take all this in before he was shoved to his knees at the side of the bonfire and a crude clay cup of clear spirit was pressed into his hands. His eyes watered as he caught the evaporating fumes, but he swallowed it all and then fought not to choke. It was powerful liquor and he waved away the offer of another cup, wanting to keep a clear head. His guards settled on the ground all around him and seemed to be commenting on his clothes and manners to each other. Certainly it involved much pointing and laughing. Marcus ignored them, wondering if there would be a chance to run. He eyed the swords of the warriors nearest him, noting how they were removed from belts and laid on the scrub grass near to hand. He might be able to grab one...
Horns blew and interrupted his concentration. As everyone looked toward the source of the sound, Marcus stole one more look at the closest blade and saw the warrior's hand was resting on it. As his gaze traveled upward, he met the man's eyes and chuckled wryly as the burly warrior shook his head and smiled, revealing brown
and rotting teeth.
The horn was held by the first old blueskin Marcus had seen. He must have been fifty, and unlike the hard, muscular bodies of the young fighters, he had a heavy belly that bowed out his robe and jiggled as he moved skinny arms. He must have been a leader, as the warriors reacted to his shouted commands with speed. Three handy-looking types unsheathed their long swords and nodded to friends in the circle. Small drums were produced and a fast rhythm sounded. The three men stood relaxed as the rhythm filled the night, and then they moved, faster than Marcus would have believed possible. The swords were like bars of dawn light, and the moves were fluid, flowing into one another, so unlike the Roman sequences that Marcus had learned.
He could see the fight was staged, more a dance than a contest of violence. The men spun and leapt and their swords hummed as they cut the hot night air.
Marcus watched entranced to the end as the men once again resumed their relaxed positions and the drumming ceased. The warriors whooped and Marcus joined them without embarrassment, tensing as the old man walked over to him.
"Do you like? They are skillful?" the man said in a heavy accent.
Marcus covered his confusion and agreed, his expression carefully blank.
"These men took your little fort. They are the Krajka, the best of us, yes?"
Marcus nodded.
"Your men fought well, but the Krajka train when they stand, yes, as young children? We will take back all your ugly forts this way, yes? Stone from stone and ashes scattered? We will do this."
"How many... Krajka are there?" Marcus asked.
The old man smiled, showing only three teeth in black gums. "Not enough. We practice on those came with you today. Other warriors need to see how you people fight, yes?"
The Gates of Rome Page 31
