Altar of Blood

3

Scaurus’s detachment paraded at dawn the next day ready to march, each man holding the reins of the horse he would ride north. The soldiers were wearing warm tunics and boots, their cloaks rolled up and strapped across saddlebags that contained everything they were likely to need during the march while a pair of doleful-looking mules were hitched to a cart containing their tents and cooking equipment. Every man had an oval shield strapped across his back and a long German-style spear in his hand, the Hamians’ bows and the Tenth Century’s axes carried in thick oiled leather cases attached to their mounts’ saddles.

‘Kit inspection! Open your packs and lay it all out!’

As Scaurus’s appointed senior centurion for the detachment, Dubnus was taking his duties sufficiently seriously to have already become the focus of a deal of disgruntlement, as he chivvied Tungrians through their preparations to march.

‘Packs on the ground and open! I want to see every item nice and clearly!’

Walking down the line of men with Cotta at his shoulder, the retired centurion relishing the spectacle of soldiers being inspected by a hard-eyed officer, he stopped in front of one of his own men, shooting the hulking pioneer a meaningful glance.

‘So, what have we here? Bowl, spoon, sewing kit, spare hobnails, spare tunics, blanket …’ Feeling something inside the blanket’s folds he pulled away the rough material to reveal three spiky iron objects. ‘What are these doing here? Why are you still carrying caltrops?’

The soldier stiffened his brace and shouted his answer in the time-approved manner.

‘Centurion sir! Because you ordered us to carry them sir!’

‘But that was …’

The Briton shook his head and turned to Cotta with a wry smile, picking up one of the caltrops and showing it to the veteran officer.

‘They were told to carry these nasty little surprises almost a year ago when we marched on the Parthians, and ever since then they’ve been packing them away without a second thought. We’ll be rid of those, I think, before some stupid bastard puts one through his hand and can’t hold his spear.’

Cotta stared at the evil pointed device for a moment.

‘Perhaps we should keep them. It’s not as if they’re any sort of burden, and who knows when they might come in handy.’

Dubnus shrugged.

‘If you think so.’ He turned back to the soldier. ‘Very well, carry on.’

He walked on down the line, looking into every man’s pack and pulling more than one of them up for the quality of his equipment. Picking up one man’s wooden eating bowl he snapped it in two with a swift twist.

‘It was cracked. If your bowl breaks in the field you’ve nothing to eat out of. Go and get another one. You, hold his horse for him. Move!’

At the end of the line he found Arminius and Lupus, the latter doing his best not to be cowed by actually parading with the Tungrians rather than watching them do so but still pale with nerves. Leaning closer and lowering his voice so as not to be heard by anyone other than the boy and his mentor, Dubnus stared Lupus straight in the face as he spoke.

‘When the tribune told me he’d agreed to bring you along I told him I thought he was mad. And I still do. But if you’re set on it, and the man who gives me the orders says you’re coming along for the ride, then so be it. But if I don’t see you practising with that spear every day, twice a day, then you and I will be having a serious disagreement. If you want to be a soldier then you’re going to have to become one. Quickly.’ He stared at Lupus for a moment longer. ‘If you ever need my help, if this German oaf isn’t to be found, come and talk to me. I know what you’re going to go through over the next few months.’ Stepping back, he hardened his face and raised his voice to be heard along the detachment’s line. ‘Now, show me your equipment.’

He stared down at the display, shaking his head in disgust.

‘Your bowl’s dirty, your tunics are dirty and your blanket looks like a dog’s had a shit on it. Do better. By tonight.’

Confused, Lupus looked up at Arminius, but found a broad finger prodding him in the chest, dimpling his mail shirt’s ringed surface.

‘And don’t go looking at him, he’s a slave with nothing to say on the subject. If you want to express an opinion on the matter, you talk to me. Well?’

‘Nothing.’

Dubnus exchanged an amused glance with Arminius, but his voice was a whiplash whose crack the assembled soldiers knew only too well.

‘Nothing, Centurion! You’re a soldier now, not some wet-nosed brat who can sit around taking the piss out of us all day. Say it!’

‘Yes Centurion!’

‘Louder!’

‘Yes Centurion!’

‘Acceptable. See me tonight with clean kit.’

With a barely perceptible wink at Arminius he turned away and walked back out in front of the small detachment, looking across the line of men with a grim face, shaking his head as he watched one of Qadir’s archers struggling to control his mount’s restless urge to be away.

‘We’re taking a handful of archers, the meekest of my axemen and a selection of the most undependable characters in the cohort. Not to mention a retired centurion who’s old enough to be my father and who, rumour has it, once killed an emperor with his bare hands, and a boy with less than fourteen summers behind him. If we’re going to take part in some sort of mounted purse-cutting competition then we’re well looked after …’

‘Where we’re going, Centurion, we’re going to need every skill you see before you.’

The burly Briton turned and saluted his superior, clearly unabashed.

‘Wouldn’t we be better off taking every man we’ve got, sir, if it’s going to be that risky?’

Scaurus shook his head with a grim smile.

‘I’ve told you before that where we’re going a couple of cohorts wouldn’t do any more than get the attention of the locals, and given what we’re going to do, I think that the ability to blend into the landscape is going to be our best defence.’

Dubnus nodded with pursed lips, looking along the line of men.

‘I can’t argue with that. If we have to fight our way out of any more trouble than a few underfed tribal hunters it’s going to get ugly faster than Sanga went through his back pay when Cotta told him he was coming along with us.’

He turned to Scaurus.

‘We will be travelling through the German forest, Tribune, and not going anywhere near the swamps and marshes that Cotta keeps going on about?’

The officer laughed.

‘No matter how many times I tell that man he refuses to believe me. The land on the far bank of the Rhine is much like that to the west, farmland where the soil’s good enough, forest on the hills and yes, along the rivers’ courses, some boggy ground, which of course, without proper estate management, hasn’t been dealt with the way it has to the south of the Rhenus. There’s a good deal of it in the north of the tribe’s territory, but we’ll not be going anywhere near that.’

‘Ah, but what about the mists, eh Tribune? Thick, impenetrable mists so murky a man can’t see his own hand in front of his face.’

The three men turned to find Cotta behind them, dressed for the road and ready to march.

‘The lands on the far side of the Rhenus are no more or less prone to mist and fog than the German provinces on the western bank. You need to put whatever nonsense you’ve been reading out of your head. Who was it again?’

‘Tacitus.’

The tribune grinned at the veteran officer.

‘Ah yes, Cornelius Tacitus. A great man of letters he may well have been, even if his understanding of military matters seems to have been sadly lacking, but I suspect that were we granted the ability to communicate with the good senator’s spirit, we would discover that he never actually did any of his research first hand. Germania may well bristle with forests and reek with swamps, but don’t expect the place to be some sort of sunless underworld, or the men we’re going up against to be anything more than men, with the same strengths and weaknesses we all have.’

Cotta shrugged.

‘I’ll wait and see, Tribune. But one thing’s fairly clear to me about the men who live on the other side of the Rhenus.’

Scaurus tipped his head to one side in silent question, and the older man turned to look at the men of the detachment.

