The Wolf's Gold: Empire V

by Anthony Riches

  Marcus loosened the strap of his helmet and took it off, handing the heavy iron bowl to Galatas, who in turn passed it to one of the men forming the circle. Amnoz shouted a comment across to the warrior, and the men around them laughed at his words while Galatas smiled darkly, drawing his sword from its scabbard. Marcus looked down at the blade, wondering how heavy it would be in comparison to his own patterned spatha. The weapon’s hilt was decorated with a pommel fashioned in the shape of an eagle’s talons gripping a ball of metal.

  ‘If you are needing any motivation then it might help for you to know Amnoz is telling him to take good care of that helmet, since he’ll be wearing it from now on. Very shortly now I will place this sword in the ground in the middle of the ring, and at my signal the fight will begin. The first man to the sword has the right to draw it from the earth and attack the other in whatever way he chooses, while his opponent can resist that attack by any means at his disposal. Do you understand?’

  Marcus looked across the ring at his opponent, seeing the confidence in Amnoz’s eyes as he swung his arms in a perfunctory warm-up.

  ‘I understand. And for my part, I’m told that Amnoz is a good swordsman, not supremely talented but faster and stronger than most of your men. He’s also somewhat overconfident, and stronger on his right-hand side than his left. And your uncle Balodi sends you his regards. Do you understand?’

  Galatas nodded in response to the question with an expression of slight bafflement and then turned away, firmly planting the sword’s blade in the turf between the combatants before stepping back out of the ring of shields which closed behind him, isolating the two men within an arena roughly thirty feet across. Amnoz nodded to his father before turning to face Marcus, and silence fell across the circle as the men around them watched the Roman square up to their champion with grins of anticipation. Galatas gave the necessary signal to a warrior holding a horn, and as the instrument touched the man’s lips Amnoz sprinted forward to rip the sword from the turf with a triumphant shout while Marcus stood and watched, allowing his shield’s rim to rest on the ground at his feet. The Sarmatae turned to his comrades and raised the weapon in triumph, receiving their cheers with the outstretched arms of a victorious gladiator, but his look of glee faded when he turned to the Roman only to find him watching the spectacle with apparent disinterest. Raising the sword to his lips, Amnoz kissed its blade reverentially to renewed cheers, then swung it with a smirk to point at Marcus, stepping into a fighting stance and advancing slowly towards his intended victim.

  Still the Roman waited and watched, holding back from making any move until the weapon’s point was only feet away from his face. Sliding one foot back he raised his right arm to bring the shield into place, watching Amnoz’s eyes over the rim and waiting impassively for him to make the first move, hoping that his immobility would be taken for fear by the grinning barbarian. With a casual shrug to his comrades the champion stepped in closer, swinging his sword in a vicious attack at Marcus’s bare head. The blade clanged off the Roman’s raised shield in a flash of sparks from its iron rim, and the centurion stepped back again, pulling the shield back close to his body, while the men in the ring of shields jeered at the tactic. Amnoz swung the heavy blade again without any pause, attacking with a horizontal cut that hammered a deep groove in the wooden board and jarred Marcus backwards to renewed cheers from the men around them. Again the Roman stepped back, pulling the shield so close to his body that his nose was almost touching the iron rim, reaching stealthily to his belt with his left hand behind its cover. Sensing victory, Amnoz swung the sword up over his head, clearly aiming to chop it down into the shield with enough force to split the iron rim and cleave the wood behind it asunder, but as the heavy blade reached the height of its swing Marcus stepped decisively forward, taking a deep lungful of air as he did so. Pushing the right-hand edge of his shield behind his opponent’s board he bellowed defiantly into Amnoz’s face, then used the momentary advantage of surprise to wrench the other man’s shield away from his body. Discarding his own shield he stepped in close and reached up to take the other man’s raised sword arm in a powerful grip that held the weapon uselessly in the air above them.

