Altar of Blood

5

‘What a waste of time and effort.’

Cotta looked about him with an air of exasperation.

‘This lot wouldn’t give us so much as the steam off their piss.’

The neutral expression Arminius had been careful to maintain since they had walked into the settlement was unchanged, but the German’s voice was rich in irony.

‘I can see what my master was thinking when he sent us here, but he has reckoned without the long-standing enmity these people have for your empire. That centurion was right, we need something to get past the barrier of their hatred, or we might as well go and shelter in the forest and try to find our comrades tomorrow.’

Morban’s rejoinder was morose, and edged with fear.

‘We should go and find Lugos, dump the cart and get the fuck out of here before they decide we’re the next offering to their gods.’

Cotta opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Sanga and Saratos rounded a corner and sauntered over to join them.

‘You’re looking smug Sanga, what have you been up to? Even you can’t have managed to persuade one of this lot to open her legs for you already, not unless you were paying in gold. And you haven’t got any gold.’

The soldier’s grin silenced him, a gap-toothed smile that narrowed the older man’s eyes.

‘Go on. Spit it out.’

‘We need an angle, that chosen man said, a way to break the ice with this set of sulky bastards, right?’

‘Yes. And?’

Sanga smirked again, pointing back the way he and Saratos had come.

‘And I reckon we’ve found it. Might get a bit messy though. And I think this might just be what you brought Morban along for.’

‘You’re sure you weren’t seen?’

Marcus nodded grimly.

‘The priest was sound asleep after his hard night’s work.’

Scaurus snorted without mirth.

‘And the man on the altar was Roman? You’re sure?’

‘He was trying to ask me to kill him, I could see his lips forming the words. And he was wearing a fine woollen tunic, the sort of thing an off-duty soldier might wear for a night in the vicus …’

He fell silent, lost in the memory of the moment when the mutilated corpse had come to life at his touch. Scaurus put a hand out and touched his arm.

‘And …? I’m sorry Marcus, but I have to know everything.’

‘I stopped his windpipe. After all the punishment he’d taken in the night he was so close to death that it only needed a gentle nudge to put him over the edge. Most of his blood was spread across the altar, although there was enough of it scattered about the grove that the priest was probably using it to anoint his followers.’

Scaurus looked pointedly at Marcus’s left hand.

‘You seem to have brought some of it with you.’ Marcus lifted his hand and looked at the palm, realising that when he’d steadied himself against the altar he’d put his fingers into a patch of drying blood. ‘Do you think you left a mark?’

The Roman nodded slowly.

‘It’s likely. But I doubt they’ll think anything of it.’

Scaurus mused for a moment.

‘So they’re abducting our soldiers for the purpose of sacrifice.’ He paused for a moment, studying the look on his friend’s face. ‘But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Something you’ve not told us yet?’

Marcus looked up at the trees’ canopy.

‘You’re going to say that I’m imagining it.’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow.

‘You’ve just told me that the Bructeri are kidnapping our legionaries, bringing them out to a clearing in the forest and then torturing them to death piece by bloody piece. I can’t see what else you might have in mind that’s any more disturbing than that particular set of revelations.’

The younger man shook his head.

‘I might be wrong … but there were burn marks on his body that looked exactly like …’

He frowned, pulling the memory of the distinctive markings to the front of his mind.

‘Like what?’

‘An eagle, a legion standard.’

Scaurus’s eyes narrowed.

‘You think he’d been tortured with an eagle?’

Marcus nodded in silence, aware that every man within earshot was staring at him.

‘But …’ The tribune shook his head in rejection of the possibility. ‘It can’t have been. The eagles lost in the Varus disaster were all recovered, and we’ve not lost a standard in Germania since then. I really don’t-’

‘Yes, you have.’

All eyes turned to Gunda, who was looking at the tribune with a confident expression. Scaurus shook his head.

‘No, we haven’t. Lost eagles are one of those things that every young officer learns about, usually from the senior centurions to whom that sort of thing is really important, not for career reasons but because for those men the eagle is an object of worship, the heart of the legion. They teach you that the eagle always, always comes first, no matter what the personal risk. Eagle bearers are invariably the best men in the legion, trusted to carry the legion’s soul into the heart of the battle, and they usually have a century of the nastiest men available as their personal bodyguard, men whose motivation goes beyond fanaticism. Trust me in this, the only eagles that Rome has lost since Varus are two in Judean revolts, one in Dacia before Trajan conquered the province, and one in Parthia, the Ninth Legion from memory.’

Gunda shrugged.

‘I am forced to disagree with you. There is a story that has been passed down from father to son for generations in our tribe that tells a different story.’

He held Scaurus’s stare until the Roman nodded slowly.

‘Tell us your story then, German, and allow us to consider what you say.’

The guide looked around at his audience, sensing their fascination.

‘It’s a short enough tale. There was a time, so long ago that my father’s father’s father was not yet born, that the Batavi, a warlike tribe who had given long and faithful service to your empire, thought better of their place in the world than to serve a master who continually abused them. Your people called them Batavians, and for a time respected them as the bravest and the best of their allies, but over time this respect turned to contempt between their soldiers and yours. The relationship began to rot, and there was open fighting between Romans and Batavi in the taverns and streets of your fortresses. And just when the relationship was at its worst, a priestess of the Bructeri foretold a Batavi victory over Rome in battle …’ Scaurus exchanged glances with Marcus. ‘And so, encouraged by these visions, they went to war with your people, and with them — and this is the important part …’ he paused, smiling at Scaurus, ‘… went the Bructeri, my people. And, with one thing and another, the war went badly for Rome, and well for the Batavi. At least for a time.’

Scaurus nodded.

‘It was a time of civil war, a year when four men sat on the throne in one year, which meant that the empire’s attention was distracted from events in Germania. Two legions managed to get themselves bottled up in the fortress that was all that was left of Roman rule on the Rhenus, a fortress called Vetera. They held out for a time, their walls of stone being too strong for the Batavians and their allies to defeat, and they were even relieved once, but due to a combination of miscalculation and plain stupidity they were forced to surrender for lack of food, when they had been reduced to eating their horses and mules.’

Gunda bowed to him.

‘It seems your people have this story too, perhaps written in those books you love so much. The two legions agreed to surrender, leaving all of their weapons and gold behind, in return for safe passage away from the fortress. And so they marched out, trusting to their captors’ good nature, which, as every man of my tribe knows, is a foolish choice to make when dealing with the tribes to our north.’

He shook his head at the folly of the decision.

‘Better for them to have taken their own lives. They were attacked a short distance from the fortress, and slaughtered, their officers enslaved and given to the priestess who had predicted their defeat to be her servants.’