‘There’s going to be more of them than us. A lot more.’

June AD

186

‘Well, they’re about as well trained as they’re ever going to be. Although just how well these new tactics of yours are going to work is another question, Tribune.’

The detachment had ridden north at a rate of thirty to forty miles a day, twice the speed that could have been achieved on foot, but it wasn’t the pains of adjusting to long days in the saddle that had troubled the Tungrians, nor, after a period of adjustment, the mismatched nature of their collective military skills. The relationship between the archers and their counterparts from the pioneer century had soon settled down to the predictable state of cordial enmity, albeit that the disparity in their size and skills had not been allowed to get in the way of the exercises that Scaurus had ordered Dubnus to put them through each evening before dinner, in the time when digging out a marching fort would normally have been the order of the day. As a sign of things to come, the tribune made a point of camping next to wooded land wherever possible, to make the training that he was driving his men through all the more real.

The routine that had quickly been dubbed ‘the crescent’ saw each archer paired with an axeman, the former advancing out into the trees from their starting point, spread out in an arc covering slightly more than a half-circle with their bows held ready as if to shoot, while their burly partners advanced with somewhat less stealth close behind each of them. Ordered to advance swiftly but without losing vigilance to their immediate front, their orders were to simulate a bow shot upon spotting whichever one of the officers had vanished into the undergrowth in the moments before, while their backs were turned. Upon hearing the sonorous twang of the released string, while the bowman in question was to go to ground, ready to shoot again, the men on either side were ordered to close up, tripling the number of arrows that could be put into the target if it still remained a threat. While that little game had first baffled the detachment’s men, and then simply become a tedious evening routine the point of which they found it hard to define, the purpose of the other exercise that they were drilled through late in every day’s progress towards Germania, was entirely evident. Spaced at five-pace intervals down whatever forest path could be found, the soldiers were ordered to move forward at a speed that made the slow march look like a headlong charge, while their officers dropped twigs and pebbles in their path and listened intently to their progress. Initial muffled curses and loud cracks as their feet encountered the simulated and barely visible detritus that would be likely to litter a forest path soon gave way to utter silence and a renewed focus on avoiding the traps, as centurions pounced on each offender and informed them in vehement whispers that they had just been awarded the task of filling in the latrine trench next morning.

Scaurus finished his mouthful of stew before responding to Dubnus’s comment.

‘Well Centurion, whether all this practice will ever be of any value is indeed to be seen. At least we’ve got them accustomed to having a proper look at the ground beneath their feet before they put their boots down.’

Dubnus nodded as he chewed a mouthful of his dinner, conceding the point as Scaurus continued.

‘And they seem remarkably well adjusted to each other’s different abilities. Only today I heard one of your men refer to his archer companion in the crescent exercise as a “goat-punching faggot”, in response to which Qadir’s man was generous enough to bestow upon him the titles “oaf”, “simpleton” and, for good measure and after a moment’s thought, “arsehole”. I would have mentioned it to you earlier if it weren’t for the fact that they were actually both smiling at the time.’

Dubnus swallowed his last mouthful of stew and licked the spoon clean.

‘Qadir’s boys like having big men around, it reminds them of their husbands.’

The Hamian nodded from his side of the fire.

‘This is true. And your men are appreciative of having an extra pair of hands for when the counting progresses past ten.’

‘Excellent.’ Scaurus stood, handing his bowl to Arminius. ‘So we’ve all learned to get along, our practice exercises have made us all very good at walking through the forest without making much more sound then a charging boar, and we’re very nearly at our destination. For once I feel a small degree of optimism with regard to our chances of actually surviving the next few days.’

He walked away, and Arminius found himself the object of several pointed stares. Opening his hands with a frown he barked a question at the centurions.

‘What?’

‘This crescent thing …’ Dubnus stood, stepping closer to the German. ‘If anybody knows, you’ll know. So tell me, just between you and me, eh? What the fuck is it supposed to be?’

The German laughed tersely.

‘I discover information, Dubnus, when my master chooses to discuss that information in front of me, and at no other time. And on the subject of this particular exercise he has remained stubbornly silent. From which I deduce that he does not wish me, and therefore you, to know what it is he has in mind. And now, if you’ll excuse me …’

He walked away to the stream close to which the detachment was camped, leaving Dubnus and Qadir looking at each other none the wiser. Cotta shifted his position, adjusting the lie of his back against the tree he was sitting against.

‘Isn’t it time you blew that blasted horn, Dubnus? How’s anyone going to know they should be rolled up in their blanket without you waking up that half of the camp that’s already asleep?

The Briton nodded.

‘A good reminder Cotta, thank you.’ He walked away to the tent he shared with Marcus and Varus, ducking back out with a bull’s horn in one hand. ‘You’ll thank me one day, when we’re scattered in some gloomy German forest and this sound is all we have to bring us back together, blown by lungs that have been trained to the peak of perfection.’

He put the horn to his lips, dragged in a lungful of air and then blew with all his strength. A mournful note blared out across the landscape, eliciting the customary barrage of abuse from those of the detachment’s men who had already been asleep or dozing, while those who had worked the centurion’s night-time routine in with their own promptly turned over and closed their eyes. After a moment a plaintive voice shouted out into the night, disguised by the adoption of a higher pitch than the speaker usually spoke with.

‘Centurion?’

Dubnus smiled to himself, putting his hands on his hips and calling out a reply.

‘Yes?’

‘Do you know who this is?’

Shaking his head in amusement the Briton nodded.

‘Yes, Sanga, I know who it is.’

Silence fell for a moment, broken only by the titters of the men around Sanga and his own bitter profanity.

‘In that case … well blown sir!’

‘Fuck you too, Sanga. Now get some sleep. You’ll need to be up bright and early if you’re going to get that latrine filled in before breakfast.’

‘There it is, the river Rhenus.’

The road had reached the top of a long, shallow climb, opening up a vista that the Tungrians had ridden a thousand miles to see. They stared down at the river’s silver ribbon as it snaked through the countryside below them, Cotta nodding appreciatively as his gaze tracked the Rhenus from the southern horizon to the point at which it vanished from view to the north.

‘Now that’s a river.’

Lugos shook his head, his voice a bass growl.

‘I sail Euphrates. That a river.’

Cotta grinned at him.

‘That may be so, Lugos my friend, but I seem to recall that while you were sailing on that mighty river you got an arrow in your leg, and another soon after just to make sure you never forgot the first one! Seems to me like maybe rivers aren’t your best means of travel!’

Scaurus pointed to a ship that was crawling slowly upstream to the south.

‘It might not be as wide as the Euphrates, but it’s certainly wide enough to act as a natural frontier for the empire in combination with the river fleet. That ship will almost certainly have sailed from the fleet base south of Claudius’s Colony, which is where we’re heading.’ He spurred his beast to walk on. ‘Come, gentlemen, I have no desire to approach a frontier city after dark, whether in times of peace or not. It would only take one jumpy centurion and a lucky bolt-thrower shot to ruin a man’s entire day.’

