The Wolf's gold

5

‘What baffles me is how a hundred bored soldiers can keep control of that many tribesmen. Surely if they rushed their guards there’d be no way a single century could stop them?’

By the time darkness had fallen across the valley a fine drizzle was drifting across the hills in curtains that found their way inside the soldiers’ armour and trickled down necks and backs with dispiriting ease. Dubnus was duty centurion, and since the Fifth Century had the duty of standing guard on the Sarmatae prisoners, Marcus had joined him as he made his rounds of the sentry positions. His friend grunted at the question, shrugging and then shivering in disgust as the gesture allowed another line of cold rainwater to run down his back.

‘They’re damp, cold and hungry, and every one of them looks at the guards’ spears and imagines ending his life here to no purpose. Besides, there are easily twice their number of troops within two hundred paces. They’ll offer us nothing worse than dirty looks, because any man that shows a sign of having any spirit left in him will be pulled out for a swift beating. Just look at them.’

They paused at the side of the four-foot-deep ditch which had been dug around the prisoners’ enclosure, and whose bottom had already collected enough water to present a mirror for the blazing torches that burned every twenty paces. On the other side of the entrenchment the captured Sarmatae warriors were huddled into a space carefully laid out to be barely large enough to accommodate their numbers. Clustered around a few braziers whose contents glowed red through the sea of bodies, they were clearly far more concerned with keeping warm than with any attempt to escape. Dubnus shook his head in disgust.

‘They’ll be freezing cold after a day doing nothing in the open at this time of year, and there are only enough fires to keep them all warm if they’re constantly changing places to give everyone a turn in the heat, which of course never happens. And since they’re fed just enough to keep them quiet, some of them inevitably go hungry, which divides them against each other. Even if they did have the stones to have a crack at the guards, they’d still have to climb down into that. .’ He pointed down into the trench that had been dug to contain the prisoners. ‘And then they’d have to hoist themselves up on this side straight into the shields and spears of the guards. Not to mention the fact that half of them would have broken ankles from the leg-breaker Julius had cut into the floor of the ditch. No, we’re safe enough from. .’

Dubnus paused, having realised that an armoured figure was approaching them down the entrenchment’s edge. Having apparently realised that his centurion was present, Marcus’s chosen man strode up to the officers with a determined look on his face, stamping to attention in front of the two men and saluting Marcus with his usual punctilious precision.

‘Centurion Corvus, sir!’

Marcus returned the salute with as much gusto as he could muster.

‘Stand easy, Chosen Man Quintus, I trust we find all well with you?’

Quintus nodded quickly.

‘Yes, sir, all’s well here. The prisoners are all behaving themselves quietly enough, although we did have one small problem earlier. Soon enough dealt with though.’

He grinned at the two centurions, raising his fist and kissing the knuckles with a hard grin. For the sake of politeness, and in the hope of building some better relationship with the man by dint of finding something for which he might offer his deputy some praise, Marcus decided to show some interest.

‘A problem, Chosen? What sort of problem?’

Quintus launched into his explanation, still stood rigidly to attention.

‘One of the prisoners approached a guard and asked to see the officer he heard had been over the turf wall and into the barbarian camp. Said he was the king’s brother or some such nonsense. I gave him a clout and sent him packing, the cheeky bastard.’

Dubnus raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘And how would he have heard about the centurion’s little adventure, eh Quintus, unless your lads have been fraternising with the prisoners? Has Morban been up to his old tricks with them perhaps, sniffing for gold?’

The chosen man shook his head indignantly, his expression apparently genuinely scandalised.

‘Certainly not, Centurion! You know how it is though, the men do talk, and if a prisoner can speak Latin then he’s likely to overhear what-’

Marcus snapped awake, bending to look into Quintus’s face with an expression that widened the chosen man’s eyes in alarm.

‘Latin? He spoke to you in Latin?’

Quintus nodded slowly, his smug expression melting fast under the heat of his centurion’s intense scrutiny.

‘Yes, sir, as well as you or I. All the same, I wasn’t going to have him-’

Marcus’s suspicion became incredulous anger in a heartbeat.

‘Get your arse back into that enclosure and find him, Chosen Man Quintus! And if you don’t find him alive then don’t bother coming out again! Move!’

Quintus turned and fled, while a thoroughly incensed Marcus looked about him at the men guarding the prisoners, searching for any target on which to vent his spleen. Dubnus laughed softly at him, drawing his attention away from a pair of soldiers who were, he guessed, only barely holding onto their self-control.

‘Well if Quintus has been missing Julius and his rough and ready ways, I’d say you’ve probably just cured him of that particular yearning. That was just as hairy-arsed as our good friend ever managed when I was his chosen man, and you can take that as a compliment if you like.’

Quintus returned after a tense wait with a bedraggled prisoner in tow, and his obvious sense of aggrievement was left unsalved by Marcus’s swift dismissal with instructions to find a plate of food and a hot drink for the man.

‘Hot food, mind you Quintus, I’m sure there’s a pot bubbling somewhere close to hand to feed the guards. We’ll be in the duty officer’s tent.’

He led the way with Dubnus bringing up the rear in best menacing form, but the prisoner seemed untroubled by the potential for violence, looking about himself with an interest apparently undimmed by either a day in captivity or the lump beneath his right eye. Once inside the tent’s welcome warmth Marcus called for more lamps and sat the man down, placing his damp cloak close to the brazier that was heating the enclosed space.

‘While we wait for my deputy to bring you something to eat, perhaps it would be best to find out whether you’re going to earn it. Who are you?’

The captive looked back at him with a steady gaze.

‘If it’s true that you met Prince Galatas Boraz today, then you already have a good idea of my identity, Centurion.’

Marcus shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest with his vine stick tapping impatiently at one shoulder.

‘We’re not playing party games here. Whoever you are, the outcome of this discussion is of far more concern to you than it is to me. If you turn out to be nothing more than a man with a gift for languages, then you’ll be back inside that ditch with your fellow captives before you even get a sniff of a bowl of stew. So I’ll ask you one more time, who are you?’

The prisoner shrugged, apparently untroubled by the Roman’s impatience.

‘Galatas will have asked after his father, of course, and in the same breath I’d expect him to have wondered as to the fate of his brother and his uncle. I am Balodi Boraz, his uncle. I could have proved that statement yesterday, by showing you my gold chain, but I hid it on the battlefield before your men took me prisoner.’

Dubnus nodded.

‘Very wise. It would either have been stolen or identified you as a noble, and worthy of special treatment. You can find it again?’

Balodi shrugged.

‘We can only hope so.’ He shot a sideways look at Marcus. ‘Is Asander still alive?’

Marcus shook his head.

