Marcus and Dubnus exchanged glances while the Sarmatae noble continued.
‘But in all of these decisions, of course, he was always the man behind the throne, constantly seeking to advise and cajole the king, but taking great care never to expose himself as the real decision maker. As far as the tribe is concerned this was Asander’s war, and Inarmaz always took care to be seen as his faithful follower. When the sweet wine of victory that my people expect turns out to be a sour brew it will be the king’s decisions that are questioned, rather than the counsel on which they were founded.’
He shook his head wearily and fell silent just as Quintus returned with a wooden bowl of steaming stew. Marcus took the food with a word of thanks to his deputy and passed it to Balodi, who took a bone spoon from his clothing and started eating. The two centurions watched as he ate the food with relish, and as he scooped the last of the stew into his mouth Marcus reached out for the bowl, raising an eyebrow in question.
‘So, what will happen now?’
Balodi looked up at Marcus with an expression of resignation, chewing on the last piece of meat and swallowing before answering.
‘I am not gifted with the ability to see the future, Centurion, but a man doesn’t need the skills of a seer to know that with my brother and I unlikely ever to see our people again, my nephew is very much alone in a sea of enemies. He finds the easy prize that Inarmaz promised his father fiercely guarded, preventing him from giving the tribe a swift victory, and the huge wealth they have been promised will be theirs. And at his back lurks a man of infinite cunning whose sons, Amnoz and Alardy, give him an edge of terror over the tribe’s nobles. They are mad dogs, both of them, and neither of them would have either difficulty or scruple in killing my nephew “for the good of the tribe”. He will make his move in the morning, I would imagine, suggesting to Galatas that he must lead a fresh attack on your defences, and pledging his sons to fight on either side of their prince to ensure his safety. And at some point in whatever battle ensues, whether our warriors be winning or losing the day, one of Inarmaz’s sons will slip a small blade into my nephew’s armour and let his life run out, shielded from view by the press of the king’s bodyguards who, I strongly suspect, have already been turned to their service.’
Dubnus nodded his understanding.
‘And you? If you were standing on the other side of that wall, what could you do to change this prediction?’
Balodi got to his feet, taking a deep breath and eyeing the burly centurion with a gentle smile.
‘You take me for a beaten man, do you, resigned to the end of my father’s line? The blood that carved a kingdom out of the plains beyond these hills is strong in me, Centurion, and were I to stand against Inarmaz I would command the support of thousands of those spears you see camped before your walls. I would not stand by and watch my father’s legacy be stolen by the second son of a rival king, and neither would my nephew go to his grave with a knife in his back if I stood alongside him. He might still die, of course, but the wound would be in his front, and his defeat inflicted in a fair fight, not by deception and assassination.’ He shook his head with a bitter smile. ‘But since I stand here under your spear points that’s all of precious little import, wouldn’t you agree?’
The tent’s flap parted, and a soldier put his head through the gap with a respectful salute.
‘Begging your pardon, Centurions, but I have a message for you from the hospital. The doctor gave me this for you and she said it was urgent.’
Marcus took the tablet and read for a moment, then handed it to Dubnus, calling for Quintus.
‘Chosen Man, keep this man under guard. Centurion Dubnus and I must consult with the tribune.’
‘You really don’t have to do this.’
Marcus continued with the painstaking task of re-strapping the leg windings that secured the bottom of his leggings around his boots, working carefully, ensuring that nothing could flap loose in a fight.
‘I really do. I promised . . .’
‘You promised to love and care for me, and for Appius, that was the promise I remember. What will we do if you climb down that wall and never come back? What if the next time I see your face it’s stuck on a spear point? What if the—’
Marcus shook his head, retying the other legging and getting to his feet. Taking Felicia in his arms he pulled her close, wrapping both arms about her.
‘I promised to deliver the king’s body to his son if he died. And I am a man of my word.’
She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.
‘And his uncle promised to kill you if you were ever to cross paths again.’
Shaking his head again, he smiled grimly.
‘That’s the last time I tell Julius anything I don’t want you to know.’
‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’
Marcus nodded.
‘Yes. And I take him for a man of his word.’
‘So you’ll go unarmed into a barbarian camp in broad daylight without even wearing your swords?’
He looked reflexively at the twin scabbards propped against his field chair.
‘There’s little point in provoking them by an ostentatious display of weaponry. I expect they’ll provide me with a blade if I’m called upon to defend the empire’s honour. Just make sure you get a good price for mine, if . . .’
Felicia snorted derisively.
‘You’re sure you haven’t promised them to one of your friends?’
Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but the tent flap was abruptly pulled aside to reveal Julius waiting outside.
‘It’s time to do this thing, if you’re set on putting your head into the trap?’
He nodded curtly at Julius and, kissing Felicia on the cheek, turned to leave.
‘I’ll be back soon enough.’
‘And if you’re not?’
The Roman turned, stroking a tear from his wife’s cheek.
‘Then I’ll be with Mithras. In which case, my love, honour my memory?’
