Legionary

Chapter 46

A crowd gathered round the entrance to the sprawling Hun camp as a dozen weary riders trotted in. Sipping cups of tepid horse blood, chewing on raw meat, they searched for a sign from the lead rider, who rode with a motley collection of staring, severed heads hanging from his mount.

Apsikal kept his broad yellow face expressionless, lifted his head high and raised a clenched fist in the air. Roars of delight then erupted from the warriors and their families, greeting the sign of victory — a Hun could never be defeated.

Apsikal glanced down and watched the ground roll past, but couldn’t hear the cheers. His head felt hollow as he contemplated his plan. Lie and live, tell the truth and die. He had told the truth the last time, and had barely escaped with the promise of death should he fail again. Only one Goth had slipped from their grasp, and he and his men’s lives now rested on a ruse to disguise that fact. The crowd parted as they moved on through the seas of yurts, towards that of Balamber.

Balamber was sitting on the timber platform erected on the clearing at the tent entrance, basking in the warm morning sunshine. His eyes were drawn to the approaching commotion, narrowing to identify the source. When Apsikal’s form shuffled humbly before him, Balamber’s expression hardened. Apsikal slowed to a halt and dismounted, his men following suit. Silence fell over the thousands who crowded round to view the meeting.

‘I have succeeded, Noble Balamber,’ Apsikal gasped, his head still bowed. An excruciating silence ensued, and Apsikal shivered as he felt the invisible dagger plunging for his neck as he stared into the earth below, but no, that would be too quick. Still nothing — he risked a glance upwards. The silhouette of Balamber craned above him with the sun casting a glaring halo around his form.

‘What happened?’ Balamber spoke softly.

Again, Apsikal looked up to address his leader, squinting his eyes at the blinding sunlight. ‘We hunted down the Goths, and we exterminated all of them…’ He pointed to the flank of his horse and that of his second-in-command — both bore rope lassos with twenty rotting, gaping heads strung together, misted eyeballs staring out at the world they had once known. ‘…every single one.’ His voice trailed off as Balamber stepped slightly towards the front edge of his platform and rose up to his full height. His form seemed to fill the sky. The noble eyed the grotesque specimens, and Apsikal felt his stomach lurch as he did so. He followed his leader’s eyes over each one; nineteen blonde and white-skinned expressions of horror, and one last one — features mutilated beyond recognition. Balamber’s eyes stopped on this one. Apsikal shot a glance at the head and then his leader — Balamber’s fists gradually balled and then his moustache twitched ever so slightly. Apsikal gulped.

‘To fail is one thing,’ Balamber mused with a quizzical tone, ‘but to lie to your noble leader?’

Apsikal felt a distant spark of realization — the most horrible end was coming for him at the speed of the fastest mount. He fell to his knees. ‘No, we have them, all of them…’ his words tailed off.

Balamber leapt down from his platform, thumping into the dirt to tower over the cringing Apsikal. He stalked over to the mutilated head, grasped it by the tufts of hair remaining on the bloodied scalp, and wrenched it up so the crowd could see. ‘Fine skin for a Goth, is it not?’ He roared, stretching the one remaining untouched patch of skin on the neck — a dark-yellow complexion.

Apsikal felt fear thunder through him, ‘We may have recovered the wrong head — there were many bodies. It was…’ he stopped short as a stone smashed against his forehead.

‘Die like a warrior, you grovelling fool!’ The thrower cried from the crowd. Apsikal tasted the metal wash of blood coursing from his nostrils.

Balamber’s face was swept over with a black expression. ‘Enough!’ He roared to the crowd. ‘Apsikal will not be harmed…’

Apsikal looked up, his heart slowing to a controlled thunder. There was a chance he could survive! His mind scrambled as he searched for something to build on. ‘The Romans have landed! It was pitch-black when we clashed, however, we estimate a number of some three thousand and…’ Apsikal looked up again and tried to gauge his chances of being spared. ‘…and we can’t be sure about this, but their fleet looked crippled.’

Balamber’s face curled into a mean smile. ‘Wrecked?’ From deep in his belly, a terrible grumble erupted into a cackle. ‘The Roman Senate send their fleet out into a storm and then the pirate dogs honour their word to thin their remaining number. The gold of Rome shapes this world — and soon it will be in our hands! A sweet victory will be ours!’ He lifted his arms aloft and the assembled thousands roared in approval. He glared down at Apsikal. ‘Tengri, the mighty sky god, is about to open many doors for us. Doors to power and riches that will see us as unequalled masters of the world.’

Apsikal’s heart slowed further at Balamber’s words — he made to stand once more. As he rose on one knee, Balamber cocked his head to one side, with a calm expression settling on his face. ‘No, you should not be harmed, Apsikal. You should be rewarded…’

Balamber wheeled away to ascend his platform again. Apsikal stood up and felt elation course through his veins. Then Balamber clicked his fingers.

Apsikal’s eyes bulged at the clunk of the metalworking urn behind him and his stomach leapt and turned. Two pairs of hands clamped onto his shoulders and forced him back onto his knees, and the crowd roared in expectation. Grinning faces were mixed with horror and intrigue all around him. Apsikal glanced behind him — the remainder of his riders were systematically having their throats cut, toppling to the ground one by one. Those who were lucky enough to have their spinal cord severed in the process remained motionless. The rest suffered the indignity of scrabbling, haemorrhaging blood into the dirt as they asphyxiated. Apsikal felt his stomach heave again and his bowels loosen, then his attentions were unceremoniously ripped back to his own fate when a pair of hands wrenched at his hair, yanking his head backwards. He felt a bone in his neck snap; such was the ferocity of the movement. Another fist rammed a knife into his clenched bite, and prised his jaws apart, sending teeth and blood arcing out like some vile fountain. Then, like the rising of a terrible sun, a ladle of glowing molten metal rose into view and the bloodthirsty howls of the crowd simmered down into silent expectation.

‘You have earned your reward, Apsikal,’ Balamber purred, ‘savour every last drop.’

Apsikal stared hopelessly into the cobalt sky, pleading to Tengri the sky god, as unearthly pain coursed into his chest. He felt the blackness of death rush in as his body disintegrated from within.