‘We’ll keep the questioning to this side of the discussion, Balodi, if that’s your real name. You asked to see me. Why?’

The Sarmatae noble leaned back in his chair and smiled.

‘Because I was told you had been over that wall of yours, and gone down into our camp to attempt a negotiation with my brother’s son. I just wanted to meet the Roman who went face-to-face with my brother’s kinsman by marriage, Inarmaz, and lived.’

He watched the expression on Marcus’s face closely while he was speaking, and on seeing the Roman’s reaction to the Sarmatae noble’s name his smile became a grin.

‘Oh yes, now we both have the proof we wanted. You know that I am who I claim to be, and the look on your face when I mentioned his name assures me that you did indeed speak with Galatas, because I’m sure Inarmaz would have been close to his shoulder. Most likely he was trying to work out where best in his nephew’s back to put the knife, when he inevitably seizes power for himself.’

His wet cloak was starting to dry in the brazier’s relentless heat, tendrils of steam drifting up from the damp wool. Marcus stared at the prisoner for a moment before speaking.

‘You suspect that Inarmaz covets the throne?’

The noble shook his head impatiently.

‘No, I suspect no such thing. I know it for a fact. My brother’s brother by marriage has always been the most fiercely opposed member of our tribe’s rulers to our having any truck with your empire, whereas our father always raised both of his sons to be realists in these matters. He once took both of us out onto the great plain, to the place where our tribe’s sacred sword juts proudly from our soil, and pointed to the east, then the south, and finally the west. Every time he pointed, he said just one word.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And that word was “Rome”. “My sons,” he told us both, “in every direction other than to the north, our peoples’ lands are bordered by Rome, a people so rich that they have armies of tens of thousands of men who do nothing but fight wars and practise for war, and whose leaders constantly scheme to increase their empire’s wealth. If we provide these men with sufficient reason they will slaughter our warriors, enslave our women and children and turn our grasslands into farms, which we will be forced to work for them. All my life I have sought to keep these people at a distance by means of guarded friendship backed by the promise of unremitting war should they venture north of the river Danubius, and when I die that task will fall on you both, may the sword help you.”’

He glanced at the cloak, more moisture steaming out from those parts of the garment closest to the brazier.

‘But my father made one mistake, late in his reign when the light in his eyes was starting to dim. He married my older brother Asander to the daughter of a neighbouring king, a sweet little thing while she lived, but with her came her brother Inarmaz, and with Inarmaz came all the poison with which his father had been feeding to him all his life. My brother’s brother in marriage is, as you will have gathered, deeply hostile to your empire, and much of what he says on the subject finds an echo in my people’s hearts. Over the years, like the water leaving that cloak as steam, the heat of his hatred has burned out the good sense our father worked so hard to establish in the tribe’s thinking. His constant outpouring of hatred has made them ready to take arms against Rome once more.’

‘But your brother?’

Balodi shook his head.

‘Asander’s wife died delivering Galatas into the world, and her brother has proven merciless in using her memory to drag the king toward his enmity with Rome. Asander Boraz was our father’s son in this matter, always more disposed towards what you might describe as an accommodation with Rome. But over the years Inarmaz’s influence slowly pulled his thinking away from any relationship with your empire, to the point where he was content to be goaded into this war by promises of easy victory while the Roman armies are preoccupied in the province’s north. Inarmaz also promised my brother a mountain of gold ripe for the taking. And in the last few months our people’s anger has been sharpened by the tales of rape and pillage from the settlements bordering your province, atrocities perpetrated by soldiers in the uniform of your empire.’

Marcus and Dubnus exchanged glances while the Sarmatae noble continued.

‘But in all of these decisions, of course, he was always the man behind the throne, constantly seeking to advise and cajole the king, but taking great care never to expose himself as the real decision maker. As far as the tribe is concerned this was Asander’s war, and Inarmaz always took care to be seen as his faithful follower. When the sweet wine of victory that my people expect turns out to be a sour brew it will be the king’s decisions that are questioned, rather than the counsel on which they were founded.’

He shook his head wearily and fell silent just as Quintus returned with a wooden bowl of steaming stew. Marcus took the food with a word of thanks to his deputy and passed it to Balodi, who took a bone spoon from his clothing and started eating. The two centurions watched as he ate the food with relish, and as he scooped the last of the stew into his mouth Marcus reached out for the bowl, raising an eyebrow in question.

‘So, what will happen now?’

Balodi looked up at Marcus with an expression of resignation, chewing on the last piece of meat and swallowing before answering.

‘I am not gifted with the ability to see the future, Centurion, but a man doesn’t need the skills of a seer to know that with my brother and I unlikely ever to see our people again, my nephew is very much alone in a sea of enemies. He finds the easy prize that Inarmaz promised his father fiercely guarded, preventing him from giving the tribe a swift victory, and the huge wealth they have been promised will be theirs. And at his back lurks a man of infinite cunning whose sons, Amnoz and Alardy, give him an edge of terror over the tribe’s nobles. They are mad dogs, both of them, and neither of them would have either difficulty or scruple in killing my nephew “for the good of the tribe”. He will make his move in the morning, I would imagine, suggesting to Galatas that he must lead a fresh attack on your defences, and pledging his sons to fight on either side of their prince to ensure his safety. And at some point in whatever battle ensues, whether our warriors be winning or losing the day, one of Inarmaz’s sons will slip a small blade into my nephew’s armour and let his life run out, shielded from view by the press of the king’s bodyguards who, I strongly suspect, have already been turned to their service.’

Dubnus nodded his understanding.

‘And you? If you were standing on the other side of that wall, what could you do to change this prediction?’

Balodi got to his feet, taking a deep breath and eyeing the burly centurion with a gentle smile.

‘You take me for a beaten man, do you, resigned to the end of my father’s line? The blood that carved a kingdom out of the plains beyond these hills is strong in me, Centurion, and were I to stand against Inarmaz I would command the support of thousands of those spears you see camped before your walls. I would not stand by and watch my father’s legacy be stolen by the second son of a rival king, and neither would my nephew go to his grave with a knife in his back if I stood alongside him. He might still die, of course, but the wound would be in his front, and his defeat inflicted in a fair fight, not by deception and assassination.’ He shook his head with a bitter smile. ‘But since I stand here under your spear points that’s all of precious little import, wouldn’t you agree?’

The tent’s flap parted, and a soldier put his head through the gap with a respectful salute.

‘Begging your pardon, Centurions, but I have a message for you from the hospital. The doctor gave me this for you and she said it was urgent.’

Marcus took the tablet and read for a moment, then handed it to Dubnus, calling for Quintus.

‘Chosen Man, keep this man under guard. Centurion Dubnus and I must consult with the tribune.’