The guard centurion commanding the city’s southern gate snapped off a crisp salute to Scaurus as soon as the tribune had identified himself, calling for one of the twin doorways that controlled entrance to the legion’s base to be opened. He was immaculately dressed, his mail and boots gleaming with the evident application of a great deal of polishing, his beard neatly trimmed, and those of his men who were in evidence were equally smartly turned out.

‘You’re expected, Tribune, you and your men. If you follow my chosen man he’ll take you to the bridge fort, and show you where the stables are. Our prefect’s allocated a spare barrack to you, not that space is hard to come by with half the cohort away in Britannia. Oh, and the governor asked to be informed as soon as you arrive sir, so I expect you’ll be receiving an invitation to his residence once you’ve had time to bathe and put on your best uniform.’

Scaurus nodded with a faint smile.

‘He’s keen on appearances, the governor?’

The centurion nodded briskly.

‘Exceptionally keen, Tribune.’

He looked as if there was more he might have ventured, but chose instead to indicate his second in command, waiting for the Tungrians by the twin gateways.

‘Festus will take you to your barrack, and show you where to draw rations for yourselves and the horses.’

He watched as the Tungrians marched away, clicking his fingers to summon his runner.

‘Give my regards to Decurion Dolfus, and tell him they’re here. You’ll find him at the cavalry barracks. Go!’

The detachment followed the chosen man down a long wide street, turning right once they were past the open expanse of a large forum and exiting the city by another gate. A wooden bridge stretched out before them, crossing the river’s wide expanse on a series of twenty or so stone pillars, and on the far bank the familiar shape of a cohort-sized fortress dominated the otherwise empty landscape, its walls surrounded by a three-sided moat filled with water from the Rhenus which itself provided the fourth side of its defence. Walking alongside the chosen man, Dubnus looked down the bridge’s length at the forested land on the eastern side of the river, empty apart from the stoutly constructed fort.

‘I expected the other bank to be built up, with a city of this size on our side, or at least farmed.’

The other man shook his head.

‘That’s the buffer zone. Tribes ain’t allowed to build there, nor farm. Military land …’

He fell silent, and the centurion looked about himself in interest as they strode out onto the bridge, watching as a flat-bottomed warship approached the bridge from their left, its sail and oars driving it upstream against the river’s flow.

‘How the fuck are they going to get that under this?’

The chosen man grinned at Sanga’s bemused question.

‘Everyone asks that the first time they see a ship go under the bridge.’

The detachment’s progress slowed to a dawdle as every man stared in unashamed amazement at the oncoming warship, its crew seemingly unconcerned with the impending disaster that loomed ever more likely with every foot the vessel progressed toward the bridge, the sail and mast looming over the heavy structure. Finally, when all hope of avoiding a collision between immovable stone and the warship’s delicate mast seemed lost, the captain barked out a series of commands that saw the billowing sail swiftly furled. Then, less than twenty paces from the bridge, heavy wooden pins were struck from the mast’s base, allowing it to pivot down on a massive metal hinge and lie flat against the deck, lowered into place by sailors straining at heavy ropes to prevent it crashing down.

‘Fuck me …’

The chosen man grinned at Dubnus with the confidence of a man who had seen it all before.

‘They do it all the time, going up and down the river, and as far as we can tell they all have some sort of obsession with lowering the mast at the last possible moment. Only a few months ago one of them got it wrong and waited just a moment too long. Took his mast clean off and tore a hole the size of a mule in the ship’s deck. Our trumpeter was on duty, and the first spear told him to sound the retreat as loud as he could.’

Nodding in recognition of yet another scarcely believable feat, the Briton waved his men on.

‘Get moving! Has none of you ever seen a warship with a collapsible mast before?’

Crossing the bridge they marched into the fort, finding themselves housed in a barrack of the usual design, a long run of rooms designed to house an eight-man tent party with an officer’s room at one end of the building.

‘I suggest we put five men into each room and the officers can share the last two.’ The tribune turned to Arminius and pointed toward the block’s far end.

‘We’ll take the centurion’s room. I’ll need you to unpack my bronze and get it polished, make sure my best tunic’s clean and put a shine on my boots that would bring tears to a senior centurion’s eyes. I’m going to sweat the dirt out of my skin, and I’m going to take my officers with me, since these two young gentlemen …’ he indicated Marcus and Varus ‘… will doubtless be included in the governor’s invitation if only to assuage his curiosity. And since we’ll need Dubnus to act as a decoy for all the wretched thieves that breed in all frontier cities, Qadir and Cotta might as well come along too.’

The German nodded.

‘Yes Tribune.’ His eyes narrowed as he spotted Lupus easing back through the Tungrian ranks. ‘No you don’t, boy! Your centurion needs his boots polished, and I’m sure Centurion Varus would appreciate a similar service. Just because you’re a soldier now you’re not getting out of your duties that easily!’

Qadir hung his tunic on a wooden peg, placing his boots neatly beneath the garment and looking around the empty changing room with an expression that was almost fond.

‘A proper military bathhouse. I’ve not seen one of these for a while.’

Dubnus shot him a dubious glance, eyeing the attendants with suspicion.

‘I’ll be happy if I never see one again. Every time I set foot in these bloody places I end up losing something to the light-fingered bastards that run them.’

‘Which is why I suggested that we leave everything of value under the watchful eye of your men and walked here with nothing more than our tunics, belts and boots.’

The burly centurion shot Qadir another sour glance.

‘And it’s why I walked here in bare feet and with a length of twine for a belt. I’ve been robbed enough times to trust nobody in these places. And no, I don’t want to start in the exercise room, given I’ve already ridden twenty miles today, and not forgetting the indisputable fact that it’ll be full of weightlifters all oiling themselves up and gurning at each other.’

Grinning despite himself, Scaurus, who had gratefully but firmly resisted the suggestion that he might want to use the senior officers’ baths adjacent to the governor’s residence, led them into the warm room to get accustomed to the heat before braving the hot room. He flipped a coin to one of the boys waiting to provide the legion’s bathers with their requirements and the child scurried away, returning a few moments later bearing a tray loaded with a flask of wine and cups, while two more followed him in with a plate of honey cakes and a bottle of oil.

Scaurus poured each of them a cup, raising his own in salute.

‘Gentlemen, let’s drink to the successful completion of this latest little jaunt over the empire’s frontier.’

Seated across the room and feigning a dozing somnolence, having hurried to the bathhouse in time to have taken his place, the decurion called Dolfus watched the Tungrians through slitted eyes. Looking at each man in turn he muttered his comments on each to the men on his either side, two of them carefully oiling their limbs in evident preparation for the hot room, the other pair apparently engaged in a close game of dice. His words were clearly that of a man from the highest ranks of Roman society, clipped and precise.

‘Yes, they fit the descriptions perfectly. The tall one in the middle, hatchet face, black hair just starting to go grey, that’s Scaurus. Mark him well gentlemen, because if I’m not mistaken the governor bears a serious grudge towards the man. There’s bad blood there from something or other, and I don’t think it’s going to sort itself out without some kind of ugliness.’

He yawned and stretched luxuriously.