Scaurus stood, stretching his back.

‘All of which is known, and true, but the legions’ eagles were safely removed from the fortress when it was relieved for a short time. They-’

He fell silent under the guide’s stare.

‘Was this a time of great disasters, Roman? A time when the loss of not one but two of your eagles would have been a grievous insult to the dignity of a new emperor?’

‘Yes. I cannot deny it.’

‘And did the Batavi leader perish, when his tribe was finally defeated, silencing him forever?’

Scaurus nodded.

‘That does seem to have been the case.’

Gunda spread his arms.

‘Even I can see how that worked, and I’m just a simple tribesman. The eagles were captured, one of them falling to the Bructeri, and your rulers decided to quietly ignore the fact as it was simply …’

He looked up, fishing for the right word.

‘Inconvenient?’

The German turned to Marcus.

‘Indeed, Centurion. Inconvenient. And so, Romans, whether you believe me or not, it is my belief that it is quite possible for my tribe to be in possession of one of your beloved eagles. I cannot claim to have seen it, for I left the tribe as a young man, too young to have participated in the ceremonies where it would be shown to the warriors as a valued prize, and perhaps used to torment our captives. But I have heard tales of its existence, and that it is kept hidden in the king’s treasury for the most part and only brought out for such special occasions.’

Scaurus gestured to Marcus.

‘Thank you for your frankness, Gunda. Walk with me, Centurion.’

He led the younger man away from the detachment until they were out of earshot.

‘You’re sure about this?’

Marcus thought for a moment, his face etched with the stress bearing down on him.

‘Completely sure? How can I be? I saw nothing more than burn marks on a man’s legs, and I was somewhat preoccupied at the time. But do I think they were put there by an eagle that had been heated over a fire? Yes Tribune, I do.’

The older man looked up at the trees for a moment before speaking again, his voice tense with frustration.

‘We could be back in that grove in minutes, put the priest to the sword, perhaps even find this eagle, and vanish into the forest to the east as if we were never here. But …’

‘That’s not the task we were given.’

‘No. And worse than that, if that German’s story is right we won’t even be thanked for returning it to Rome. After all, the empire had its revenge on the Batavians once they’d been beaten on the battlefield, and you heard what the governor’s secretary told us about the way Rome encouraged neighbouring tribes to push the Bructeri off their land, and almost destroy the tribe. I don’t think we’re going to be thanked for throwing away the job we’ve been given to do to recapture an eagle that’s never actually been acknowledged as having been lost.’

The younger man nodded.

‘And yet …’

‘Exactly. Every time that eagle’s used as part of some filthy sacrifice it demeans every man in the army, whether they know it or not. And worse than that, they’re abducting soldiers to torture and murder, and presumably using the eagle as part of the ceremony. If we took it back, perhaps it would stop them.’

Scaurus looked down the path again, then back in the direction of the sacred grove.

‘No. There’s nothing I’d like more, but we can’t do it. Or at least not yet.’

He turned away, signalling to Dubnus to get the detachment moving again.

‘Consider it unfinished business, if you like. I will.’

‘Gods below, but he’s a big bastard!’

Cotta craned his neck to see over the crowd that had gathered on the slopes of the city’s fighting pit, a shallow arena dug into a small hill overlooking the Bructeri capital. He stared down at the man Sanga had pointed out to him, an unnaturally tall and massively muscled tribesman with the hard eyes of a professional fighter beneath a thick head of red hair which was tied in a plait that reached the small of his back. Big enough to rival their friend Lugos in size, and clad in a simple belted tunic, he dominated the space about him with his size and sheer presence. The white-haired man who was evidently either his trainer or owner moved around him with the innate caution of a wild beast trainer, taking ostentatious care to approach him from the front, fussing with his champion’s belt and offering him a drink of water.

Sanga spoke quietly in the veteran centurion’s ear as they watched the giant’s unhurried preparations.

‘I might not speak their language, but it’s not that hard to figure out having watched a couple of bouts. The man who puts him on his back and keeps him there long enough gets paid a decent purse, but he has to pay a bronze for the chance to win it, which is how they make their money. That and the gambling, obviously.’

The soldiers watched in silence as a fresh challenger was brought forward, stepping into the ring already stripped to his loin cloth, his limbs glistening with freshly applied oil. A well-muscled specimen, with the lithe grace of a boxer, he danced easily from foot to foot as the giant got to his feet with an air of bored disinterest, shaking his hands and then clenching them into fists.

‘This one looks handy enough. Perhaps he’ll be able to tire the big man out with all that fancy footwork?’

Saratos snorted mirthlessly.

‘Same as last one we see. He dance for twenty heartbeats, then he carry out asleep.’

Sanga nodded, not taking his eyes off the circling fighters, the challenger moving nimbly around his opponent as the giant stepped stolidly forward. Clenching his fists he looked up at the sky and let out a roar of challenge that the crowd answered by baying at the two men, clearly recognising it for the sign that the fight was on. With a sudden rush the smaller man stepped in close, hammering a powerful fist into the redhead’s stomach and then moving back quickly to avoid his retaliation, although the punch’s impact seemed negligible as his opponent stepped ponderously towards him in a display of blank-faced menace that sent shivers up Cotta’s spine. His opponent repeated the move, darting in to land another punch, only to be met by a devastating counter-punch to his face that momentarily staggered him, leaving him wide open to the looping hook that followed. Spun a full circle by the blow’s force, he tottered for an instant and then slumped headlong to the dirt floor, his eyes rolling upwards as he lost consciousness. A pair of men stepped into the ring and dragged the defeated challenger away while the crowd shouted and hooted abuse at him, those among them who had been foolish enough to put money on him shaking their heads in disgust as the big man’s owner dropped their money into his leather purse. He shouted above the crowd’s hubbub, and Arminius translated his words for them.

‘Are there no more challengers for the Beast? No man who believes he can be the hero of the day, and win a handful of Roman silver?’

He looked about him in apparent disgust.

‘No? Very well, I can see we’re going to have to raise the stakes! Not five silver coins for the successful challenger! Not ten silver coins! The man who can put the champion down and keep him down will win a Roman gold aureus!’

He raised a hand to display the coin, provoking a flurry of excitement in the watching crowd, looking around at them in simulated frustration.

‘Is nobody else here tempted to try their luck?’

Sanga looked at Cotta with an expression the older man knew from experience.

‘So, that big lump wanders up to whoever’s stupid enough to face him inside the circle, takes a punch or two, which he barely notices, then puts the poor unfortunate to sleep with a slap or two? Or at least that’s all that’s happened so far.’

‘You’re not thinking …?’

Sanga grinned.