‘You really don’t have to do this.’

Marcus continued with the painstaking task of re-strapping the leg windings that secured the bottom of his leggings around his boots, working carefully, ensuring that nothing could flap loose in a fight.

‘I really do. I promised. .’

‘You promised to love and care for me, and for Appius, that was the promise I remember. What will we do if you climb down that wall and never come back? What if the next time I see your face it’s stuck on a spear point? What if the-’

Marcus shook his head, retying the other legging and getting to his feet. Taking Felicia in his arms he pulled her close, wrapping both arms about her.

‘I promised to deliver the king’s body to his son if he died. And I am a man of my word.’

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

‘And his uncle promised to kill you if you were ever to cross paths again.’

Shaking his head again, he smiled grimly.

‘That’s the last time I tell Julius anything I don’t want you to know.’

‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’

Marcus nodded.

‘Yes. And I take him for a man of his word.’

‘So you’ll go unarmed into a barbarian camp in broad daylight without even wearing your swords?’

He looked reflexively at the twin scabbards propped against his field chair.

‘There’s little point in provoking them by an ostentatious display of weaponry. I expect they’ll provide me with a blade if I’m called upon to defend the empire’s honour. Just make sure you get a good price for mine, if. .’

Felicia snorted derisively.

‘You’re sure you haven’t promised them to one of your friends?’

Marcus opened his mouth to reply, but the tent flap was abruptly pulled aside to reveal Julius waiting outside.

‘It’s time to do this thing, if you’re set on putting your head into the trap?’

He nodded curtly at Julius and, kissing Felicia on the cheek, turned to leave.

‘I’ll be back soon enough.’

‘And if you’re not?’

The Roman turned, stroking a tear from his wife’s cheek.

‘Then I’ll be with Mithras. In which case, my love, honour my memory?’

He stepped out of the tent and started walking towards the wall’s looming bulk, Julius falling in alongside him and speaking quietly in the morning’s calm.

‘You’re a stubborn bastard, I’ll give you that much. Will you reconsider?’ The only reply his friend offered was a curt shake of his head, the pugnacious set of his jaw making the first spear sigh in only partially affected despair. ‘I know, you gave your word, and the trustworthiness of a Roman gentleman is the last thing he can afford to lose. Except you’re not a Roman gentleman any more, are you Marcus? You’re a centurion in an arse end of the empire auxiliary cohort, and to those people out there your word’s not worth the steam off your piss. So give up this lunacy, and we’ll lower the stiff off the wall by rope. They can have a truce to come and get their dead king. You’ll never see this man Galatas again, so there’ll be no-one any the wiser. What do you say; shall we all decide to live to see tomorrow’s dawn?’

Marcus stopped walking and turned to face him.

‘And if you’d given your word to a man that you would do a thing? What then, Julius? What if your only reward was likely to be cold iron, but you’d looked a fellow warrior in the eye and made a solemn vow? How would you be able to tolerate your own company for the rest of your life if you walked away from that promise?’

The first spear shook his head in bemusement.

‘Marcus, nobody’s going to think any the less of you for not committing suicide at the hands of this pack of howling barbarian scum. Think of your wife and child.’

The Roman nodded, turning back to the wall and resuming his steady pace.

‘I am. I’m sparing them the indignity of watching me deal with the bitterness and self-castigation that will be my fate if I deny my instinct in this matter. Now let us get this done, with no further attempts to dissuade me from following the path my honour dictates.’

Realising that he was beaten, the first spear fell silent for the remainder of the walk to the wall, following his friend up the rampart’s steps to where the king’s body waited on the fighting platform in its tight wrappings. Tribune Scaurus was standing alongside it looking out over the enemy camp, and when he saw Marcus he pointed a finger at the archers waiting patiently outside of the range of the Thracian’s bows in the grey of dawn.

‘You’ll be inside the reach of their arrows by the time you’ve taken fifty paces, Centurion. You won’t be able to make a run without them peppering you with arrows before you can cover half the distance back this way. I suggest you give up this insane idea before I find myself lacking yet another experienced officer.’

Marcus shrugged.

‘I won’t be running, Tribune. Whatever it is that’s waiting for me in that camp is better than dying within sight of our wall with an arrow in my back. You can give me a direct order not to go out there, but you’ll be sacrificing two things if you do.’

Scaurus chuckled softly.

‘I can guess one of them — your sense of honour, yes?’ Marcus nodded gravely. ‘And the other?’

‘The chance that we might yet manage a negotiated peace with these people.’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow.

‘More likely that we’ll manage nothing of the sort, but I can see the way you’re thinking, and if you’re not to be dissuaded. .’ Marcus shook his head, and the tribune turned to Julius with a helpless shrug. ‘Very well. Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’

Marcus watched in grave silence as the dead Sarmatae ruler was lowered over the wall’s edge and down to the bare earth below. Once the corpse was safely on the ground, he faced Julius with a grim smile.

‘It’s time to go and see what fate I’m due. Look after my wife and child, if the worst possibility comes to pass.’

Before any of them could answer he gripped the knotted rope and stepped over the wall’s parapet, lowering himself down to join the king’s corpse. Regaining his feet he cast a glance at the enemy camp and saw a sudden bustle of activity as more warriors issued from the gates to stand ready to repel any attack. Squatting, he untied the rope around the corpse and gathered the dead king’s body into his arms. Struggling to his feet he turned, and began the long, slow walk towards the barbarian camp without looking back at the cluster of officers watching his progress from the wall above. As before, his approach was greeted by a group of horsemen headed by the dead king’s son, although this time, he noticed, the prince had dispensed with the obvious threat of his long lance. Reining his horse in a few paces from the Roman, he stared down at the centurion’s burden with a look of fear and sorrow.

‘You bring my father to me, do you, Roman?’

Marcus nodded, standing stock-still with the king’s heavy body held across his chest.

‘As I swore I would, Galatas Boraz. He surrendered to his wounds in the night.’

The prince bowed his head.

‘Tell me truly, did he die alone?’

Marcus shook his head.

‘No. When it became clear that his end was near, my tribune, a warrior of proven courage, paid his respects as was only fitting, and sat with him until the end. The king died with his sword in his hands.’

Galatas sighed, staring down at the body in Marcus’s arms.

‘For that much I am grateful.’

The prince gestured to his men, and a pair of slaves came forward to relieve the Roman of his burden. Marcus stood still, acutely aware of the iron and bone arrowheads pointing at him. After a moment Galatas lifted his head again, unashamed of the tears streaking his cheeks.

‘There are men all around you, Roman, who will be strongly tempted to put their bone heads into you and watch you die in agony as their revenge for my father’s death. Have you seen what our crimson arrows can do to a man?’