‘The big one with the beard a bird could nest in, he’s called Dubnus. He looks like a bit of a handful to me, and the men on the gate told me he carries an axe big enough to hack a man’s thigh in half. Blasted barbarians …’ He grinned at the man with the oil to highlight the intentional hypocrisy of his humour. ‘You’re all the same, aren’t you, all sharp iron and mad eyes?’

The trooper stared at him uncomprehendingly, and after a moment Dolfus shook his head and resumed his commentary.

‘Anyway, the Arab goes by the name of Qadir. Not worth much in a fight from the way he handles himself, but he’s a Hamian, so he could probably put an arrow into you from two hundred paces, if you were silly enough to stand still for him.’

He paused for a moment, looking at Marcus with a slight feeling of bafflement.

‘And the thin-faced, wiry-looking man is Corvus, although I’m told that’s a false name. Apparently he was the son of Appius Valerius Aquila …’ He looked at the uncomprehending face and tried again. ‘The son of a renowned senator who was falsely accused of being a traitor and put to death, after which Corvus is supposed to have carved a bloody path all the way from Britannia to Rome, killed all the men involved and then vanished like a ghost. He’s supposed to be sudden death with a sword, and better with two, although I’m damned if I can see it in him from the look on his face. But then I suppose we’ll have plenty of chances to find out, given what we’re being paid to do. As to quite who the other man is, I have no idea. There was no mention of him in any of the communications from Rome.’

He sat up, shaking off the torpor that was creeping over him in the warm room’s comfortable atmosphere.

‘And that’s enough exposure of our faces, I’d say. Give me that oil and we’ll go next door for a bit of a sweat while those gentlemen sit and drink their wine. They’ll be earning this moment of peace and quiet with their blood, soon enough.’

Ushered into the governor’s private office by a brow-beaten clerk, Scaurus and his two companions found themselves face-to-face with a big, bearded man dressed in the full panoply of his office, beautifully sculpted bronze armour over a perfectly tailored fine woollen tunic. His beard was worn full, in the imperial fashion that no senator would dare to ignore no matter how straggly his own facial hair might be, but trimmed so neatly that it was evidently the subject of daily barbering.

‘Ah, Tribune! Thank you for responding to my invitation so quickly! It’s good to see you after all this time!’

To his credit Scaurus didn’t miss a beat, stepping forward and saluting, while Marcus and his colleague Varus came to attention with impeccable precision.

‘Now gentlemen, please relax yourselves. Tribune, you, Centurion Corvus and I are old comrades in one of the most brutal wars of recent times, so we’ll not stand on ceremony. Steward, wine for my comrades and their colleague!

The four men stood in silence as the wine was served, and when each of them held a cup the governor raised his in a toast.

‘Gentlemen — we drink to comrades no longer with us.’

They raised their cups and drank, Scaurus eyeing the senior officer over the rim of his cup. The governor smiled back at him wryly.

‘I know, Rutilius Scaurus, harsh words were exchanged the last time we met. It would be fair for you to say that I’ve not behaved well towards you and your men of late, but I’ve had enough time to reflect on the matter to see that I was perhaps … hasty in my actions. I’m not too great a man to ask for your forgiveness, and a new start to our relationship, if you’re willing to allow a man to atone for his errors?’

Scaurus nodded, his expression still composed.

‘Of course, Governor Albinus. Neither myself nor Centurion Corvus have ever been men to carry a grudge any further than necessary.’

The patrician smiled broadly and held out a hand for Scaurus to clasp.

‘I’m so pleased. The terms under which we parted in Rome have troubled me more than a little. My bad temper might have caused so much harm, and so I was desperately relieved to discover that no harm had come to your wife and child, Centurion Corvus. I trust they’re in good health?’

Marcus stared at him for a moment before replying, unable to find any trace of guile in the senator’s question.

‘My son is well enough, thank you Senator, although my wife died in childbirth quite recently.’

Albinus’s face fell in what seemed to be genuine distress.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. The life of a soldier is hard enough without having to bear that sort of pain.’

He looked at Varus, essaying a tentative smile of welcome.

‘And this gentleman is …?’

‘A colleague from our recent campaign in the east, Senator. May I present Gaius Vibius Varus?’

Varus stepped forward and bowed respectfully, then took the hand that the governor offered.

‘Glad to meet you, Vibius Varus. Any relation to the Varus who commanded the emperor’s cavalry in the campaign against the Quadi?’

‘My uncle Julius, Senator.’

Albinus nodded approvingly.

‘I was only a junior tribune at the time, but your uncle led his men from the front, and had achieved a considerable fame by the time the barbarians had been put back in their place. He was also, I’m told, somewhat instrumental in helping to ensure that certain of the tribes that face us across the river remained firmly allied to Rome, as much through his somewhat muscular style of diplomacy as the application of gold. If you’re only half the soldier he was then you’ve an illustrious career in front of you!’

He sipped his wine again, turning his attention back to Scaurus.

‘So, Tribune, you’re clearly the emperor’s current favourite when it comes to performing the impossible, with your remarkable ability to summon the goddess Victoria to your side when all hope seems lost. I read your dispatch from Syria with great interest! And now here you are, with me none the wiser as to exactly what it is that your orders might hold.’

He fell quiet, waiting for the other man to fill the silence, but Scaurus’s tight smile of apology was no less of a rebuttal despite his reply being couched in the most diplomatic terms.

‘I’d be happy to share that information with you, Senator, if it weren’t for the fact that our mutual colleague the imperial chamberlain has absolutely forbidden me to do so. I am to procure whatever assistance I believe I need from you and then to proceed with my mission.’

The governor’s face took on a rueful smile.

‘And my instructions are to provide you with any help you request of me and, in the most diplomatic of wording possible given the nature of the message from Chamberlain Cleander, to mind my own business!’ He laughed tersely. ‘Which order I will of course follow to the letter, being both a good servant of Rome and quite fond of my current rank. After all, this may not be much of a province in terms of size or population, but it’s a mark of trust that I’m granted the command of two legions and twice as many auxiliary soldiers, even if half my command is across the water in Britannia. And so, Tribune, perhaps you’d better tell me what it is that you’re going to need from me. If it’s within my power then it shall be yours.’

Scaurus shrugged.

‘In truth, Governor, there’s not much that I need beyond rations and a day or two to prepare my men for what we have to do.’

Albinus raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘Really, Rutilius Scaurus? There’s nothing I can do to help you with this task that you’ve been ordered to perform? You don’t perhaps need me to write to one of the tribunes commanding the bridges across the Rhenus, to prepare the way for you? Or perhaps a guide with a good knowledge of the territories of the tribes who live on the far side of the water?’

The tribune remained silent, and after a moment Albinus laughed heartily, clapping a broad hand on his shoulder.

‘Well done, Tribune! You’re not going to give me any clues and nor should you!’

He raised his cup in salute.

‘I wish you good fortune in your endeavour, gentlemen! And I look forward to your safe and successful return!’

Draining the last of his wine he placed the cup back on the table next to him.

‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner to be attending in the town. That’s the problem with this role, there’s always someone wanting some favour or other, and only too willing to subject me to a night of average food, barely acceptable wine and their appalling poetry! I’ll take my leave of you, gentlemen, but before you leave I suggest you finish the wine and listen to a briefing that I’ve asked my secretary to prepare for you. He collates all of the intelligence reports that we receive from the other side of the river, and some of it might be of relevance to your mission.’

‘Attack me!’

Lupus was panting from the exertion of the exercises that Arminius was putting him through, the same routines that the German enforced every evening regardless of the weather or conditions underfoot. Lunging once more with his spear, thrusting the point forward as if stabbing at an enemy, he gasped as his mentor stepped inside the weapon’s reach, flicking out a foot and whipping it behind his leading leg to trip him, sending him sprawling headlong across the grassy riverside field that Arminius had selected for that evening’s practice ground.

A month before the boy would have lain where he fell, the wind knocked out of him, but the German’s continual imposition of trips and falls on him had wrought a change in his resilience, not just in terms of stamina but his ability to ride each tumble and come back fighting. Knowing what was expected of him the young Briton rolled, coming to his feet and springing forward with the spear’s wood and leather protected head outstretched, forcing Arminius to dance away with a smile.

‘Better! Now we’ll practise the parry!’

Making the most of the momentary breather, while the slave fetched his own weapon, Lupus looked glumly down at the mud that sullied his tunic and which would need to be washed off if it were to pass muster at Dubnus’s daily inspection of his kit.

‘Arminius! We’ve been practising lunges, underhand stances, overhand stances, parries and falls for a month now! When am I going to do some fighting!’

The German shrugged, positioning himself ready to parry the boy’s attacks.

‘When your lunges, underhand stances, overhand stances, parries and falls are all second nature, that’s when. Now lunge at me and I’ll show you how it’s done once more. And this time let’s make it a bit more interesting, shall we? If you can get a thrust of your framea past my guard, and hit my body without taking more than one step forward, then I’ll polish the tribune’s boots tonight rather than making you do it!’

The three officers stepped out into the torchlit street outside the governor’s residence an hour later, sentries on either side of the residence’s main door snapping to attention. Scaurus looked back up at the building with a shake of his head, then turned to his companions with a smile.

‘That must have been a little confusing for you, Vibius Varus, so you’re to be congratulated on the fact that you managed to keep a straight face while the governor was seeking forgiveness so very fulsomely.’

The younger man shrugged.

‘I have to admit that I’m used to that sort of thing, Tribune. My father used to take me with him when he greeted his clients, and to the senate on occasion, and I soon learned to differentiate between his friends and those people who just wanted something from him. It’s in the eyes, I find.’

‘Yes. And for all that his words sounded sincere, my experience with that man has taught me that he’s dangerous when it comes to bearing a grudge. Although the intelligence he provided us with seemed straightforward enough.’

With Albinus’s departure his secretary had entered the room, bowed to the officers and unrolled a map of the province, pointing first at the city’s location on the river’s western bank, and then at a point sixty miles or so to the north. A slight figure with receding hair, he had conducted the briefing with the diffident air of a man who was permanently on the verge of an apology for his own shortcomings, looking for the most part at the map rather than the men to whom he was talking.

‘This is a map of the province, sirs, and the land to the east of the river Rhenus. We’re here, in Claudius’s Colony, and the fortress further downriver to the north is Vetera, which houses the Thirtieth Ulpian Victorious. Together with the First Minervia at Fortress Bonna to our south, the two legions constitute a primary military strength of twenty cohorts at their full establishment which, along with their auxiliary cohorts of which there are eighteen, and cavalry wings, of which there are seven, form the army of Germania Inferior with a combined military establishment of almost thirty thousand men. Although in truth it’s a good deal less than that now, with a dozen cohorts having been detached to help deal with a rebellion in Britannia that took place a few years ago. Most of a legion was lost, apparently.’

He’d looked up at the three officers with a tentative smile.

‘But of course there’s no threat from the tribes here these days, not really. Poor agricultural methods and the resulting lack of food keeps their population limited, and their relative poverty means that their weapons and armour will always be hugely inferior to ours, as is their military organisation. Their only tactics are the ambush and the massed charge, so we can usually outwit their tactical naivety, and they’ve never really managed to bond politically at any level above that of the tribe, which means that they find it impossible to band together and fight us as one people. It took a great leader like Arminius on one side and a lawyer like Varus on the other to put together the Varian disaster. Begging your pardon, Centurion.’

The younger man’s smile had been reassuring, if a trifle frosty, wrapped around an answer he was clearly practised in delivering.

‘Publius Quinctilius Varus was an extremely distant relation, and so far back in family history that I might as well claim descent from the Divine Julius. Please do continue.’

The secretary had bowed slightly with a look of relief.

‘And so, unable to compete with Rome militarily, they’re reduced to fighting the occasional war between themselves, usually with some form of encouragement from ourselves, as whatever weakens any one of them obviously makes us stronger. The local tribes have all got so used to trading with us that their brief and costly moment of glory in the days of the divine Augustus is long forgotten, and there’s no pressure on them from the east, which means they’ve no pressing need to get across the river. Add to that the fact that a good deal of the farming labour in Gaul comes from the tribes through emigration, which keeps their numbers down and brings money back over the river, and you can see that the province is in no real danger of attack any time soon. Not unless some strange combination of their idiocy and our own stupidity sets off a local rebellion.’

He’d pointed to the land on the far side of the Rhine from the city, sketching a circle with his finger.

‘Not that it’s likely that such a thing could happen here, mind you. This land is occupied by the Marsi tribe. There’s no problem there, they’ve been clients of the empire since long before I worked for my first governor fifteen years ago. To the north of them, however …’

His finger had moved to a section of the map bounded on the south by a range of hills that separated a river’s plain from the Marsi’s territory to the south.

‘This land has been settled by the Bructeri tribe, on either side of the river Lupia, for a hundred years or so. They used to live on better land, further to the north, but after the revolt of the Batavians and their allies in the Year of the Four Emperors, and the loss of the best part of two legions to the rebel tribes whose strength included the Bructeri, it was only a matter of time before we found a way to take our revenge. In the event it seems that a particularly cunning governor called Titus Vestricius Spurinna managed to foment a dispute between them and two neighbouring tribes, the Chamavi and the Angrivarii. Given a quiet nod and a wink from Rome, they allied and made a swift and decisive war on the Bructeri, forcing them off their traditional lands and almost annihilating the tribe’s people. They got the Bructeri’s prime land and Vestricius Spurinna cemented his place in history with a triumphal statue at the suggestion of a grateful emperor, which meant that everyone was happy with the exception of the Bructeri themselves. And given that sixty thousand of their population were slaughtered, with Roman observers to ensure “fair play”, it’s no wonder that they still harbour a sense of grievance towards us. I wouldn’t say they’re on the verge of rebellion, but they’re certainly no friends of ours, or the other tribes. And that works well, I’d say. The worst possible thing we could face would be a united German people.’

He had looked up from the map at his audience with a thoughtful expression.

