‘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 whe
n 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!’
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?’
Scaurus waved a dismissive hand at his colleague.
‘That won’t work either. You won’t be buying the prefect’s loyalty with the blood of a child because the boy has been hidden away where you’ll never find him.’
Gerwulf shook his head, ignoring Scaurus’s outburst.
‘With respect, Tribune, whilst your colleague is clearly in flagrant breach of your orders, I cannot come between you in this matter since it’s far from obvious to me that you’re really the senior officer here. Your best option now that the Ravenstone is safe from attack would surely be to march for Apulum and then head north, to seek the judgement of the Thirteenth Legion’s legatus. You could order me to do your will, of course, but my inevitable refusal can only provide you with more embarrassment, wouldn’t you say? The matter of the child will sort itself out soon enough, I expect.’
Belletor shook his head in frustration, and then came to an abrupt decision.
‘Very well, we’ll take this Galatas at his word and negotiate a peaceful end to this rebellion, after which I’ll march our three cohorts north to join with the main force. I’m sure the Thirteenth Legion’s legatus will be happy to receive reinforcements, and equally happy to sit in judgement of your insubordination. You, Prefect Gerwulf, can guard the mines in our absence and you, Tribune, will soon be receiving a harsh lesson as to what the price is for failing to obey the orders given to you by your betters!’
‘And that’s their king? That young lad riding in the middle of all those ugly looking bastards?’
Marcus replied without taking his eyes off the Sarmatae party, watching the men around Galatas carefully for any sign of a problem, with the fingers of his right hand touching the patterned spatha’s hilt.
‘Yes, Standard Bearer, that is indeed the king of the Sarmatae.’
Galatas was surrounded by the party of fifty horsemen that had been agreed in the initial negotiations, enough to represent a show of the tribe’s mounted strength without posing any threat to the defenders’ infantry cohorts, which had been drawn up on an open-sided square before the wall’s gate. His uncle Balodi was riding at their head, and the would-be usurper Inarmaz was mounted behind Balodi with his hands bound in front of him. The party stopped and dismounted, Balodi signalling to his men to help Inarmaz down from his horse before the three men stepped forward to meet the Roman senior officers waiting for them. After a moment’s discussion between the two sides Scaurus stepped away from the group and signalled to Marcus to leave his century and join them. Pacing out to meet the young centurion halfway, he spoke quietly as they walked towards the waiting men.
‘The king specifically requested you join us for the negotiations. I think he has a soft spot for you, and Belletor’s in no better position to refuse the request than he was when dear old Balodi insisted that I should be party to the treaty.’
Galatas smiled when he saw Marcus in the tribune’s company, stepping forward to take the Roman’s arm in a formal clasp.
‘Greetings, Centurion! It gives me great pleasure to see you again.’
Marcus bowed deeply.
‘As it does for me to see you in your rightful place, King Galatas Boraz.’
He bowed to Balodi, who nodded in return and gestured to Inarmaz at his side.
‘Greetings, Centurion, and well met once more. I’m sure my brother-in-law would greet you in effusive terms had I not taken precautions against him spreading more poison against the king as he’s done so many times before.’ The Sarmatae noble’s mouth was tightly bound with a strip of cloth, and Balodi laughed at the evil glare he received for drawing the Romans’ attention to his discomfiture. ‘Ah, if looks could kill, but then I’m afraid that looks are all my brother’s brother by marriage has left in his quiver. I’ve told him that any attempt to speak while he is thus restrained will only result in my having his mouth stitched closed, which would be a shame since I have a mind to deliver his final punishment before the sacred sword rather than watching him starve to death before we reach our homelands. But now to business, Tribune.’
Scaurus gestured for his colleague Belletor to step forward, and the other tribune did so with a venomous look of hatred at him which Balodi noted with a raised eyebrow. Gathering himself up, the Roman raised his head to point his chin at the Sarmatae nobles.
‘Very well then, King Galatas Boraz, I am Tribune Lucius Domitius Belletor, the officer commanding this mining facility and thereby responsible for your defeat. You have re
quested a negotiation of peace terms between your people and the Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus Antoninus Augustus. What terms do you seek?’
Galatas stepped forward to meet him, his expression neither humble nor proud.
‘We will withdraw from your lands and return to our own, seeking no further confrontation with your people, and we will provide you with enough foot soldiers to make up your battle losses. In return we desire only the return of the prisoners you have taken. . and perhaps some small token of the renewed friendship between our peoples?’
Belletor nodded graciously.
‘Your gift of men to serve in our ranks is most generous, and we will, of course, liberate those warriors we captured in the course of defending our emperor’s property.’ He turned and smirked at Scaurus, knowing that the Tungrian cohorts would thereby be deprived of the spoils of their victory. ‘You will arrange for the repatriation of the prisoners, colleague.’
The Tungrians’ tribune nodded tersely, having already told his officers that he would seek no further opportunity to clash with his colleague, given the size of the rupture between them.
‘Further, I propose an accommodation between our two peoples. Procurator?’
Scaurus stared at the back of Belletor’s head with his eyes narrowed, and Procurator Maximus walked forward into the open space bounded by the ranks of soldiers, clicking his fingers to summon four men carrying a heavy strongbox. They walked forward, clearly struggling under the weight, and placed it before Galatas. Belletor smiled at the young king, holding up an iron key.
‘The box contains ten thousand gold aureii, Galatas Boraz, which you may consider to be an initial payment from the empire, if you respond favourably to two suggestions. Firstly, I propose a treaty of friendship between our two peoples, with both sides sworn to come to the defence of the other in time of war. Secondly, in recognition of the current state of war between the empire and your fellow tribes, I request the service of one thousand horsemen from your tribe. If you agree to both of these suggestions I will petition the governor to continue with regular payments for as long as there is friendship between our two peoples. Good and faithful service by your horsemen, and continuing peace on our shared border will, I am sure, be enough to encourage his agreement in due course. Do take a moment to consider this matter with your advisers. .’
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