Marcus returned his gaze steadily.

‘I have. One of your scouts managed to scrape himself with such an arrow when we disturbed his hiding place during our march here. It did not look to be any sort of death for a warrior. I gave him peace, rather than stand and watch a warrior die in so unfitting a manner.’

‘I see.’ Galatas shook his head, and Marcus felt a slight easing of the tension in the air around him. ‘And for that I give you my respect.’

He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, glancing sideways at the bodyguard beside him, the man Amnoz who had shown such enmity during the Roman’s previous visit. Beneath the looted Roman helmet the bodyguard’s face was set in obdurate lines, his eyes fixed on Marcus with an undisguised, smouldering hatred. Alongside him was another man with their father’s features, clearly several years older and heavier set, and he recalled Balodi telling him that Inarmaz had another son. Where Amnoz’s expression was one of a simple lust to kill the Roman, his brother Alardy’s face was altogether more calculating. Galatas spoke again, and Marcus heard a note of resignation in his voice.

‘You will recall that my uncle Inarmaz swore an oath to have your head the next time he saw you. Amnoz is his son, and he has repeated his father’s oath. I have discussed this matter with them both at length, and expressed my disappointment that they should violate the hospitality of my camp, but my uncle has declared that he will serve only the king. Since I am not yet acclaimed by the nobles, he is refusing to accept my command to desist in this matter. It is a thin distinction, but in the absence of my uncle I am not strong enough to force obedience upon them. Not yet. .’

Marcus looked up at him and realised from the weariness in his face that the young prince had problems enough of his own to deal with. He nodded, casting a level stare at Amnoz.

‘I understand. You cannot protect me from this man without weakening your own position, perhaps to the point of provoking a rebellion.’

Galatas nodded, and the Roman looked at the warriors gathered behind him, seeking out those men whose faces betrayed their uncertainty as to whether they should back the young man at their head. He found enough men who appeared undecided to support Balodi’s assertion that his nephew’s position was by no means secure.

‘I see. You are yet to be acclaimed as the new king of your tribe, since your father’s death has only just been confirmed. And every man here will watch and judge you if you prevent Asander Boraz’s men from seeking some vengeance on the men who killed their ruler. And yet to murder the man returning your father’s body to you in cold blood, that might also earn you the ire of your gods. I see your quandary, Prince Galatas, and I might offer a suggestion that will suit both our needs?’

A curt laugh sounded from behind the prince, and Inarmaz pushed his horse to the front of the group, his powerful stallion biting bad temperedly at the beasts in its way.

‘Go on then, Roman, show the prince here the way out of his dilemma. Doubtless it will involve your being allowed to leave unharmed?’

Marcus opened and raised his hands, stepping slowly forward while the arrowheads tracked his movement. The polished iron head of Amnoz’s kontos dropped to meet him, its point digging lightly into his mailed chest in a clear warning, and Marcus smiled up at the man with his teeth bared.

‘As to your last point, Inarmaz, the answer is more than likely yes; I assure you that I will be walking away from this place. But to understand why that would be the case, you might want to consider the possibility that far from protecting me from you and his father’s men, Prince Galatas might be trying to protect you from me?’ He stared at Amnoz for a moment longer, then spat on the ground before the horses’ feet.

Galatas whipped out a hand, taking a handful of the tunic protruding from beneath Amnoz’s mail shirt and preventing him from dismounting with a sudden harsh word of command. Turning back to Marcus he narrowed his eyes in question.

‘You wish to forfeit the traditional protection I am obliged to offer you, given that you have returned simply to bring my father’s body to me?’

Marcus nodded curtly, staring at Amnoz with an intensity that was only partly feigned.

‘I do. I challenge him to a duel in the manner I am told is traditional for your tribe, one sword and two men, with only one allowed to leave the ring of shields. Does he accept, or is his bravery nothing more than a show to impress the boy he keeps in his tent?’

Inarmaz looked down at him with an ugly grin.

‘My son may not speak your tongue the way I do, but I’m sure he’ll have recognised the term you just used. Unless you’re as good in the circle as you seem to believe, Roman, you’ll soon find yourself on your back in the mud with your guts split open and the dogs pulling at your entrails.’

He nodded to his son, and the bodyguard shouted a string of orders to the peasant infantrymen gathered behind the horses. While Marcus watched they hurriedly formed a wide circle around him, planting their shields in an uninterrupted barrier of wood and iron that would hem the combatants into the arena in which their fate would be decided. The prince dismounted and took a shield from one of them, carrying it across to Marcus and handing it to him with a grimace.

‘You’re possibly the bravest man I have met, Centurion, or the most stupid. Probably both. Unless your supreme self-confidence is justified, Amnoz will play with you for a while before crippling you in order to have his sport, and then when you are too weak even to beg for the mercy stroke, he will most assuredly open your body and leave you here, alive but helpless for the dogs. I’ve seen him fight a dozen such duels, and trust me, there’s no contest involved. For Amnoz such matters are simply sport.’ He looked Marcus hard in the eyes, shaking his head slightly. ‘The conditions for this contest are simple. Firstly, you must fight bareheaded.’

Marcus loosened the strap of his helmet and took it off, handing the heavy iron bowl to Galatas, who in turn passed it to one of the men forming the circle. Amnoz shouted a comment across to the warrior, and the men around them laughed at his words while Galatas smiled darkly, drawing his sword from its scabbard. Marcus looked down at the blade, wondering how heavy it would be in comparison to his own patterned spatha. The weapon’s hilt was decorated with a pommel fashioned in the shape of an eagle’s talons gripping a ball of metal.

‘If you are needing any motivation then it might help for you to know Amnoz is telling him to take good care of that helmet, since he’ll be wearing it from now on. Very shortly now I will place this sword in the ground in the middle of the ring, and at my signal the fight will begin. The first man to the sword has the right to draw it from the earth and attack the other in whatever way he chooses, while his opponent can resist that attack by any means at his disposal. Do you understand?’

Marcus looked across the ring at his opponent, seeing the confidence in Amnoz’s eyes as he swung his arms in a perfunctory warm-up.

‘I understand. And for my part, I’m told that Amnoz is a good swordsman, not supremely talented but faster and stronger than most of your men. He’s also somewhat overconfident, and stronger on his right-hand side than his left. And your uncle Balodi sends you his regards. Do you understand?’