‘’Course I am. How else are we going to get under this lot’s skin, eh? The man who puts him on his back and wins the gold is going to be famous for the rest of the night, and therefore the object of admiration and quite possibly lust. Some of which may rub off on his mates.’

‘And you think that you-’

The Briton barked a cynical laugh.

‘Me? Fuck no! I’m not that stupid! But I know a man who is …’

They looked around at Saratos, who shrugged and looked over at the brawler with an untroubled expression.

‘He a big man. Fall hard, slow to get up.’

Cotta looked at the Beast, then back at Saratos with a sceptical expression.

‘You’re sure you want to fight him?’

The Dacian nodded, turning to Morban.

‘You give me price of entry. I win fight, I keep gold-’

He raised a hand to pre-empt the avaricious standard bearer’s protest.

‘You want gold, you fight. I win, I keep gold. You gamble, like you always is, make good money.’

He paused to allow Cotta the time to work it out. The older man grimaced at him disbelievingly.

‘And you really reckon you can win?’

‘Give coin. We soon find out.’

The veteran nodded, turning to the man beside him.

‘Right Morban, this is what you do best. Go down there and skin that white-haired old bastard alive.’

Stripping to the waist to reveal a sinewy, hard-muscled frame that was the product of years of soldiering since his capture by the Tungrians, the Dacian stretched and warmed his muscles in the company of Sanga, nodding as his friend talked incessantly at him, encouraging and cajoling him and plying him with advice as to how he could best fight the massive German. After a few minutes he declared himself ready and made his way down to the fighting ring with Morban walking behind him in imperious fashion, attended by Arminius as his translator, ignoring the muttered comments and dirty looks that he was getting. The giant’s trainer spat a stream of German at them, then nodded as Arminius told him what it was that the Dacian intended.

‘He says that Roman money is as welcome as any other, although for you the price will be higher. Two denarii.’

‘Two denarii? The greedy bastard’s only been charging these hairy-arsed fuckers a bronze apiece and he wants two silvers out of me!’

The German shrugged at him, understanding the Tungrian’s outrage despite lacking any apparent ability with Latin, and then grinned as Arminius translated his response.

‘He says you’ll understand that he’s likely to be taxed harder by the tribe’s chief for allowing a Roman to fight in the pit. And he wonders if you really think this streak of piss and gristle will provide any more sport for the crowd than his oldest daughter could?’

Saratos stayed stony-faced, staring at the far wall with the look of a man whose mind was elsewhere, and Morban nodded slowly.

‘Tell him that I’m open to a side bet if he feels so sure of his man.’

The German grinned hugely, having got the reaction his insult was intended to draw, nodding vigorously without waiting for Arminius to translate. Morban fished into his purse, making a show of poking around in it before pulling out a gold aureus. Arminius translated the startled trainer’s response with the ghost of a smile.

‘He says you must be fucking mad, or that’s the closest I can get to what he actually said. He’ll cover you at two for one, given the size of your stake, which he will hold for you until the result is clear.’

Morban winked at the trainer and flicked the coin towards him, nodding as the other man took it out of the air with expert fingers.

‘Tell him he just accepted the worst bet of his life.’

He turned away, calling back to Arminius over the crowd’s renewed baying as Saratos stepped into the ring, his face still vacant and apparently lacking any interest in the coming bout.

‘And stay close to him, I don’t want him trying to do a runner with my money when the big man goes down.’

He turned back to look at the expression on the German’s face.

‘You might not speak Latin, but you understood that well enough, didn’t you, you wrinkled old fart?’

The trainer scowled at him, spitting a string of instructions and warnings at his fighter as the giant stepped into the ring to face the waiting Dacian, instructions that were clearly being ignored as the massive redhead clenched his fists and inflated his chest to issue his usual roared challenge, throwing back his head and bellowing defiance at the sky above. At the instant he looked up, Saratos moved, sprinting forward with the urgency of a man who knew that this was his best and quite probably his only opportunity to take control of the fight, covering the five paces between them before his opponent’s bellow had exhausted itself.

The German’s gaze snapped down onto him as he belatedly realised what was happening, but before he had time to react his opponent was upon him. Rather than strike what would almost certainly have been an ineffectual blow at the big man’s stomach or face, Saratos lunged feet first into a sliding tackle that entangled his legs with the giant’s, then twisted his body violently to topple the ponderous German. Hitting the ground hard, his opponent grunted with the unexpected impact, flailing his arms in an attempt to push himself upright, but the Dacian was swifter to react. Thrusting his body into the air, he slammed a braced elbow down into the momentarily helpless German’s sternum with his full weight behind it and then, as the breath left the big man’s lungs in an explosive rush, swung the same arm’s fist down in a hammer blow to his crotch with the speed and skill of a seasoned street fighter. Rolling away he readied himself to strike again, waited for his groaning opponent to get halfway to his feet and then turned swiftly through a full circle to deliver a back-fisted blow to a spot just behind his left ear. His eyes rolling up as he lost consciousness, the German slumped back onto the dirt floor in a boneless flop that betrayed his sudden and complete loss of consciousness.

For a moment the crowd gathered around the fighting pit was silent, and in that instant before they had the chance to turn ugly at the shock of the champion being defeated by a Roman, Arminius took his chance, bellowing at them in their shared language.

‘The Dacian wins! Free beer for every man here to celebrate!’

Taking the German’s trainer firmly by the arm, his knife out and pricking the man’s ribs beneath the cover of his cloak, he dragged the older man alongside him and set off downhill, repeating the cry as the crowd regained their wits and stared at him in amazement.

‘Free beer! Follow me!’

Torn between the prospect of violence and alcohol, the Germans wavered momentarily, then as one man surged after Arminius and his captive while Morban stared at them in horror.

‘Free?’

Saratos strolled over to him, still breathing hard from his violent exertions, crooking a finger to lead the horrified standard bearer back over to the corpse-like form of the defeated giant.

‘Is not to worry. I watch them before, see, and more than one time I see trainer check that this belt still good. Make me wonder what is point of belt when rope better in fight, give less for enemy to grip. We look, yes?’

Sanga and Cotta had joined them, the pit now completely deserted by the men streaming back toward the settlement’s centre.

‘Let’s see if your guess was right, eh?’

He unbuckled the German’s belt, pulling it free and hefting the thick strip of leather in one hand.

‘I’d like to have seen the cow that gave its life to provide leather this heavy!’

He turned the belt over, using a fingernail to dig into what looked like a coating of hide glue, probing its reverse in search of something not immediately evident.

‘What the-’

Morban fell silent as the soldier grinned triumphantly.

‘Got you!’

Sliding the nail into a long cut in the leather’s surface he peeled back a layer of hide to reveal a string of circular depressions that had been painstakingly scraped into the belt beneath that thin layer.