He stepped out of the tent and started walking towards the wall’s looming bulk, Julius falling in alongside him and speaking quietly in the morning’s calm.
‘You’re a stubborn bastard, I’ll give you that much. Will you reconsider?’ The only reply his friend offered was a curt shake of his head, the pugnacious set of his jaw making the first spear sigh in only partially affected despair. ‘I know, you gave your word, and the trustworthiness of a Roman gentleman is the last thing he can afford to lose. Except you’re not a Roman gentleman any more, are you Marcus? You’re a centurion in an arse end of the empire auxiliary cohort, and to those people out there your word’s not worth the steam off your piss. So give up this lunacy, and we’ll lower the stiff off the wall by rope. They can have a truce to come and get their dead king. You’ll never see this man Galatas again, so there’ll be no-one any the wiser. What do you say; shall we all decide to live to see tomorrow’s dawn?’
Marcus stopped walking and turned to face him.
‘And if you’d given your word to a man that you would do a thing? What then, Julius? What if your only reward was likely to be cold iron, but you’d looked a fellow warrior in the eye and made a solemn vow? How would you be able to tolerate your own company for the rest of your life if you walked away from that promise?’
The first spear shook his head in bemusement.
‘Marcus, nobody’s going to think any the less of you for not committing suicide at the hands of this pack of howling barbarian scum. Think of your wife and child.’
The Roman nodded, turning back to the wall and resuming his steady pace.
‘I am. I’m sparing them the indignity of watching me deal with the bitterness and self-castigation that will be my fate if I deny my instinct in this matter. Now let us get this done, with no further attempts to dissuade me from following the path my honour dictates.’
Realising that he was beaten, the first spear fell silent for the remainder of the walk to the wall, following his
friend up the rampart’s steps to where the king’s body waited on the fighting platform in its tight wrappings. Tribune Scaurus was standing alongside it looking out over the enemy camp, and when he saw Marcus he pointed a finger at the archers waiting patiently outside of the range of the Thracian’s bows in the grey of dawn.
‘You’ll be inside the reach of their arrows by the time you’ve taken fifty paces, Centurion. You won’t be able to make a run without them peppering you with arrows before you can cover half the distance back this way. I suggest you give up this insane idea before I find myself lacking yet another experienced officer.’
Marcus shrugged.
‘I won’t be running, Tribune. Whatever it is that’s waiting for me in that camp is better than dying within sight of our wall with an arrow in my back. You can give me a direct order not to go out there, but you’ll be sacrificing two things if you do.’
Scaurus chuckled softly.
‘I can guess one of them – your sense of honour, yes?’ Marcus nodded gravely. ‘And the other?’
‘The chance that we might yet manage a negotiated peace with these people.’
Scaurus raised an eyebrow.
‘More likely that we’ll manage nothing of the sort, but I can see the way you’re thinking, and if you’re not to be dissuaded . . .’ Marcus shook his head, and the tribune turned to Julius with a helpless shrug. ‘Very well. Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’
Marcus watched in grave silence as the dead Sarmatae ruler was lowered over the wall’s edge and down to the bare earth below. Once the corpse was safely on the ground, he faced Julius with a grim smile.
‘It’s time to go and see what fate I’m due. Look after my wife and child, if the worst possibility comes to pass.’
Before any of them could answer he gripped the knotted rope and stepped over the wall’s parapet, lowering himself down to join the king’s corpse. Regaining his feet he cast a glance at the enemy camp and saw a sudden bustle of activity as more warriors issued from the gates to stand ready to repel any attack. Squatting, he untied the rope around the corpse and gathered the dead king’s body into his arms. Struggling to his feet he turned, and began the long, slow walk towards the barbarian camp without looking back at the cluster of officers watching his progress from the wall above. As before, his approach was greeted by a group of horsemen headed by the dead king’s son, although this time, he noticed, the prince had dispensed with the obvious threat of his long lance. Reining his horse in a few paces from the Roman, he stared down at the centurion’s burden with a look of fear and sorrow.
‘You bring my father to me, do you, Roman?’
Marcus nodded, standing stock-still with the king’s heavy body held across his chest.
‘As I swore I would, Galatas Boraz. He surrendered to his wounds in the night.’
The prince bowed his head.
‘Tell me truly, did he die alone?’
Marcus shook his head.
‘No. When it became clear that his end was near, my tribune, a warrior of proven courage, paid his respects as was only fitting, and sat with him until the end. The king died with his sword in his hands.’
Galatas sighed, staring down at the body in Marcus’s arms.
‘For that much I am grateful.’
The prince gestured to his men, and a pair of slaves came forward to relieve the Roman of his burden. Marcus stood still, acutely aware of the iron and bone arrowheads pointing at him. After a moment Galatas lifted his head again, unashamed of the tears streaking his cheeks.
‘There are men all around you, Roman, who will be strongly tempted to put their bone heads into you and watch you die in agony as their revenge for my father’s death. Have you seen what our crimson arrows can do to a man?’
Marcus returned his gaze steadily.