‘The situation is made more interesting by the presence among the Bructeri of a priestess by the name of Gerhild, a healer with the ability to foretell events which are yet to occur, apparently.’ He sniffed, his expression clearly sceptical. ‘They seem to regard her as the living embodiment of the “wise virgin” Veleda, a seer whose every word was sacred to the tribe in the emperor Nero’s day. Veleda foretold that the Bructeri would go to war against Rome alongside the Batavians, and would win mighty victories, and so they set about proving her right … in the short term at least. As I said, two legions were ripped to pieces and another two turned to the rebel cause, although in the longer term Nero’s eventual successor Vespasian made them all regret the day they set their standards against the empire by sending an army of nine legions to rather forcibly point out the error of their ways.’

‘And this Veleda, what happened to her?’

The secretary had looked up at Marcus with a steady gaze.

‘The new emperor was a merciful man, Centurion, and more to the point he was also politically astute. He allowed to her to remain free until six years later, when she was offered asylum from her own people who, it seems, were less than impressed by her decision to espouse the cause of a king with distinct leanings to Rome. As to where this woman Gerhild dwells now, I suspect that the imperial intelligence service would part with a good-sized sum in gold to know the answer to that very question.’

He had chuckled mirthlessly.

‘Yes, I’d guess that they’d very much like to get their hands on her. The men who govern this mighty empire may be many things, but none of them are foolish enough to ignore the lessons of the past.’

‘Two more of these, eh?’

The tavern keeper nodded curtly, slopping more beer into the beakers that Sanga had slapped down on the counter before him. Shooting a glance at the soldier’s younger companion he then spoke to Sanga in the same rough Latin that the Tungrians, along with almost every other legionary and auxiliary on the empire’s borders, spoke. The soldiers had been sent into the city with a specific task that same evening, but their initial enthusiasm for the opportunity to consume the local brew had swiftly worn off in the light of its watery consistency and the lack of any other attractions to be found.

‘Ain’t seen you two in here before.’

Sanga nodded curtly at him.

‘That’s the truth.’

He dropped a coin into the barman’s open hand and turned away with the beers, winking at his friend as the Dacian sank the first third of his beer in a single swallow.

‘Don’t you ever get tired of that stuff?’

Saratos shrugged.

‘Is not wine. So I like.’

His friend took a swig of his own drink, grimacing at the taste.

‘It’s not really beer either. And I was just starting to get a taste for that red stuff.’

They both drank again, looking around the tavern with the jaundiced attitudes of men who had drunk in establishments both far better and much worse.

‘And there’s no women I’d touch with yours, never mind my own. See her?’

The Dacian looked across the room at one of the serving girls.

‘She not bad.’

‘Not bad?’ His friend shook his head in amazement. ‘You’ve been away from women too long. Her body’s covered in all these red marks, see? And do you know why that is?’

Saratos raised a knowing eyebrow.

‘Because she been fended off with spears by all men? Like Morban say, old ones still old ones.’

Sanga drained his mug, shooting his comrade a dirty look.

‘Off you go then, your turn to get them. And ask him the question, eh?’

The muscular soldier shrugged, drank down the rest of his own mug and stood, stretching and winking to the serving girl. Walking across the tavern he ignored the stares of the establishment’s other clients and put the empties in front of the landlord.

‘Is two more.’

Filling the first of the mugs the taverner raised a speculative eyebrow at his new customer.

‘Thracian?’

‘I Dacian.’

His pronouncement was met with a blank-faced nod that spoke volumes for the other man’s lack of interest in imperial geography.

‘Where you in from then?’

‘Is south of here.’

‘Hah! Isn’t everything!’ The taverner grinned, displaying an array of untidy teeth. ‘An’ where you going?

‘Is my business.’ He smiled and spread his hands in a semblance of apology. ‘No offence.’

The second mug filled, the barman held out his hand, wrapping his fingers around the proffered coin and looking back at Saratos with a faint smile.

‘No skin off my dick, soldier, just making conversation. But I’ll do you a favour, since you were civil. See those three by the door?’

Saratos nodded, keeping his attention fixed on the barman to avoid giving the men in question any clue that they were under discussion.

‘Already seen. Purse boys?’

‘You’ve got it. A soldier comes in here, sinks too many beakers of this stuff and finds his wits addled by the time he leaves. And then he finds himself face down in the gutter, with a sore head and his money stolen.’

He recoiled minutely at the Dacian’s wolfish smile.

‘We be careful. And I thank.’ He turned back to where Sanga was sitting waiting, then shrugged and turned back. ‘You help me, perhaps I help you. We looking for guide, man who knows lands across river. You know anyone, we got coin for you. We here tomorrow night.’

He walked steadily back across the tavern, depositing Sanga’s beer in front of him and sitting, his lopsided grin enough to raise his friend’s eyebrows.

‘Is done.’

The Briton nodded.

‘Good. Now perhaps we can stop drinking this watery piss and get our heads down.’ Saratos smiled at him over the rim of his mug. ‘What?’

‘We got job to do on way back to barrack. Is service to people of city.’

The next morning was clear, if chilly, with a wind that ruffled the edges of the two centurions’ cloaks. Varus eyed Marcus’s double layered and hooded garment enviously, rubbing at the wool of his own with a disappointed expression as they trotted their horses south from the city.

‘I can see that I’m going to have to make some adjustments to my equipment. What worked nicely enough in Syria seems somewhat inadequate here in the North, whereas your kit seems so much better suited …’

He paused for a moment, looking at the eagle-pommelled sword hanging at Marcus’s side speculatively.

‘Your weapons have always intrigued me too …’

He bit the end of the sentence off as if he already regretted the blurted statement. Marcus smiled knowingly.

‘But you felt uncomfortable asking?’

The younger man looked down at his feet.

‘One hears stories. Stories that a man hardly feels it’s his place to query. After a while it just became a facet of our relationship, a question I was almost afraid to ask.’

Marcus shrugged, looking out across the river’s iron-grey surface with a bleak expression.

‘I try not to dwell on my past, Gaius. I’ve discovered the hard way that if a man spends too much time looking back, fate will find a way to trip him up when he’s not concentrating on what’s directly in front of him. And there are some parts of it that would be much better if they were never remembered again …’

He drew the gladius from its place on his right hip, reversing the weapon and handing it across the gap between their mounts. Varus took the sword by the eagle’s head pommel, nodding his approval at the blade’s fine balance and viciously sharp edge.

‘An old weapon?’

‘A family heirloom, to the best of my knowledge. My father — my birth father, not the man who raised me — left it to me when he died on the battlefield in Britannia. I only discovered the truth of my birth after his death.’ He smiled through the memory, patting the long sword on his left side. ‘And this blade you know only too well …’

The sword had been given to him by a Parthian prince on their parting, a magnificent blade forged with the finest Indian steel by the painstaking patience of a master craftsman, its metal heated and folded until the result was almost supernaturally flexible and graced with an edge that would cut clean through armour and bone when wielded with deadly intent.

‘I won another one like it in battle not far from here, but the blade felt …’ Marcus shook his head at the memory … ‘Wrong, somehow, in my hands. As if its metal had become tainted by the evil purposes to which it had been turned. I had it melted down and reforged as several of these.’