‘Must be a dozen of them. Right now this one’s owner thinks he’s spending our winnings to buy beer for anyone that can drink it, and all the time he’s counting on this being here when this lump wakes up. Thinking all is not lost.’

Morban reached out a hand for the belt.

‘But it fucking well is! That’s my stake, and my winnings!’

Cotta put out a hand to stop him, taking the belt from Sanga and fastening it about his own waist.

‘The tribune’s winnings, given you were betting with his gold, and, more to the point, safe. And we’re not done getting our “edge” yet, so that small fortune is best kept hidden. And now we’d best go and see how a German tribe behaves when provided with unlimited free beer!’

The Tungrians went forward at the same cautious pace for the rest of the morning, stopped for a brief rest when the sun, or what could be seen of it through the trees’ thick canopy, was at its highest point, and then resumed their slow, patient march through the forest.

‘I swear this is worse than a thirty-miler. At least you can get your head back and get stuck into a proper distance, but this …’

Qadir, having joined Marcus at the front of the column, nodded, his head turning slowly from side to side as he scanned the forest before them. His voice was soft as he replied.

‘For myself I have to say that this method of progress is entirely more suited to my abilities than your constant emphasis on charging around the countryside with your boots on fire. It does a man’s spirit good to …’

His eyes abruptly narrowed, the bow’s wooden frame creaking as he drew back the arrow that was already nocked to its string, pausing for an instant with the missile’s fletching barely touching his ear, then releasing the string and reaching for another arrow. Marcus looked frantically for a target for his own bow, but the forest was silent, the only movement the stirring of the trees’ higher branches by the wind.

‘A man, on the path.’

The Hamian’s quiet comment was all it took to break the moment’s spell, and the heavy cloak of lassitude that had settled over Marcus fell away with the rush of blood as he hurried forward in a half-crouch with his bow still ready to shoot, Dubnus at his heels with his axe in one hand and a sword in the other. They found Qadir’s target a hundred paces up the track, a roughly dressed man whose knuckles were white around the grip of a bow, leaning against a tree while his life blood pumped out around the shaft of the Hamian’s arrow. He looked up at the Romans with eyes already glassy with his impending death and reached out an imploring hand, too badly shocked even to know what had happened to him.

‘I doubt he even saw us.’

Marcus put the borrowed bow aside and drew his gladius, swiftly and efficiently putting the point to the stricken German’s chest and pushing it between two ribs to stop the dying man’s heart just as the head of the detachment’s column reached the scene.

‘He was alone then.’

Marcus nodded at Scaurus’s question.

‘If he’d been accompanied we’d have spotted anyone else as they ran. The question is what do we do with him?’

‘Bury him deep.’ They turned to find Gunda looking down at the dead man dispassionately. ‘If you leave him to lie in the open the animals will tear him to pieces quickly enough, but the bones will be scattered, and the risk of another hunter finding them is too great. This man needs simply to disappear. He will be missed, of course, but it is not unknown for hunters to travel deep into the forest in search of game for days at a time.’

Dubnus took over, issuing a swift order to Angar, who selected four of his axemen, leading them as they picked up the body and carried it away from the path.

‘They will find a quiet spot and bury him deep enough to keep his body safe from the wild beasts, then follow us down the path.’

Scaurus turned to Qadir.

‘A pair of your archers to watch over them might be a good precaution, Centurion.’

He pointed down the path’s track to the north.

‘Gunda, how much farther must we walk to be close enough to Thusila to effect the next part of our plan?’

The guide thought for a moment.

‘Another two miles.’

‘In which case, gentlemen, I suggest we get back on the move, but with the same caution as before. I want to be in position by nightfall, but I don’t want to risk discovery now we’ve got so close.’

As the evening sun dipped towards the horizon, a party of twenty armed and armoured legionaries made their way along the Rhenus fleet’s quayside in column, two-men wide, a centurion at their head and another half-dozen men in formal togas bringing up the rear, followed in turn by a solitary figure dressed in the full ceremonial armour of a Roman senator. Ordering the column to halt alongside the fleet’s flagship, the centurion shouted to the men manning the vessel’s rail to fetch their commanding officer. Summoned to the vessel’s side, Varus’s cousin found himself looking down at governor Clodius Albinus, accompanied by his full official retinue of lictors, each with his bundle of rods and axes held across his body in an ostentatious display of power that he very much doubted was anything but intentional.

‘Greetings, Prefect.’

The naval officer inclined his head.

‘Governor.’

Albinus looked up and down the dock at the sailors loading baskets of food and sheaves of arrows onto the decks of the three ships that had been pulled down the slope from their storage sheds into the water of the basin and were now arrayed alongside the provisioning quay.

‘It looks to me, Prefect, as if you’re making preparations to sail.’

The naval officer considered the question for a moment before making a reply.

‘Indeed, Governor. I plan to take three ships on a routine patrol as far down the river as Novaesium, poking about on the eastern bank as usual to make sure that the Germans are behaving themselves.’

Albinus smiled thinly.

‘A good defence never sleeps, eh Prefect? It’s heartening to see that we have alert and diligent officers such as yourselves in my German fleet. Indeed I share your interest so deeply that I thought I’d come along for the ride. When do you plan to sail?’

‘At first light, Governor. Our preparations are more or less complete.’

The older man nodded, already very well aware of the ships’ state of readiness, having taken steps to determine the prefect’s most likely next steps the previous day, when their role in the Tungrians’ insertion into Bructeri territory had become plain.

‘In which case I’ll come on board now. A night of some slight discomfort will be a small price to pay for the professional satisfaction to be had from patrolling the empire’s borders with a renowned officer such as yourself.’ He smiled at the prefect again, clearly enjoying himself. ‘Obviously my lictors will have to accompany me, and my private bodyguard, but we’ll do our best to keep out of your way. Perhaps you could redistribute your marines around the other ships, just to make a little room for us?’

The prefect inclined his head in agreement, his smile of acquiescence as thin as the governor’s apparent good humour.

‘Of course, Governor. It will be an absolute privilege to have you along for the ride.’

‘I had no idea this lot could drink so fast!’

Morban looked around the crowded tavern with growing alarm, watching the delighted tribesmen swigging their beer with the dedicated abandon of men who saw their chance to achieve oblivion without having to spend so much as a single coin. But if he was dismayed at the frantic pace with which the rapidly growing band of drinkers had been consuming the tavern’s supplies throughout the afternoon, all recognising that either beer or the money to pay for it might well run out at any moment, his consternation was nothing in the face of the German trainer’s abject misery as the contents of his purse went down their throats. To the Tungrians’ surprise, clearly unable to tolerate the injustice of the situation in silence, he suddenly burst into a tirade directed at Cotta, his Latin all but fluent.