Galatas nodded in response to the question with an expression of slight bafflement and then turned away, firmly planting the sword’s blade in the turf between the combatants before stepping back out of the ring of shields which closed behind him, isolating the two men within an arena roughly thirty feet across. Amnoz nodded to his father before turning to face Marcus, and silence fell across the circle as the men around them watched the Roman square up to their champion with grins of anticipation. Galatas gave the necessary signal to a warrior holding a horn, and as the instrument touched the man’s lips Amnoz sprinted forward to rip the sword from the turf with a triumphant shout while Marcus stood and watched, allowing his shield’s rim to rest on the ground at his feet. The Sarmatae turned to his comrades and raised the weapon in triumph, receiving their cheers with the outstretched arms of a victorious gladiator, but his look of glee faded when he turned to the Roman only to find him watching the spectacle with apparent disinterest. Raising the sword to his lips, Amnoz kissed its blade reverentially to renewed cheers, then swung it with a smirk to point at Marcus, stepping into a fighting stance and advancing slowly towards his intended victim.

Still the Roman waited and watched, holding back from making any move until the weapon’s point was only feet away from his face. Sliding one foot back he raised his right arm to bring the shield into place, watching Amnoz’s eyes over the rim and waiting impassively for him to make the first move, hoping that his immobility would be taken for fear by the grinning barbarian. With a casual shrug to his comrades the champion stepped in closer, swinging his sword in a vicious attack at Marcus’s bare head. The blade clanged off the Roman’s raised shield in a flash of sparks from its iron rim, and the centurion stepped back again, pulling the shield back close to his body, while the men in the ring of shields jeered at the tactic. Amnoz swung the heavy blade again without any pause, attacking with a horizontal cut that hammered a deep groove in the wooden board and jarred Marcus backwards to renewed cheers from the men around them. Again the Roman stepped back, pulling the shield so close to his body that his nose was almost touching the iron rim, reaching stealthily to his belt with his left hand behind its cover. Sensing victory, Amnoz swung the sword up over his head, clearly aiming to chop it down into the shield with enough force to split the iron rim and cleave the wood behind it asunder, but as the heavy blade reached the height of its swing Marcus stepped decisively forward, taking a deep lungful of air as he did so. Pushing the right-hand edge of his shield behind his opponent’s board he bellowed defiantly into Amnoz’s face, then used the momentary advantage of surprise to wrench the other man’s shield away from his body. Discarding his own shield he stepped in close and reached up to take the other man’s raised sword arm in a powerful grip that held the weapon uselessly in the air above them.

Amnoz had only an instant in which to realise that the Roman was armed before the knife was between his ribs, shuddering as Marcus pushed a hunting blade of polished metal the length of a man’s hand through his mail armour and into his chest. Looking down he frowned in disbelief at the sudden shock of the wound, staring with blank eyes at the odd swirling pattern which decorated that portion of the blade not buried deep in his chest. A shocked hush fell across the circle, and the warriors around them watched in amazement as Marcus, keeping a firm hold of the wounded warrior’s sword hand with his left hand, twisted the knife’s handle to bring the blade’s cutting edge uppermost and dragging a groan of pain from the agonised champion’s lips. Setting his teeth in a snarl, the Roman wrenched the steel up through his ribs, angling the blade to carve its point into his opponent’s heart. Amnoz died where he stood, his eyes rolling upwards, and his body sagging loosely on pain-stiffened legs. Releasing his grip on the knife’s handle Marcus pried the sword from the dying man’s slack grip, leaving the smaller blade buried deep in his chest and kicking hard at the tottering corpse to send it sprawling into the centre of the circle.

After a moment’s stunned silence, Galatas stepped into the ring of shields, but as he opened his mouth to speak Inarmaz shouldered his way into the circle from behind him, his other son a pace behind. Ripping his sword from its scabbard the noble pushed his nephew aside and stalked forward to pick up his dead son’s shield, ignoring the angry words his prince was shouting at him, while Amnoz’s brother Alardy took a shield from one of the men lining the circle. Marcus took stock of Inarmaz’s older son in that brief moment while Galatas railed at the nobleman, watching as the heavily built warrior hefted his sword and stared back at him over the shield’s rim. Pointing his blade at Marcus, Inarmaz barked a terse sentence over his shoulder in his own language, smiling grimly as Galatas fell silent. Stepping forward until the two men’s swords were close enough to touch, Inarmaz spat out his fury in a tone edged with hatred.

‘My nephew tells me that I risk the dishonour of our tribe by offering you further violence. He tells me that you defeated my son in a fair fight and that we should now respect your victory and allow you to leave. And I, Roman, have told him that I will either have your head or his.’

Marcus smiled grimly back at him, raising the sword to point it at Alardy.

‘You’re sure you want to do this, Inarmaz? You’ve only one son left now. What if I put Alardy on the pyre alongside Amnoz? Who will you plot to put on the throne in place of Galatas then? Yourself, perhaps?’

Inarmaz’s eyes narrowed.

‘Accusing me of treason won’t save you from my revenge, Roman. Defend yourself!’

The two men advanced to either side of Marcus, and at Inarmaz’s signal they attacked fast, hammering at his defences with the fury of men whose world had been ripped to shreds before their eyes. Ducking under a sword-cut aimed at his head, Marcus spun, slashing the prince’s sword at Alardy’s legs with the aim of hamstringing him, but the sword was heavier and slower to wield than he was used to, and the warrior danced away from his attack with a mocking grin as the sword’s blade ended its swing practically resting on the centurion’s shoulder. Inarmaz waded into the fight, smashing at the Roman’s shield with his sword, and Marcus met the weapon’s threat with the polished iron centre of his shield, wincing as the collision of blade and boss instantly numbed his left hand. Barely hanging onto the board’s handle he stepped decisively inside Inarmaz’s defences with Galatas’s sword still held with its long blade pointing back over his shoulder and the heavy iron pommel decoration pointing forward. Dropping the shield he grabbed the noble’s heavy gold chain to prevent him from pulling back, and while Inarmaz was still trying to bring his sword to bear, the Roman smashed the pommel into his forehead with all the force he could muster.

A bellow of rage gave him an instant’s warning that Alardy was upon him, and in a flash of inspiration he used his grip on the chain to drag Inarmaz towards him, ducking away as he pulled the dazed noble into his son’s path. The warrior battered his father aside with his shield, ignoring him as he sprawled full length in the mud and squaring up to the Roman with a furious glare, kicking his enemy’s discarded shield away to prevent him from recovering it.

‘I shouldn’t imagine your father will be very happy when he recovers his wits.’

Alardy half laughed and half snarled his response, wristing his sword in an extravagant swishing arc.

‘He’ll be happy enough when I show him what’s left of you being dragged apart by his hunting dogs. You’re without a shield now, and no fancy sword tricks are going to save you.’