  Amnoz had only an instant in which to realise that the Roman was armed before the knife was between his ribs, shuddering as Marcus pushed a hunting blade of polished metal the length of a man’s hand through his mail armour and into his chest. Looking down he frowned in disbelief at the sudden shock of the wound, staring with blank eyes at the odd swirling pattern which decorated that portion of the blade not buried deep in his chest. A shocked hush fell across the circle, and the warriors around them watched in amazement as Marcus, keeping a firm hold of the wounded warrior’s sword hand with his left hand, twisted the knife’s handle to bring the blade’s cutting edge uppermost and dragging a groan of pain from the agonised champion’s lips. Setting his teeth in a snarl, the Roman wrenched the steel up through his ribs, angling the blade to carve its point into his opponent’s heart. Amnoz died where he stood, his eyes rolling upwards, and his body sagging loosely on pain-stiffened legs. Releasing his grip on the knife’s handle Marcus pried the sword from the dying man’s slack grip, leaving the smaller blade buried deep in his chest and kicking hard at the tottering corpse to send it sprawling into the centre of the circle.

  After a moment’s stunned silence, Galatas stepped into the ring of shields, but as he opened his mouth to speak Inarmaz shouldered his way into the circle from behind him, his other son a pace behind. Ripping his sword from its scabbard the noble pushed his nephew aside and stalked forward to pick up his dead son’s shield, ignoring the angry words his prince was shouting at him, while Amnoz’s brother Alardy took a shield from one of the men lining the circle. Marcus took stock of Inarmaz’s older son in that brief moment while Galatas railed at the nobleman, watching as the heavily built warrior hefted his sword and stared back at him over the shield’s rim. Pointing his blade at Marcus, Inarmaz barked a terse sentence over his shoulder in his own language, smiling grimly as Galatas fell silent. Stepping forward until the two men’s swords were close enough to touch, Inarmaz spat out his fury in a tone edged with hatred.

  ‘My nephew tells me that I risk the dishonour of our tribe by offering you further violence. He tells me that you defeated my son in a fair fight and that we should now respect your victory and allow you to leave. And I, Roman, have told him that I will either have your head or his.’

  Marcus smiled grimly back at him, raising the sword to point it at Alardy.

  ‘You’re sure you want to do this, Inarmaz? You’ve only one son left now. What if I put Alardy on the pyre alongside Amnoz? Who will you plot to put on the throne in place of Galatas then? Yourself, perhaps?’

  Inarmaz’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Accusing me of treason won’t save you from my revenge, Roman. Defend yourself!’

  The two men advanced to either side of Marcus, and at Inarmaz’s signal they attacked fast, hammering at his defences with the fury of men whose world had been ripped to shreds before their eyes. Ducking under a sword-cut aimed at his head, Marcus spun, slashing the prince’s sword at Alardy’s legs with the aim of hamstringing him, but the sword was heavier and slower to wield than he was used to, and the warrior danced away from his attack with a mocking grin as the sword’s blade ended its swing practically resting on the centurion’s shoulder. Inarmaz waded into the fight, smashing at the Roman’s shield with his sword, and Marcus met the weapon’s threat with the polished iron centre of his shield, wincing as the collision of blade and boss instantly numbed his left hand. Barely hanging onto the board’s handle he stepped decisively inside Inarmaz’s defences with Galatas’s sword still held with its long blade pointing back over his shoulder and the heavy iron pommel decoration pointing forward. Dropping the shield he grabbed the noble’s heavy gold chain to prevent him from pulling back, and while Inarmaz was still trying to bring his sword to bear, the Roman smashed the pommel into his forehead with all the
force he could muster.

  A bellow of rage gave him an instant’s warning that Alardy was upon him, and in a flash of inspiration he used his grip on the chain to drag Inarmaz towards him, ducking away as he pulled the dazed noble into his son’s path. The warrior battered his father aside with his shield, ignoring him as he sprawled full length in the mud and squaring up to the Roman with a furious glare, kicking his enemy’s discarded shield away to prevent him from recovering it.

  ‘I shouldn’t imagine your father will be very happy when he recovers his wits.’

  Alardy half laughed and half snarled his response, wristing his sword in an extravagant swishing arc.