‘What are you bastards playing at? You beat my boy, I would have paid out the prize and settled the wager! But this?’

Sanga leaned in close, his conspiratorial wink doing nothing to ease the man’s anxiety, pointing at the belt around Cotta’s waist, almost hidden under the fold of his tunic.

‘Nothing personal mate, we just thought it’d be good for you to experience a little disappointment for a change.’

The trainer’s face fell further as he recognised the belt.

‘You thieving f-’

Cotta wagged an admonishing finger at him.

‘We’ll have a little less of that, thank you. Accusations like that can only draw attention to your favoured manner of transporting your winnings around the countryside. Surely you don’t want this lot to realise that your man routinely carries enough gold to fund a solid month of drinking and whoring for enough men to overpower the pair of you. Half a dozen big lads for him and an old woman to deal with you.’

His face a map of misery, the German reached for a mug of beer, shaking his head in disgust as he took a sip of the bitter brew.

‘I should have told the lot of you to fuck off the moment I laid eyes on you. You’ve got the looks of thieves alright, especially you, you tub of lard.’

Morban bridled, while his companions exchanged looks which mutually conceded that the comment, if harsh, was still a fair one. But before he could even begin to attempt a rebuttal the tavern doors were thrown open, and five heavyset men wearing swords marched in, four of them wearing identical iron helmets while the fifth was bareheaded and dressed in the furs that indicated noble birth. Their presence rapidly cleared a path to the bar, and the bareheaded man looked about him until his eyes settled on the trainer, his sneer accompanied by a guttural verbal assault in his own language.

‘When I heard there were men drinking for nothing in here I should have known you’d be involved in it.’ He pointed a hand back through the tavern’s doors. ‘There are drunkards roaming the streets making improper suggestions to respectable women and openly pissing in the gutter, and who do I find at the heart of it but you, Lucius the Roman.’

The object of his ire spread his hands wide with an outraged expression.

‘I have nothing to do with this, Gernot, I’ve been fooled by this band of robbers!’

Gernot’s attention switched to the Tungrians, his eyes narrowing as he looked them over.

‘I see. And that, presumably, would make a good enough tale for the king to hear. All of you can follow me.’

Cotta looked at Arminius questioningly, and the German shrugged back at him.

‘It seems we’ve attracted a little more attention that might prove healthy.’ He gestured to the door. ‘Follow those men, or you may find them lacking in patience.’

Gernot turned back towards him with a frown.

‘More Romans? It seems we’re suffering an infestation. Come, you can explain yourselves to King Amalric, and then he can decide what to do with you.’

The Bructeri king lounged in his heavy wooden chair, playing a slow stare across the Tungrians with the look of a man who wasn’t overly enamoured of what he saw. A man barely out of his teens, he nevertheless exuded the confidence of a man born to rule, even in his reclining position, and his eyes were bright in a face that combined a noble aspect with more than a hint of brutality.

‘I’ll speak Latin, since none of you seems to have gone to the trouble of learning our language other than you, Lucius the Roman, and even then it is a poor broken thing in your savage mouth. So, to ensure we’re clear, I’m told that you,’ he pointed at Saratos, ‘managed to defeat the monster that Lucius the Roman has been parading around the tribal lands for the last five years. Is that right?’

‘Yes, King.’

Gernot scowled at him from his place behind the throne, and Arminius translated his barked orders for them.

‘When you address my beloved nephew the king you are to bow, and show appropriate respect!’

The king looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

‘And how do you come to be associating with these Romans? What is your name?’

The German bowed.

‘Great King, I am Arminius, son of Raban, of the Quadi tribe. I was captured in battle ten years ago during our war with Rome, and I am sworn to give service to this man until he chooses to free me from my slavery.’

Amalric looked at Cotta and then back at Arminius with a smile that was more disbelief than welcome.

‘This one? He captured you?’

‘I was knocked senseless, great King. When I recovered my wits I was already in chains. The Romans wage war for gain, not for honourable reasons.’

The king nodded grimly.

‘That is true, and better understood by the Bructeri than most other tribes. Perhaps I should free you, and make him and these other men who accompany him your slaves?’

Cotta opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again as Arminius tapped him lightly on the arm.

‘There is no need, great King. In truth he is a decent master, and I have grown accustomed to his ways.’

Amalric shrugged.

‘I have heard that after a time the slave becomes dependent on the master. So be it. And you, master of this slave, what brings you here?’

Cotta stepped forward, bowing low.

‘I am Cotta, a trader, King Amalric. I simply seek to make a living by trading with the peoples of the lands I travel through. I have recently returned from the distant east, and-’

‘Where in the east, Cotta the trader?’

‘Parthia, great King.’

Amalric sat forward in his chair, his interest suddenly piqued.

‘And you have silk to trade? Spices?’

‘Unfortunately not, great King, the people of Rome were far too eager for me to have retained any stock of such luxury. On hearing of the wonders of Germany I decided to reinvest my profits into trade goods, and to make a venture across the mighty river Rhenus to see if what I had been told was true.’

‘And you bring …?’

‘Knives of high quality, linen, Samian pottery-’

Amalric grunted and sat back.

‘Just the usual then. And where exactly is your stock, trader?’

‘Waiting for us at the forest’s edge, guarded by a barb-, by a warrior from Britannia who is also in my service, a man by the name of Lugos. He is a man of exceptional size and strength, and should be approached with caution.’

Amalric leaned back and spoke to Gernot, who nodded and left with half a dozen of the helmeted warriors who, Arminius had muttered as they were escorted into the king’s hall, were likely to be part of the king’s personal retinue, sworn to his service until death.

He looked at Saratos and Sanga.

‘And here, unless I am mistaken, we have the victorious boxer and his trainer. A rarity, in that you of all men have defeated the beast of a man who’s been terrorising the arenas of half a dozen tribal capitals for the last five years. How did you do it?’

Sanga stepped forward, bowing deeply.

‘If I might be so bold, Great King, I am Sanga, and I am indeed this man’s trainer. We are discharged soldiers, and we travel with the trader in return for food and coin, to keep him safe on the road.’

‘I see. And how, then, did your friend defeat Lucius’s monster?’

Sanga drew breath, but before he could speak the king raised a hand and spoke again.

‘You have the look and indeed the sound of a talkative man, and my patience is being drawn thin by this protracted explanation of who you all are. Try not to test my patience.’

Sanga bowed again.

‘I shall be as brief as possible, Great King. When I saw my man’s opponent it was clear to me that only by taking him to the ground could any man hope to triumph over him.’ Amalric nodded at the truth of his words. ‘And so I told my fighter to go for the trip before the fight could start in earnest, and not to allow the big man to get back to his feet.’