He pulled a long bladed hunting knife from its place alongside the Parthian weapon, holding it up for Varus’s inspection. The weapon’s surface rippled with the same irregular pattern that graced the long sword, and Varus returned the gladius, taking the knife from him as the sword hissed back into its scabbard.

‘It feels … well, like a knife. Nothing more, nothing less.’

Marcus nodded.

‘The reforging seems to have cleansed it of whatever it was that I was sensing. I asked Tribune Scaurus to pray over the hot metal and invoke Our Lord’s protection and banish any lingering evil, just to be sure. My wife …’

He fell silent as the memory of her words pulled cruelly at his emotions.

‘My wife told me that evil lives in the hearts of men, and not in inanimate objects, but that if it made me feel comfortable I should seek Mithras’s blessing on the weapons that resulted from the blade’s destruction.’

A long silence drew out between the two men, Varus handing the knife back to his friend and turning to look out over the river.

‘She was right.’ The younger man turned back to find Marcus staring away into the distance, his eyes focused on the horizon as he spoke. ‘Evil does live in the hearts of men. And no matter how many of them I kill there are always more.’ He shook his head as if dismissing the reverie. ‘And this won’t get our business done. Come on, let’s give these horses a little exercise.’

He kicked his mount from its gentle trot to a canter, and Varus followed suit, neither of them giving any notice to a pair of cavalrymen who were exercising their own mounts on the road behind them.

Lupus looked up from his polishing in annoyance as someone stepped into the barrack’s doorway, dimming the sunlight he was using to see what he was doing, then sprang to his feet as he recognised the man standing in the opening.

‘Grandfather!’

Putting the boot to one side he stood up, suddenly awkward in the presence of his father’s father in a way that would have been unthinkable a year before. Morban, having raised the boy’s father on something of an absentee basis, recognised the signs and was having nothing of it with his last surviving blood relative.

‘Never mind all that bashfulness!’ He advanced into the room and put his arms around the boy, ignoring the potential for embarrassment that the child was now a good six inches taller than he was. ‘Come here and give me a decent hug, you young idiot!’

Surrendering to the embrace Lupus wondered what had brought on such welcome but uncharacteristic behaviour from a man whose usual approach to his grandfatherly duties had been sporadic at best, perhaps in recognition that Arminius was in truth more of a father to the boy than he could ever be.

‘I know, barely a word for a week and then the silly old bastard comes calling for a hug with his grandson.’ Morban held the boy at arm’s length, his eyes misty with sentiment. ‘Forgive me Lupus, I know I’ve not been the best at looking after you, but you’ve never gone short when there’s been money needed to buy you whatever was called for.’

A coughing laugh of disbelief from outside the barracks made him frown, and he turned to shout back through the door.

‘That’s enough of that, if you don’t want your entry in the burial club to mysteriously lose a zero the next time I update the records. Give me the knife.’ A soldier appeared in the doorway and passed him something wrapped in a military blanket. ‘Now piss off and get back to polishing your sword, or whatever it is you do when the barrack’s empty for five minutes!’

He turned back to Lupus with a forced smile.

‘Your old grandfather’s heading north in an hour or so, going to some place called Novaesium where there’s a bridge, although why we couldn’t just use this one’s beyond me. I’ll be safe enough, since I’m going with Cotta, Lugos and that pair of hard cases who used to serve in my century, and your beloved Arminius, but I thought I’d come and say goodbye, well, you know …’ He shuffled his feet awkwardly. ‘Just in case. And to give you this.’

He proffered the bundle.

‘The blanket will help to keep you warm at night, and the knife …’ He waited while Lupus unwrapped the blanket from its contents and stared, eyes wide, at what he’d revealed. ‘It’s German, see, made by a master smith, the shopkeeper said. What do you think?’

Lupus drew the hunting knife from its scabbard, looking at its shining foot-long blade with an expression of amazement.

‘It’s just … I wanted you to have something to remember me by, if we don’t see each other again.’

The boy sheathed the knife, then put his hands on Morban’s shoulders with an expression that combined affection with a hard edge of conviction.

‘We’ll see each other again, Grandfather, I know it! You’ll have Lugos to stop anyone from harming you, and I’ll be safe with Arminius! And you’ve got to come back, you’re all the family I have left.’

The standard bearer nodded dumbly, his eyes glistening as he wrapped the boy up in another embrace.

When Sanga and Saratos walked into the tavern that evening their appearance sparked a good deal more interest than had been the case the previous night. The three men who had been pointed out by the barman were sitting in the same places as before, but where their previous demeanour had been one of apparent ease, all three were clearly in discomfort, and their bruised faces told the story of what had happened after they had followed the Tungrians out into the city’s streets as eloquently as any account of that brief and unexpectedly violent encounter. Nodding with a lopsided grin at their astonishment, Sanga led his friend across the room to the place where the barman was waiting for them with one beaker of beer already drawn and the second half full.

‘I wasn’t sure if you two’d be back, given the way that lot have been talking about what they’ll do to you if they ever get the chance.’

The veteran snorted derisively, dropping a coin on the counter.

‘Get them a beer and tell them to let yesterday be in the past. Did you have any luck with our guide?’

The barman tipped his head at a roughly dressed man sitting in the tavern’s corner, his glowering expression keeping the bar girls at bay with effortless ease, and Saratos turned back to the barman.

‘Him? He not look too happy about be here?’

‘Hah! Gunda? Happy?’

The innkeeper threw his head back and laughed in genuine amusement.

‘There may come a day when you see that miserable bastard look anything other than flat out pissed off, but it isn’t coming any time soon. If you’re looking for someone who knows every path and hunting trail on the other side of the river then Gunda’s the best man for the job. Go and have a word with him, then if you want to hire him we can discuss my commission.’

The two soldiers picked up their beers and strolled across to stand in front of the guide, who glanced up at them without any change to his vaguely disgusted expression. Heavily bearded, his hair a shaggy, greying mane tied up in a long plait, and with a seamed and lined face that told its own story of a life spent under the elements, his forehead bore a small but distinctive tattoo, a single rune in a blue so dark that it was almost purple. Dressed in a rough woollen tunic and leggings that had clearly seen better days, his feet, stuck out before him and crossed, were clad in heavy military hobnailed boots, which were by contrast in excellent condition. A long hunting knife and purse hung from his ornately decorated belt, and a stout wooden staff as tall as a man rested against the wall behind him, both of its ends shod in polished iron. When he spoke his voice belied the sour glare that was apparently his habitual expression, the words and phrasing hinting at a lively mind.

‘So you’re the men that are looking for a guide. A man that knows the land on the other side of the water like the skin on his own knuckles?’

Sanga nodded.

‘A month’s employment guaranteed at legion pay rates, and probably no more than a week’s actual work.’

The guide shook his head in astonishment.

‘A month’s pay for a week’s work? Where the fuck is it you want taking, across the Styx and past the three-headed dog?’ He raised a hand. ‘No, I don’t need to know and for that much money I doubt you’d tell me. I’m going to need half up front.’

Saratos laughed.

‘You get half money, then you not seen until we gone!’

Gunda grimaced up at him.