He attacked with fresh energy, and the Roman found himself hard-pressed under the flurry of his sword blows, falling back under the onslaught, able to do little more than deflect the strikes while waiting in vain for an opening in his opponent’s defence. Stepping back again, he felt the hard surface of a shield behind his rearmost heel, and at that moment a hand pushed hard into the square of his back, momentarily unbalancing him. As he staggered forward Alardy sprang to attack him, swinging his heavy blade in a lethal arc that Marcus barely managed to deflect with his own weapon, hooking his booted foot behind the Roman’s ankle and pulling him off balance before barging him to the ground. Standing on the blade of the prince’s sword, Alardy lowered the point of his own weapon to Marcus’s throat and grinned mirthlessly down at him, breathing hard from his exertion.

‘See? No shield, and now no sword either.’

Marcus looked up at him, then switched his focus to stare at the other side of the circle.

‘True. But I do still have one last weapon. Your uncle Balodi.’

For a moment Alardy frowned down at the Roman, uncomprehending, and then his eyes widened in shock, his back arching and the breath explosively bursting from his mouth as something hit him hard in the back. Rolling away from the sword’s point, Marcus got to his feet to see the young warrior drop his weapons and put a hand to the spot where a red-painted arrow protruded from his back. Gathering up the prince’s sword the Roman strode across to the dazed Inarmaz who had managed to get back to his feet, putting the weapon’s point to the Sarmatae noble’s throat while he was still staring aghast at his son’s plight. Tottering for a moment as the impact of his wound sank in, Alardy abruptly dropped to one knee as a line of bloody saliva ran down his chin and onto his mailed chest, lifting his eyes to meet Marcus’s pitiless gaze for a moment before his eyes rolled up to show only their whites. Pitching full length into the mud he lay twitching beside his brother while the Roman watched several warriors push their way through Inarmaz’s men with their swords drawn, shouting loudly in their own language and using the flats of their blades on those who were slow to yield to their advance. Moving quickly, they strode across the circle to stand around their prince while Balodi, now dressed in the furs of a noble, pushed through the shields and into the circle at the head of another larger group of his followers. His assured swagger was clearly intended to give the impression of a man who knew that events were running his way.

Motioning Marcus away from Inarmaz, Balodi pulled the heavy gold chain from around the nobleman’s neck and then brutally kicked his feet out from beneath him before pulling the king’s narrow gold crown from inside his clothing and raising it above his head in a clenched fist. Turning to Galatas he bowed ceremoniously before placing the crown on the young man’s head, then turned back to Inarmaz’s warriors and bellowed a brief command to them, gesturing to the prince with an opened hand before going down on one knee with his head bowed. From behind the shield holders a sudden rattle of iron announced the presence of dozens more of his men, with yet more still pouring from the camp behind them. At their leader’s shouted order they started rapping their swords and shield bosses together in unison and chanting Galatas’s name. After a moment of stunned silence one of the men in the ring of shields sank slowly to his knees, swiftly followed by another, and in a heartbeat every one of them had followed their fellows’ example in recognition of the fact that they were outnumbered and leaderless. Galatas stepped forward with his arm raised to take their salute, sharing a look of amazement with Marcus as men flooded from the camp behind him, adding their voices to the adulation.

‘So the king’s brother intervened just in time?’

Marcus nodded wearily at Tribune Belletor’s question.

‘Yes, Tribune. He put a poisoned arrow into Inarmaz’s son Alardy just as he was about to fillet me and serve me up to his dogs, and surrounded his warriors with men loyal to the old king. His possession of the dead king’s crown was the masterstroke, he just marched up to Galatas and put it on his head, which meant that Inarmaz’s men either had to fight then and there or proclaim their loyalty to the new king.’ He took another drink of water from the beaker in front of him before continuing. ‘The prince got me out of there as quickly as he could, but he gave me a message to bring back to you, Tribune.’

He turned to Belletor and opened a writing tablet, working hard to put the right tone of respect into his voice.

‘Tribune, it is apparent to me that my father, the king Asander Boraz, sought battle with you at the ill-advised urging of my uncle Inarmaz. Given my father’s honourable death in battle, and the attempted insurrection by my uncle, I would prefer to establish peaceful terms with your empire and withdraw my army to our tribal lands without any further conflict between us. I will be happy to meet with you on ground of your choosing in order to formally agree this end to our hostilities.’

Belletor raised an eyebrow at his colleague.

‘I find it intriguing that this man Balodi seems to have gained possession of the Sarmatae king’s gold crown, a valuable item which I was assured was in safe keeping ready for shipment to Rome as a prize of battle. How might that have happened, Tribune Scaurus?’

Scaurus maintained an admirably straight face.

‘There’s no secret there, colleague. I gave the crown to Balodi when I freed him, soon after the centurion here discovered him among the prisoners.’ Belletor gaped at him in amazement, but Scaurus continued as if he were discussing nothing of any greater importance than the weather. ‘I had another of my centurions escort him over the northern edge of the valley and then via a circuitous route to within a mile or so of the enemy camp while we prepared the king for return to the Sarmatae, so that at about the time Centurion Corvus here walked up to the side facing our wall, Balodi was slipping into a section guarded by his own men on the opposite side.’ He smiled blandly at Belletor. ‘This has all turned out very well, I’d say, a rebellion put down before any really serious damage was done and a new king with good reason to be grateful to the empire.’

Belletor snorted his disapproval, waving a hand in dismissal of his colleague’s argument as he proclaimed his verdict on the matter.

‘On the contrary, Tribune Scaurus, you have once again acted without the approval of your superior officer-’

Scaurus laughed out loud, the jaundiced tone of his outburst as much as the simple fact of its expression widening the eyes of the gathered senior officers.

‘Enough of this nonsense! Your approval would have taken half the morning not to be forthcoming. Why would I even bother? You’re not interested in anything that doesn’t suit your own needs, and you’re the closest thing to a military illiterate I’ve yet to meet in uniform. This was a decision that needed making immediately, not after the time required for you to wake, bathe, deign to see me and then spend an hour teasing the question through your clearly limited intellect, and so I made it on the spot. And now, I’m afraid, you’ll have to do as you see fit.’

Belletor’s response was an instantaneous, spluttering retort.

‘I’ll remove you from your command, that’s what I’ll do!’

Scaurus shook his head slowly.

‘You won’t, I’m afraid. That was a threat that only held good while we were on the southern side of the Danubius, never far from a legion fortress and the informed opinion of a legatus whose senatorial view of the world would match your own. Now that we’re on the empire’s very edge there are two problems with that course of action. For one thing, without a senior officer standing behind you, you’ve no means of backing up the threat. I have two cohorts of battle-hardened men to your one cohort of recruits and wasters, so you’ve no credible threat of force to offer. And secondly, I’ll not surrender those two cohorts to your incompetence, and neither will I allow you to put our inexperienced colleague Sigilis in charge of them, decent enough man though I believe him to be. So unless you’ve got a suicidal urge to take your iron to me, there’s no recourse to military discipline available to you until we both stand before a legion’s legatus, and while I’ll happily accept whatever it is that such an august personage decides should be my fate for ignoring your orders, until that day we’ll just have to rub along. Won’t we?’