‘And this tactic clearly worked. You …’ he pointed past Sanga to Saratos. ‘You are a champion indeed, and deserving of our respect for your skill in the ring.’

The Dacian bowed deeply, and the king looked back at Cotta.

‘But with the champion defeated you had your slave lead the onlookers back into the town, in order to get them drunk with Lucius’s money. What was the point of that? Was there perhaps some gain to be made from such an action?’

After a moment’s thought the veteran decided not to lie, encouraged by the hard stare that the king’s uncle was giving him.

‘You have seen through my plan, great King. My aim was simply to get Lucius here away from his fighter, so that we could liberate their gold from its hiding place.’ He waved Saratos forward, indicating the heavy leather belt. ‘There are a dozen gold coins hidden inside this belt, great King. I needed to remove the chance of anyone spotting us taking the belt.’

Amalric nodded, fixing a hard stare on the trainer.

‘I’ve long wondered how it was that you were able to display so little money when the time came for you to be taxed. You must have tricked me out of a great deal of your takings over the years.’

He looked at Cotta and Lucius with equal distaste.

‘So, one of you has defrauded me over a long period, the other sought to rob a man of his possessions while under the rule of my people’s laws, and the justice which I and I alone administer on their behalf. Laws that are firm on the subject of theft, and the punishments to be applied in the event of a thief being captured. And, worse than that …’

He fell silent for a moment, leaving the two men hanging on his next words.

‘In this case the gold in question was in point of fact never subjected to taxation by the Bructeri throne, taxation that should have been carried out every time Lucius entered this city. Which means that you …’ He looked directly at Cotta. ‘Have admitted to stealing from me, a crime for which there is a penalty of death by beheading.’

The veteran nodded grimly and bowed his head in acceptance of the judgement, while the king addressed Lucius.

‘Whereas you, Lucius the Roman, are guilty of failure to pay taxes, which is also theft from the throne, pure and simple. By rights I should have you both killed, and your headless corpses thrown to the dogs.’

He looked at them both for a long moment before speaking again.

‘Fortunately for you we are celebrating the birth of a son to my wife, and I am therefore minded to be lenient. I see two men with the same mixture of cunning and venality, and the fact that I have the means of inflicting a punishment on you that will sting you both deeply provides me with the means of doing so. You, trader, bring me that belt.’

‘How close are we to Thusila?’

Gunda shook his head at the question.

‘A mile, as you ordered. Too close.’

Scaurus looked up and down the gully the detachment’s Hamian scouts had found, the grassy trench down which rainwater would flow in winter almost filled by the weary Tungrians, most of whom were already asleep.

‘It’ll have to do. We’ll overnight here while you go into the city and make contact with Morban and his men.’

The scout started, turning to look at the tribune with wide eyes.

‘Me?’

The Roman raised an amused eyebrow.

‘And who else do you think we should send? An Arab? A six-foot-wide axeman spoiling for a fight? Or a man of the tribe, capable of passing unnoticed in such a large town?’

Gunda stared at him for a long moment, tapping the tattoo on his forehead.

‘You may recall, Tribune, that I am not on the best of terms with my tribe. I was forced to leave after doing something I am not proud of, but which I was both unable and unwilling to deny. If I am captured by the king’s men I will be killed for having returned, there is no doubt of that. And this mark on my face does tend to be something of a giveaway.’

The tribune waved a hand at the detachment’s resting soldiers.

‘I sent Cotta into Thusila, assuming that he’s managed to reach the city, with orders to find out where the priestess is to be found. He’ll need to be located and brought here so that he can pass on the intelligence he’s managed to gather, because without knowing where to find her we might as well skulk away into the forest and wait for Varus’s cousin to come back and pick us up. So I need you to go and get him, if my mission is to succeed.’

He looked at the obstinate German for a moment.

‘Very well, another two gold aureii.’

Gunda raised an eyebrow.

‘Four.’

Scaurus laughed softly.

‘And so the fate of my mission, my career and quite possibly my life, depends on a negotiation with a German who expects to live forever.’

Gunda shrugged.

‘Nobody lives forever, Tribune. But not all that many men leave this world with the Hand of Wodanaz hacking into their chest to get at their beating heart.’

‘The Hand of Wodanaz?’

‘The King’s most senior priest. They call him that because he has sent more men’s spirits for the god to escort to the underworld than any other man in the tribe. He was only just forty years of age when I was exiled, and as far as I am aware he still holds the position despite the frequent and violent curses his juniors are reputed to make against him in the hope that he will drop dead and provide one of them with the opportunity to practise his butchering skills on a real live Roman legionary.’

The tribune nodded slowly.

‘I see your point. But my best offer is three aureii. You can either like that sum or you can do without the gold altogether.’

‘Bet you never expected this, eh Cotta?’

Sanga took another swig of his beer, grimacing momentarily at the taste, then slapped the beaker down and ripped another chunk of bread from the loaf on the table between them. The veteran centurion sipped his own drink, shaking his head at the turn in their fortunes.

‘Did I expect an idiot to come up with an idea that would put me on my knees before a king from whom I’d just stolen enough gold to have him seriously considering my execution? And was I expecting to have our cart, its contents and all the money that the tribune gave us confiscated as a consequence of another idiot’s decision to make sure we attracted the attentions of the king’s attack dogs by getting half the city pissed up?’

His comrade blithely ignored the acerbic note in the response, taking another mouthful of beer.

‘This stuff might taste like dog piss, but the more I drink the more it grows on me. Eh, Lucius? You must have had enough time to get a right old taste for the stuff!’

The trainer fixed his stare on the table before him, disconsolately sipping his beer with an expression that made his distaste for the brew evident. His fighter, however, having recovered from his temporary state of unconsciousness, had revealed himself to be a comparatively cheerful individual by the name of Magan. Apparently blessed with a personality quite at odds with his persona in the ring, he was happily engaged in a discussion with Saratos on the subject of his many and varied fights. Sanga looked at the giant for a moment and then asked the question that had been nagging at him from the moment he’d set eyes on the two men.

‘How did you end up with that monster, eh Lucius? What good fortune was it that brought the two of you together?’

The trainer stared at him for a moment, then put his beaker down with exaggerated care, sighing with exasperation.

‘If I tell you the answer to that question will you get off my fucking back for the rest of the night?’

Sanga shrugged, nodding his agreement.

‘Right. He’s my son. That enough for you?’

The Briton’s eyes widened in amazement.

‘What? That … giant of a man?’ He raised his beaker to the giant. ‘That’s supposed to be your son?’