‘I have. One of your scouts managed to scrape himself with such an arrow when we disturbed his hiding place during our march here. It did not look to be any sort of death for a warrior. I gave him peace, rather than stand and watch a warrior die in so unfitting a manner.’
‘I see.’ Galatas shook his head, and Marcus felt a slight easing of the tension in the air around him. ‘And for that I give you my respect.’
He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, glancing sideways at the bodyguard beside him, the man Amnoz who had shown such enmity during the Roman’s previous visit. Beneath the looted Roman helmet the bodyguard’s face was set in obdurate lines, his eyes fixed on Marcus with an undisguised, smouldering hatred. Alongside him was another man with their father’s features, clearly several years older and heavier set, and he recalled Balodi telling him that Inarmaz had another son. Where Amnoz’s expression was one of a simple lust to kill the Roman, his brother Alardy’s face was altogether more calculating. Galatas spoke again, and Marcus heard a note of resignation in his voice.
‘You will recall that my uncle Inarmaz swore an oath to have your head the next time he saw you. Amnoz is his son, and he has repeated his father’s oath. I have discussed this matter with them both at length, and expressed my disappointment that they should violate the hospitality of my camp, but my uncle has declared that he will serve only the king. Since I am not yet acclaimed by the nobles, he is refusing to accept my command to desist in this matter. It is a thin distinction, but in the absence of my uncle I am not strong enough to force obedience upon them. Not yet . . .’
Marcus looked up at him and realised from the weariness in his face that the young prince had problems enough of his own to deal with. He nodded, casting a level stare at Amnoz.
‘I understand. You cannot protect me from this man without weakening your own position, perhaps to the point of provoking a rebellion.’
Galatas nodded, and the Roman looked at the warriors gathered behind him, seeking out those men whose faces betrayed their uncertainty as to whether they should back the young man at their head. He found enough men who appeared undecided to support Balodi’s assertion that his nephew’s position was by no means secure.
‘I see. You are yet to be acclaimed as the new king of your tribe, since your father’s death has only just been confirmed. And every man here will watch and judge you if you prevent Asander Boraz’s men from seeking some vengeance on the men who killed their ruler. And yet to murder the man returning your father’s body to you in cold blood, that might also earn you the ire of your gods. I see your quandary, Prince Galatas, and I might offer a suggestion that will suit both our needs?’
A curt laugh sounded from behind the prince, and Inarmaz pushed his horse to the front of the group, his powerful stallion biting bad temperedly at the beasts in its way.
‘Go on then, Roman, show the prince here the way out of his dilemma. Doubtless it will involve your being allowed to leave unharmed?’
Marcus opened and raised his hands, stepping slowly forward while the arrowheads tracked his movement. The polished iron head of Amnoz’s kontos dropped to meet him, its point digging lightly into his mailed chest in a clear warning, and Marcus smiled up at the man with his teeth bared.
‘As to your last point, Inarmaz, the answer is more than likely yes; I assure you that I will be walking away from this place. But to understand why that would be the case, you might want to consider the possibility that far from protecting me from you and his father’s men, Prince Galatas might be trying to protect you from me?’ He stared at Amnoz for a moment longer, then spat on the ground before the horses’ feet.
Galatas whipped out a hand, taking a handful of the tunic protruding from beneath Amnoz’s mail shirt and preventing him from dismounting with a sudden harsh word of command. Turning back to Marcus he narrowed his eyes in question.
‘You wish to forfeit the traditional protection I am obliged to offer you, given that you have returned simply to bring my father’s body to me?’
Marcus nodded curtly, staring at Amnoz with an intensity that was only partly feigned.
‘I do. I challenge him to a duel in the manner I am told is tr
aditional for your tribe, one sword and two men, with only one allowed to leave the ring of shields. Does he accept, or is his bravery nothing more than a show to impress the boy he keeps in his tent?’
Inarmaz looked down at him with an ugly grin.
‘My son may not speak your tongue the way I do, but I’m sure he’ll have recognised the term you just used. Unless you’re as good in the circle as you seem to believe, Roman, you’ll soon find yourself on your back in the mud with your guts split open and the dogs pulling at your entrails.’
He nodded to his son, and the bodyguard shouted a string of orders to the peasant infantrymen gathered behind the horses. While Marcus watched they hurriedly formed a wide circle around him, planting their shields in an uninterrupted barrier of wood and iron that would hem the combatants into the arena in which their fate would be decided. The prince dismounted and took a shield from one of them, carrying it across to Marcus and handing it to him with a grimace.
‘You’re possibly the bravest man I have met, Centurion, or the most stupid. Probably both. Unless your supreme self-confidence is justified, Amnoz will play with you for a while before crippling you in order to have his sport, and then when you are too weak even to beg for the mercy stroke, he will most assuredly open your body and leave you here, alive but helpless for the dogs. I’ve seen him fight a dozen such duels, and trust me, there’s no contest involved. For Amnoz such matters are simply sport.’ He looked Marcus hard in the eyes, shaking his head slightly. ‘The conditions for this contest are simple. Firstly, you must fight bareheaded.’
05 - The Wolf's Gold Page 19