Belletor looked about the room in search of some means of enforcing his impotent will. The Thracian cohort’s prefect looked down at the floor, clearly hoping to remain uninvolved, but Gerwulf met his gaze steadily.

‘Prefect Gerwulf?’

The German saluted respectfully.

‘Tribune?’

‘Will you obey my orders, Prefect?’

Gerwulf nodded.

‘I will, Prefect.’

‘Then disarm this mutineer and take command of his cohorts!’ Belletor’s expression went from enraged to crafty. ‘I believe there’s something he has which you want?’

Scaurus waved a dismissive hand at his colleague.

‘That won’t work either. You won’t be buying the prefect’s loyalty with the blood of a child because the boy has been hidden away where you’ll never find him.’

Gerwulf shook his head, ignoring Scaurus’s outburst.

‘With respect, Tribune, whilst your colleague is clearly in flagrant breach of your orders, I cannot come between you in this matter since it’s far from obvious to me that you’re really the senior officer here. Your best option now that the Ravenstone is safe from attack would surely be to march for Apulum and then head north, to seek the judgement of the Thirteenth Legion’s legatus. You could order me to do your will, of course, but my inevitable refusal can only provide you with more embarrassment, wouldn’t you say? The matter of the child will sort itself out soon enough, I expect.’

Belletor shook his head in frustration, and then came to an abrupt decision.

‘Very well, we’ll take this Galatas at his word and negotiate a peaceful end to this rebellion, after which I’ll march our three cohorts north to join with the main force. I’m sure the Thirteenth Legion’s legatus will be happy to receive reinforcements, and equally happy to sit in judgement of your insubordination. You, Prefect Gerwulf, can guard the mines in our absence and you, Tribune, will soon be receiving a harsh lesson as to what the price is for failing to obey the orders given to you by your betters!’

‘And that’s their king? That young lad riding in the middle of all those ugly looking bastards?’

Marcus replied without taking his eyes off the Sarmatae party, watching the men around Galatas carefully for any sign of a problem, with the fingers of his right hand touching the patterned spatha’s hilt.

‘Yes, Standard Bearer, that is indeed the king of the Sarmatae.’

Galatas was surrounded by the party of fifty horsemen that had been agreed in the initial negotiations, enough to represent a show of the tribe’s mounted strength without posing any threat to the defenders’ infantry cohorts, which had been drawn up on an open-sided square before the wall’s gate. His uncle Balodi was riding at their head, and the would-be usurper Inarmaz was mounted behind Balodi with his hands bound in front of him. The party stopped and dismounted, Balodi signalling to his men to help Inarmaz down from his horse before the three men stepped forward to meet the Roman senior officers waiting for them. After a moment’s discussion between the two sides Scaurus stepped away from the group and signalled to Marcus to leave his century and join them. Pacing out to meet the young centurion halfway, he spoke quietly as they walked towards the waiting men.

‘The king specifically requested you join us for the negotiations. I think he has a soft spot for you, and Belletor’s in no better position to refuse the request than he was when dear old Balodi insisted that I should be party to the treaty.’

Galatas smiled when he saw Marcus in the tribune’s company, stepping forward to take the Roman’s arm in a formal clasp.

‘Greetings, Centurion! It gives me great pleasure to see you again.’

Marcus bowed deeply.

‘As it does for me to see you in your rightful place, King Galatas Boraz.’

He bowed to Balodi, who nodded in return and gestured to Inarmaz at his side.

‘Greetings, Centurion, and well met once more. I’m sure my brother-in-law would greet you in effusive terms had I not taken precautions against him spreading more poison against the king as he’s done so many times before.’ The Sarmatae noble’s mouth was tightly bound with a strip of cloth, and Balodi laughed at the evil glare he received for drawing the Romans’ attention to his discomfiture. ‘Ah, if looks could kill, but then I’m afraid that looks are all my brother’s brother by marriage has left in his quiver. I’ve told him that any attempt to speak while he is thus restrained will only result in my having his mouth stitched closed, which would be a shame since I have a mind to deliver his final punishment before the sacred sword rather than watching him starve to death before we reach our homelands. But now to business, Tribune.’

Scaurus gestured for his colleague Belletor to step forward, and the other tribune did so with a venomous look of hatred at him which Balodi noted with a raised eyebrow. Gathering himself up, the Roman raised his head to point his chin at the Sarmatae nobles.

‘Very well then, King Galatas Boraz, I am Tribune Lucius Domitius Belletor, the officer commanding this mining facility and thereby responsible for your defeat. You have requested a negotiation of peace terms between your people and the Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus Antoninus Augustus. What terms do you seek?’

Galatas stepped forward to meet him, his expression neither humble nor proud.

‘We will withdraw from your lands and return to our own, seeking no further confrontation with your people, and we will provide you with enough foot soldiers to make up your battle losses. In return we desire only the return of the prisoners you have taken. . and perhaps some small token of the renewed friendship between our peoples?’

Belletor nodded graciously.

‘Your gift of men to serve in our ranks is most generous, and we will, of course, liberate those warriors we captured in the course of defending our emperor’s property.’ He turned and smirked at Scaurus, knowing that the Tungrian cohorts would thereby be deprived of the spoils of their victory. ‘You will arrange for the repatriation of the prisoners, colleague.’

The Tungrians’ tribune nodded tersely, having already told his officers that he would seek no further opportunity to clash with his colleague, given the size of the rupture between them.

‘Further, I propose an accommodation between our two peoples. Procurator?’

Scaurus stared at the back of Belletor’s head with his eyes narrowed, and Procurator Maximus walked forward into the open space bounded by the ranks of soldiers, clicking his fingers to summon four men carrying a heavy strongbox. They walked forward, clearly struggling under the weight, and placed it before Galatas. Belletor smiled at the young king, holding up an iron key.

‘The box contains ten thousand gold aureii, Galatas Boraz, which you may consider to be an initial payment from the empire, if you respond favourably to two suggestions. Firstly, I propose a treaty of friendship between our two peoples, with both sides sworn to come to the defence of the other in time of war. Secondly, in recognition of the current state of war between the empire and your fellow tribes, I request the service of one thousand horsemen from your tribe. If you agree to both of these suggestions I will petition the governor to continue with regular payments for as long as there is friendship between our two peoples. Good and faithful service by your horsemen, and continuing peace on our shared border will, I am sure, be enough to encourage his agreement in due course. Do take a moment to consider this matter with your advisers. .’