  ‘He’ll be happy enough when I show him what’s left of you being dragged apart by his hunting dogs. You’re without a shield now, and no fancy sword tricks are going to save you.’

  He attacked with fresh energy, and the Roman found himself hard-pressed under the flurry of his sword blows, falling back under the onslaught, able to do little more than deflect the strikes while waiting in vain for an opening in his opponent’s defence. Stepping back again, he felt the hard surface of a shield behind his rearmost heel, and at that moment a hand pushed hard into the square of his back, momentarily unbalancing him. As he staggered forward Alardy sprang to attack him, swinging his heavy blade in a lethal arc that Marcus barely managed to deflect with his own weapon, hooking his booted foot behind the Roman’s ankle and pulling him off balance before barging him to the ground. Standing on the blade of the prince’s sword, Alardy lowered the point of his own weapon to Marcus’s throat and grinned mirthlessly down at him, breathing hard from his exertion.

  ‘See? No shield, and now no sword either.’

  Marcus looked up at him, then switched his focus to stare at the other side of the circle.

  ‘True. But I do still have one last weapon. Your uncle Balodi.’

  For a moment Alardy frowned down at the Roman, uncomprehending, and then his eyes widened in shock, his back arching and the breath explosively bursting from his mouth as something hit him hard in the back. Rolling away from the sword’s point, Marcus got to his feet to see the young warrior drop his weapons and put a hand to the spot where a red-painted arrow protruded from his back. Gathering up the prince’s sword the Roman strode across to the dazed Inarmaz who had managed to get back to his feet, putting the weapon’s point to the Sarmatae noble’s throat while he was still staring aghast at his son’s plight. Tottering for a moment as the impact of his wound sank in, Alardy abruptly dropped to one knee as a line of bloody saliva ran down his chin and onto his mailed chest, lifting his eyes to meet Marcus’s pitiless gaze for a moment before his eyes rolled up to show only their whites. Pitching full length into the mud he lay twitching beside his brother while the Roman watched several warriors push their way through Inarmaz’s men with their swords drawn, shouting loudly in their own language and using the flats of their blades on those who were slow to yield to their advance. Moving quickly, they strode across the circle to stand around their prince while Balodi, now dressed in the furs of a noble, pushed through the shields and into the circle at the head of another larger group of his followers. His assured swagger was clearly intended to give the impression of a man who knew that events were running his way.

  Motioning Marcus away from Inarmaz, Balodi pulled the heavy gold chain from around the nobleman’s neck and then brutally kicked his feet out from beneath him before pulling the king’s narrow gold crown from inside his clothing and raising it above his head in a clenched fist. Turning to Galatas he bowed ceremoniously before placing the crown on the young man’s head, then turned back to Inarmaz’s warriors and bellowed a brief command to them, gesturing to the prince with an opened hand before going down on one knee with his head bowed. From behind the shield holders a sudden rattle of iron announced the presence of dozens more of his men, with yet more still pouring from the camp behind them. At their leader’s shouted order they started rapping their swords and shield bosses together in unison and chanting Galatas’s name. After a moment of stunned silence one of the men in the ring of shields sank slowly to his knees, swiftly followed by another, and in a heartbeat every one of them had followed their fellows’ example in recognition of the fact that they were outnumbered and leaderless. Galatas stepped forward with his arm raised to take their salute, sharing a look of amazement with Marcus as men flooded from the camp behind him, adding their voices to the adulation.

  ‘So the king’s brother intervened just in time?’

  Marcus nodded wearily at Tribune Belletor’s question.

  ‘Yes, Tribune. He put a poisoned arrow into Inarmaz’s son Alardy just as he was about to fillet me and serve me up to his dogs, and surrounded his warriors with men loyal to the old king. His possession of the dead king’s crown was the masterstroke, he just marched up to Galatas and put it on his head, which meant that Inarmaz’s men either had to fight then and there or proclaim their loyalty to the new king.’ He took another drink of water from the beaker in front of him before continuing. ‘The prince got me out of there as quickly as he could, but he gave me a message to bring back to you, Tribune.’