Lucius rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

‘Every time! Every fucking time I tell someone my story they just look at me like I’m mad.’ He shook his head angrily, clearly seriously provoked by the Tungrian’s amusement. ‘Look, it might surprise you, but I was a soldier too-’

‘Under which emperor? Hadrian!’

The older man ignored the jibe.

‘You asked, so I’m telling you. Shut the fuck up or I’ll have my son put you to sleep for a while.’

Sanga nodded graciously in acceptance of the other man’s eloquently made point, and Lucius resumed his story.

‘I served in the Thirtieth Legion, the good old Ulpius Victorious, did my twenty and got out just before the war with the Marcomanni and the Quadi got going, which was a stroke of luck. In those days relations with the other tribes were a good deal more friendly than they are now, so I bought a plot of land on the east bank of the river, married a local girl I’d been seeing for a while and settled down to be a farmer. The locals tolerated me well enough, although that was the Usipetes, not these miserable Bructeri bastards. She got pregnant and everything looked rosy until the birth. She had to be opened up to get Magan out, as you can imagine, and well …’

He stopped speaking for a moment, and the Tungrians waited for him to resume the story, respecting the moment of reverie.

‘She died. Leaving me with an infant to bring up and a farm to run. Damn nearly killed me, I can tell you.’

He looked around at the listening soldiers.

‘I know, how does a man this tall father a man that tall? Or that wide? And the truth is that I’ll never know. He’s a throwback, I guess, some freak combination of our ancestry that came up with all of the tall and wide we both had in us. By the time he was fifteen he was routinely smacking seven shades of shit out of the local kids when they tried to have a go at him for having a Roman for a father, even when they ganged up on him, but it wasn’t until one of their fathers had a go at me and the boy laid him out with a single punch that I realised what I had in him. It would only have got worse, that much was obvious, and ended up with one or both of us getting killed one dark night, so I packed up and sold up, and we went on the road. Been doing the same thing for the last five years, more or less, travelling from town to town and making money on the back of the boy’s sheer power. Until you cunts came along and took away the fruit of all that work.’

Cotta nodded sympathetically.

‘Sorry about that. If there was a way to make it up to you …’

Lucius snorted.

‘Which there ain’t. I’ll just be grateful never to see your fucking faces again. Promise me that and we can agree to put the …’

He fell silent as Gernot appeared behind Cotta, easing his big body onto the bench next to him, putting a mug full of beer down in front of him and playing a hard stare around the table.

‘Just so there are no misunderstandings-’

‘You speak Latin!’

The noble stared pityingly at Sanga.

‘Of course I speak Latin, you fool. All of the king’s nobles speak it, so that we can deal with the officers at the fort on the river. I only use it when I choose to, and I’m choosing to use it now so that what I’ve got to say sinks into your tiny minds. Got that?’

The soldier nodded, keeping his mouth shut in a rare demonstration of good sense.

‘Good. You idiots have been luckier than you know. You …’ he pointed at Lucius. ‘You have been stealing taxes from the king for years, and presumably from all the other tribes whose men your son’s been knocking about. You may find them better informed from now on.’

Lucius lowered his gaze to stare down at the table, slowly shaking his head as the implications of the threat sank in.

‘And you, trader, or whatever you really are, you’re not welcome here after tonight. The king’s merciful decision not to kill the pair of you is good until dawn tomorrow, at which point it will be rescinded. When this feast is over you can sleep here for the night and get out of Thusila first thing in the morning. If I see your ugly faces, any of you, after the sun’s above the horizon tomorrow, then you’ll wish you’d never been born. There are men of the Bructeri who would like nothing more than to see a Roman spreadeagled across an altar, with our chief priest summoning Wodanaz to witness our revenge on you for everything you’ve done to us since the first time your legions crossed the river. Do you take my meaning?’

Cotta nodded slowly.

‘We’ll be sure to take your advice, Lord. I wasn’t staying here in any case, I’m looking for a priestess of whom I’ve heard stories, about how she can see a man’s future, and tell him what lies in store-’

‘No!’

The emphasis in Gernot’s voice was reinforced by a heavy slap of the table with his palm, making the beakers in front of them jump.

‘Forget any ideas of bothering our seer with your petty concerns. She has more important matters to be considering, and the risk of any detail as to her whereabouts getting back to your people is not one the king can afford to take. We know your ways of interfering in the affairs of your neighbours, and for all I know you’re nothing more than a spy, sent to find out where she resides in preparation for some sort of attempt to abduct her. In fact perhaps I should simply take a knife-’

The veteran raised his hands wearily.

‘No need, Lord. We’ll be away first thing, and I guarantee that you won’t ever see us again!’

The German stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly, holding the gaze until Cotta was forced to look away.

‘Very well. You have been warned.’

He drained the beaker and stood up, walking away to rejoin the royal party watched by every man at the table.

‘I knew there was something wrong about you lot.’

The Tungrians turned to Lucius, who was looking around the table with an expression of sudden revelation.

‘You’re not retired,’ he pointed at Saratos. ‘You’re too young, for one thing, and there’s nothing wrong with you that would be a reason for early discharge. And you …’ he turned to Sanga, ‘you’re every arsehole big-mouthed mule I ever served with rolled into one. And you’re not retired either. Know how I can tell?’ He paused rhetorically. ‘I can tell because you’re just as sharp and nasty as he is, in your own quiet way. Retired soldiers sit around drinking and talking about the good old days, and slowly but surely getting fat. And you don’t have an ounce of fat anywhere on your body.’

He looked at Morban for a moment before cracking an evil smile.

‘And you? A trader? You’re no trader, you’re more like a bookkeeper, all percentages and calculation. More like a … a standard bearer? Not a proper standard bearer, they’re all muscles and glory, more like one of those older men who carry round the fist and discs for their century when they’re too shagged out to fight.’ When Morban said nothing Lucius grinned triumphantly at Cotta. ‘And you’re no trader either, you’ve got centurion written all over you. The way you struggled to control the urge to sneer at Gernot then was classic. I’ve fucking got you, haven’t I? You bastards aren’t trading, you’re spy-’

He froze, as the point of a blade tickled the base of his spine.

‘You forget that there are six of us, Roman. He …’ Arminius tipped his head to Lugos, who had been walked into the city at the point of half a dozen spears an hour earlier, ‘is the man most likely to rip you limb from limb, if I tell him to. And I’m the man with the least regard for human life among us, having seen so much of it wasted over the years.’ Lucius twisted his head to meet Arminius’s flat stare, the blood slowly draining from his face. ‘If your boy so much as twitches a muscle at me I’ll cut his throat, here and now so that you can see him go to meet Wodanaz before you. So keep your voice down.’