‘I want half money because if you’re willing to pay that much, and given the look of you two, there’s a decent chance you’ve got something really stupid in mind. So I want some money to spend before I leave, get some decent clothes and some nice new arrows for my bow.’

Sanga shook his head, and was about to speak when the guide’s stare switched to a point over the soldier’s shoulder. An angry voice behind them rasped threateningly, its owner clearly intent on the infliction of pain.

‘Well now, just like you said, here they are. They must either be very brave or very fucking stupid.’

The Tungrians turned, exchanging significant glances. Sanga smiled broadly at the half-dozen men arrayed between them and the tavern’s door. Three of them were the footpads who had attempted to rob them the previous evening, their faces dark with emergent bruises from the two soldiers’ fists and boots, one of them sporting a vicious pattern of hobnail marks across his cheek and broken nose. The other three were ubiquitous gang muscle, the same type they’d met in cities across the empire, their leader a red-headed bruiser with a long scar down through one eye socket, which held a milky, discoloured orb. A knife dangled in his right hand, and the men on either side were similarly equipped.

‘You two pricks are in deep shit. You hurt my friends here last night, it seems, friends who routinely pay me a share of their takings in return for which they’ve been promised my protection in the event that anything unpleasant should happen to them. And you two appear to have happened to them rather painfully, don’t you?’

He looked the two soldiers up and down, shrugging to demonstrate his lack of concern.

‘You’re clearly nasty bastards, which is why my friends here called for me before attempting their revenge. So, got anything to say before we break your arms and legs and cut you up?’

Sanga took a slow step forward, deliberately closing the gap between them with a deceptively languid, almost sleepy demeanour.

‘You’re probably a legion brat, aren’t you? Son of a retired soldier? Well you know those men that used to come round and drink with your daddy once they were all retired? Hard men who’d fought in the German War, with those dead eyes that scared you so much. Well, him and me …’ he gestured to the Dacian without ever taking his eyes off the thug, ‘we’re like that. Only worse. So here’s a promise, thimble dick. You raise a blade to me, I will make you eat it. If I were you I’d fuck off now, before this gets ugly, eh?’ He stared at the gang leader for a long moment, watching the doubt slowly creep into his eyes. ‘Except you can’t back down, can you? ’Cause if you do all the other bully boys’ll-’

And without warning he was in motion, pivoting on one leg to smash a hobnailed boot into his opponent’s kneecap, the redhead staggering backwards with a shriek of agony, clutching the brutalised joint with one hand and pointing at Sanga with the other.

‘Kill him!’

His fellow thugs came forward at the Tungrians with the eager, empty-eyed aggression of men freed of any restraint, the three men who had been beaten the previous evening crowding in behind them in search of revenge, knives raised and glinting in the tavern’s lamplight. Sanga snatched up a stool and swung it low, the wooden legs tangling with those of one of the gang members who was slower than his mates in stepping out of their arc. He fell to the floor, and before he could regain his footing the Briton swung the stool back, stunning him with a smashing blow of the heavy wooden seat. He stepped back from the fallen man with the stool held ready to strike again, his eyes glinting with calculation.

‘Still want to fight?’

For a moment it looked as if the remaining thugs would give up their cause, but then the biggest of the men who had come seeking revenge stepped forward, raising his own blade.

‘They only got lucky! We do this! Two on one! Get them down and shiv the cunts!’

Bolstered by his aggression the remaining men came forward in silence with their knives held ready to fight, only the harsh sound of their breathing and the scrape of their boot soles across the stone floor breaking the silence. Sanga exchanged a swift glance with his comrade, both men knowing that their opponents’ more cautious approach spelt potential disaster for them. Shooting a look back at Gunda he saw that the guide remained in his relaxed position, seated with his back against the wall, the iron-shod staff now lying across his knees ready for use if the fight threatened to spill over him but otherwise showing no sign of making a move. The German shrugged at him, eliciting a throaty chuckle from the thug closest to Sanga.

‘He knows to keep his fucking nose well out of it. No barbarian’s going to lift a finger to help you!’

He took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself to attack, and the Tungrians nodded to each other, stepping forward and taking the initiative. Saratos feinted at the man closest to him and then, as the thug danced back behind his knife blade, swivelled to intercept his comrade’s attack, grasping his outstretched knife hand and dragging the man’s arm down onto his sharply raised knee. The elbow broke with a sickening crunch of splintered bone, and with a howl of agony the crippled thief reeled out of the fight with his right arm flopping uselessly, leaving the Dacian one on one with the other man, whose ferocious grin had been replaced by a look of consternation.

Beside him Sanga simply stepped forward and shot a vicious straight punch into the closer of his assailants’ faces grinning savagely as the other man’s nose popped in a spray of blood, but as he stepped in again and pulled his fist back to smash deep into the thug’s belly, he tripped over a misaligned flagstone and staggered forward into the reeling bruiser’s arms. The last of the robbers saw his chance and slammed a vicious punch into his kidneys, his comrade wrapping brawny arms around Sanga’s body and momentarily pinioning him, roaring a blood-flecked command at his mate.

‘Do him!’

Casting about him, the other man grabbed a discarded knife from the floor, straightening up and stepping close to the helpless soldier with a snarl, raising the blade toward his throat. Sanga flexed his powerful shoulders, but the thug’s grasp was vice-like. Frantically struggling as the knife-wielding thief stepped in behind him, he launched a crunching headbutt into his captor’s damaged face, but the other man gritted his teeth against the pain and stood firm. His mate put the blade against the Tungrian’s throat and pulled his head back with a handful of hair, snarling in Sanga’s ear as his arm tensed to rip the sharp iron through windpipe and veins.

‘Time for you to-’

Then, with a distinct thud of wood on bone, and a startled grunt of pain, his grip on the Briton’s hair relaxed, and the knife clattered to the floor. Grinning ferociously at his would-be captor the soldier pulled his head back again and butted the thief once more, and again, further smashing his nose. Ramming his fists up across the staggering man’s chest, he crossed his arms and then forced them inexorably apart to break the hold that had rendered him temporarily helpless. As the thief staggered backwards his would-be victim delivered a single kick to his groin that doubled him over, vomiting across the floor with the sudden shooting pain. He turned to deal with his other assailant, only to find him slumped face down on the stone floor, unconscious.

A grunt of pain announced Saratos’s despatch of the last of the thugs, sending him sprawling across a table that promptly collapsed under his weight, his chin striking the bench behind it hard and snapping shut on his tongue. Those of the thugs who could still walk retreated haltingly toward the door clutching their injuries, their leader limping on his good leg and shaking a fist at Sanga.

‘You’ve not seen the last of us, you bastards!’

The soldier bent and retrieved a knife from the floor, raising it in warning.

‘You’re still here when I’ve had a word with our new guide there then I’ll make good on that threat to make you eat this. Your choice.’

He winked at Saratos and then turned back to the guide, who was sitting in the same place as if he’d never moved, nodding his appreciation.

‘I reckon you and that staff just about saved my life.’

Gunda shrugged.

‘No-one calls me barbarian and walks away clean. Now, half up front?’

The veteran grinned at him.

‘Half up front.’