  He turned to Belletor and opened a writing tablet, working hard to put the right tone of respect into his voice.

  ‘Tribune, it is apparent to me that my father, the king Asander Boraz, sought battle with you at the ill-advised urging of my uncle Inarmaz. Given my father’s honourable death in battle, and the attempted insurrection by my uncle, I would prefer to establish peaceful terms with your empire and withdraw my army to our tribal lands without any further conflict between us. I will be happy to meet with you on ground of your choosing in order to formally agree this end to our hostilities.’

  Belletor raised an eyebrow at his colleague.

  ‘I find it intriguing that this man Balodi seems to have gained possession of the Sarmatae king’s gold crown, a valuable item which I was assured was in safe keeping ready for shipment to Rome as a prize of battle. How might that have happened, Tribune Scaurus?’

  Scaurus maintained an admirably straight face.

  ‘There’s no secret there, colleague. I gave the crown to Balodi when I freed him, soon after the centurion here discovered him among the prisoners.’ Belletor gaped at him in amazement, but Scaurus continued as if he were discussing nothing of any greater importance than the weather. ‘I had another of my centurions escort him over the northern edge of the valley and then via a circuitous route to within a mile or so of the enemy camp while we prepared the king for return to the Sarmatae, so that at about the time Centurion Corvus here walked up to the side facing our wall, Balodi was slipping into a section guarded by his own men on the opposite side.’ He smiled blandly at Belletor. ‘This has all turned out very well, I’d say, a rebellion put down before any really serious damage was done and a new king with good reason to be grateful to the empire.’

  Belletor snorted his disapproval, waving a hand in dismissal of his colleague’s argument as he proclaimed his verdict on the matter.

  ‘On the contrary, Tribune Scaurus, you have once again acted without the approval of your superior officer—’

  Scaurus laughed out loud, the jaundiced tone of his outburst as much as the simple fact of its expression widening the eyes of the gathered senior officers.

  ‘Enough of this nonsense! Your approval would have taken half the morning not to be forthcoming. Why would I even bother? You’re not interested in anything that doesn’t suit your own needs, and you’re the closest thing to a military illiterate I’ve yet to meet in uniform. This was a decision that needed making immediately, not after the time required for you to wake, bathe, deign to see me and then spend an hour teasing the question through your clearly limited intellect, and so I made it on the spot. And now, I’m afraid, you’ll have to do as you see fit.’

  Belletor’s response was an instantaneous, spluttering retort.

  ‘I’ll remove you from your command, that’s what I’ll do!’

&nbs
p; Scaurus shook his head slowly.

  ‘You won’t, I’m afraid. That was a threat that only held good while we were on the southern side of the Danubius, never far from a legion fortress and the informed opinion of a legatus whose senatorial view of the world would match your own. Now that we’re on the empire’s very edge there are two problems with that course of action. For one thing, without a senior officer standing behind you, you’ve no means of backing up the threat. I have two cohorts of battle-hardened men to your one cohort of recruits and wasters, so you’ve no credible threat of force to offer. And secondly, I’ll not surrender those two cohorts to your incompetence, and neither will I allow you to put our inexperienced colleague Sigilis in charge of them, decent enough man though I believe him to be. So unless you’ve got a suicidal urge to take your iron to me, there’s no recourse to military discipline available to you until we both stand before a legion’s legatus, and while I’ll happily accept whatever it is that such an august personage decides should be my fate for ignoring your orders, until that day we’ll just have to rub along. Won’t we?’

  Belletor looked about the room in search of some means of enforcing his impotent will. The Thracian cohort’s prefect looked down at the floor, clearly hoping to remain uninvolved, but Gerwulf met his gaze steadily.

  ‘Prefect Gerwulf?’

  The German saluted respectfully.

  ‘Tribune?’

  ‘Will you obey my orders, Prefect?’

  Gerwulf nodded.

  ‘I will, Prefect.’

  ‘Then disarm this mutineer and take command of his cohorts!’ Belletor’s expression went from enraged to crafty. ‘I believe there’s something he has which you want?’