An uneasy silence reigned for a long moment, Lucius breaking the spell by placing his hands on the table in front of him.

‘You’ll get no trouble from me, Quadi. See, I’m not interested in handing you in to these maniacs, ’cause I know too well what’ll happen if I do, and it won’t go well for any of us ’cause they’ll just assume I’ve got some part of it.’ He shook his head, staring across the table at Cotta. ‘No, I’m offering you a trade, trader. Money for information. You want to find out where the king’s got his favourite seer hidden, for what purpose I couldn’t really give a shit, and me, I just want to get my money back. So just how much does Rome want to know that information, eh?’

Cotta opened his mouth to reply, but the words went unheard as a commotion at the hall’s door drew their attention. A pair of uniformed Roman cavalrymen were handing over their weapons amid a hubbub of tribesmen calling out abuse and threats, their voices silenced by a sudden rapping of steel against wood. The king had got to his feet, and continued banging the table with the flat of his sword until the hall was silent.

‘These men have come in peace! They have surrendered their weapons and wish to impart news of the greatest importance to our people, news sent to us from Rome itself! If they offer me or the tribe any disrespect then they will forfeit my protection, but until then you will remain silent so that I can hear their message!’

Disarmed, the soldiers approached the royal table and bowed deeply. The older of them stepped forward, addressing the king in a respectful tone that was nonetheless loud enough to be heard around the hall.

‘Great King, I am Decurion Quintus Matius Dolfus, sent by the governor of Germania Inferior! I thank you for your hospitality and for choosing to ignore our peoples’ differences on this occasion! In return I offer you tidings from Rome of the greatest importance! My master the governor has ordered me to warn you of an attempt to rob your royal treasury, an attempt that he believes to be imminent, and which will be perpetrated by Romans, men who have chosen to ignore the delicate balance of our current peace! Men who may even be among you now!’

The Tungrians froze in horror at the cavalryman’s words, and as Cotta looked about him he realised that while their attention had been focused on the speaker, half a dozen armed warriors had positioned themselves behind them.

‘Oh fuck.’

‘I told Cotta to wait for you at the edge of the town, and that you would guide him back here. With a little smile from Fortuna you’ll be in and out well before dawn.’

Gunda nodded curtly, the gesture almost invisible in the near darkness, and Scaurus turned to Qadir who was standing behind the German in silence, a pair of his archers waiting with their usual blank-faced patience in his shadow.

‘Accompany the scout to the edge of the forest, Centurion, and wait for him to return. If he does not return by the time it is light enough to see the town clearly then you are to return here without him, remaining undetected. And no, Centurion Varus, before you ask, you may not accompany the scouting party. What we need here are men who know how to move with stealth and subtlety, not an aristocrat with an apparent death wish.’

Qadir saluted the tribune and gestured to the scout, following him away down the path that led to the tribal capital, barely a mile distant, while Scaurus put a hand on the young Roman’s shoulder.

‘If you want to do something that will help, then go and keep Marcus company. He’s not sleeping well, and I’m guessing he’s nothing better to occupy his mind than brooding on the two men he killed today. He says that he has good days and bad days, but I’d be willing to bet that the best of his nights are more of a trial to him than his worst days.’

‘Well this just gets better and better, doesn’t it?’

Lucius stared angrily at the Tungrians, pointing to the bruises that were evident beneath both of his eyes even in the hut’s moonlit half-light. Where the soldiers had had the good sense to co-operate with their captors, recognising that their strong desire to inflict violence on such hated enemies was barely held in check and riding the kicks and punches that were aimed at them as they were taken from the king’s hall, Lucius had chosen to protest his innocence. With Magan rendered impotent by the threat of a dozen spear blades, his father’s protests had been silenced with swift and brutal simplicity, and they had been pushed into a stoutly built hut clearly intended for the imprisonment of offenders, under the watching eyes of the decurion who had betrayed them.

Cotta shrugged.

‘You quacked at the wrong time, and as an-ex soldier you should have known better, shouldn’t you? Besides, you’ll get out from under this once the facts are clear …’ He shook his head. ‘Which is more than you can say for us. We’re going out the hard way, I reckon, unless we can find some way to get out of this shithole before dawn. Once that lot have sobered up they’ll have us away into the woods to one of their sacred groves, and that’ll be the last anyone sees of us. Unless …’

‘Unless what?’ Sanga lifted his head and laughed curtly. ‘Unless we manage to break down the door and do for the men they’ll have left to guard us with our bare hands?’

‘Door too strong. Not even Magan break.’

The soldier looked over at Saratos with a pitying smile.

‘I know the fucking door’s too strong mate, I already had a good look at it.’

The Dacian ignored him.

‘So if door too strong, door need open by guard.’

Cotta and Sanga looked up at him with something close to shared amusement, but it was Morban, previously silent and seemingly lost in his own thoughts, who voiced their disbelief.

‘You mean we should hammer on the door and shout for help until they open it, and then we take them on with the advantage of surprise? And you really think they’ll be that stupid?’

Sanga joined in with the standard bearer’s argument in a rare display of agreeing with the older man.

‘They’d come through that door with swords and spears ready for us, give us a good hiding for disturbing whatever games they’ll using to pass the time, then lock us up again, nothing changed except for a fresher and more expensive set of lumps and fewer teeth for the priest to pull out once he gets down to the serious business. Face it boy, we’re dead meat. If I had a blade I’d slit my own wrists and leave them with a smiling corpse to do their worst with.’

The Dacian snorted.

‘You so bothered, you kill self with teeth.’

‘With my fucking teeth?’

Lucius nodded sagely.

‘We used to have the same discussions when I was a legionary. What’s worse, to have your eyes pulled out, your ears and nose cut off, not to mention your cock and balls, and then some dribbling old bastard take an age to get your heart out, all while a pack of mad German cunts scream at you and spit in your face.’

Sanga frowned.

‘Or what?’

‘Or show some balls and do the job yourself.’

The Briton shook his head in bemusement.

‘I know. But with my teeth? How does that work?’

Saratos sank into a sitting position.

‘Is easy. Is blood here …’ he pointed to his arm, just above the crease of his armpit. ‘You bite, hard enough to find blood, and the rest easy. Just lie down, go sleep.’

Morban nodded.

‘To be fair, I’ve heard the same, more or less.’

Sanga looked about him aghast.

‘You’re all fucking mad! I’m not going out by biting myself to death, I’ll fight the bastards and make them put me to the sword.’

‘Except they won’t. They’ll just tap you on the head to quieten you down and then tie you up. The next thing you’ll know will be the tickle as some mad old sod starts carving you up for the entertainment of his followers.’ Morban shook his head. ‘No, I really do think that a nice quiet suicide might be the better way to go.’