Belletor turned back to face Scaurus with a triumphant grin, clearly savouring the look of disbelief on his colleague’s face.

‘What in the name of Our Lord are you playing at, Domitius Belletor?’

‘Simply taking a lesson from the histories and applying it, Rutilius Scaurus. Barbarian kings are easily swayed by Roman gold, and this way we can ensure they stay out of the fight whilst also increasing our own army’s mounted strength. I have no doubt that the Thirteenth Legion’s legatus will snap up a thousand horsemen happily enough.’

‘I see.’ Whilst Scaurus’s reply was pitched too low for the Sarmatae nobles to hear, his tone was acerbic. ‘You seek to gain favour with the authorities by bringing them a gift of cavalry, whilst returning the prisoners we took in battle to put my nose out of joint, and so you spend the emperor’s gold like water in order to buy peace with a defeated enemy. And what of the slaves? I thought we agreed that the freedom of any Roman citizens among them was an absolute requirement? We know that they hold Roman citizens captive.’

Belletor laughed softly, shaking his head at his colleague’s anger.

‘So reality bites, does it colleague? Yes, I’ll do whatever it takes to show the men in power I know how these things work. Unlike you, I have no intention of being a tribune for the rest of my service, and this will make it clear to the men that matter just what I’m capable of. Besides, the mine generates nearly two million aureii a year for the empire, against which a payment of ten thousand is relatively small change, wouldn’t you agree? And as I said to Maximus here when he was busy wringing his hands at the loss of so much gold, we have to consider the bigger picture. Surely that’s a price worth paying, if it means the empire doesn’t have to post half a legion here to keep the place safe? And as to the slaves, if those people were foolish enough to put themselves in such danger, it’s hardly an imperial priority to rescue them from their own idiocy, is it?’

Scaurus spoke slowly, as if he were explaining a complex problem to a child.

‘The problem with paying protection money, colleague, as any stallholder will tell you, is that the men providing the protection are seldom satisfied with the sum initially agreed when they get the scent of more money. And the whole point of native levies is that they are sent to serve at the other end of the empire, not to put them into battle against their brothers. And to leave Roman citizens in bondage and certain depravity? Words fail me.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘At least you’re right in one respect, colleague. This will indeed say more about your abilities to the men who control this province than I ever could.’

A soft cough from the Sarmatae indicated that their thinking had come to an end. The Romans turned back to face them to find Galatas and his uncle waiting.

‘I have discussed this matter with my nobles, and we are in agreement with your suggestion. In return for your gold we will provide you with one thousand horsemen who will give you faithful service in the defence of your province. Perhaps we might examine the quality of your gold?’

Balodi stepped forward and bowed to Belletor, taking the proffered key and opening the heavy chest. Digging his hand into the coinage stored within, he pulled an aurei out from near the box’s bottom and examined it closely, testing the metal with his teeth. He nodded to Galatas, who turned back to Belletor with open arms.

‘Tribune, your generous gift proves the sincerity of your desire for friendship between our peoples. I accept this gold, and vow to return to my lands in peace.’

The Roman bowed.

‘And I accept your gracious terms, and your most esteemed gift of men and horses. I would have one more thing of you though, something without which I may struggle to persuade my master the governor of this province as to the likely longevity of this agreement.’ Galatas raised his eyebrows in question, but Marcus saw a look of complicity steal across his uncle’s face. ‘Give me your would-be usurper Inarmaz, and I will subject him to Roman justice every bit as unforgiving as your own. After all, he assaulted the centurion here despite his peaceful intent in returning your father’s body to you, and he clearly harboured ambitions to your throne.’

Galatas looked to his uncle, who returned the unspoken question with a slow, thoughtful nod. He turned back to Scaurus with a look of uncertainty.

‘Our punishment for Inarmaz’s crime would be for his head to be severed from his body before the sacred sword, making his execution both quick and honourable. Can you assure me of a similarly swift end to his life, if I hand him over to your justice?’

Belletor nodded soberly.

‘At your request, King, and despite his crimes, I will ensure a clean death for this man.’

Galatas gestured to the men surrounding Inarmaz to bring him forward.

‘Very well. Once I have left this place you will send him to meet his ancestors with the appropriate dignity for a member of my family.’

Belletor smiled.

‘I will. And with our agreement concluded, I would deem it a great personal honour were you and your uncle to join myself and my colleagues in a celebration of this alliance between our tribes.’

Later, when the gathered nobles and centurions had drunk enough for the evening to have turned rowdy, the feast tent was filled with the shouts and cheers of good natured if lively games of axe throwing and arm wrestling. Balodi, who had narrowly bested Dubnus in an axe-throwing contest, much to the big Briton’s noisy disgust, strode across the tent to salute Scaurus.

‘I give you my respect, Tribune. It was your quick thinking in releasing me that saved us all from a long stalemate, and my nephew there from murder!’ Galatas was sitting in earnest conversation with Belletor, who was holding forth on a subject of great significance, to judge from his intent expression. ‘Although I suspect he now faces a new and terrible danger — death by boredom!’

Scaurus smiled at the joke, but his eyes were hard as he stared at the Sarmatae noble.

‘It seems that I have made a big mistake, Balodi Boraz. I have underestimated you, and as a result the terms of your defeat have swung somewhat further in your favour than I might have believed possible.’

Balodi raised his drinking horn in salute, his smile unflinching in the face of the Roman’s evident disapproval.

‘You did the right thing, Tribune, you freed me and in doing so you ended this war. Can you blame me for using every tool at my disposal to settle the terms as favourably as possible?’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘No, I cannot, although you seem to have found our Achilles heel rather more easily than I’d have hoped. You did negotiate this whole agreement with my colleague Belletor before we ever came to discuss peace, didn’t you?’

Balodi grinned, nodding happily.

‘Well spotted, my friend! As my father told me often enough for me to grow heartily bored with his urging, a man never stops learning! A man watches, and he listens, even in the depths of adversity, even in captivity, and eventually he will learn something that he can use to his benefit. And soldiers will talk, so once I knew of the enmity between you, and that he was likely to be the more suggestible half of your partnership, I knew what I needed to do.’

The Roman nodded his understanding.

‘In which case I can only salute you, Balodi Boraz, you played the game too well for me. You have a fortune in gold, you have a young king to mould as you wish, and your only potential rival’s death can be conveniently laid at our door, keeping your own hands clean and Inarmaz’s men from revolting. Belletor didn’t even manage to persuade you to free the Roman slaves that we know you brought with you.’

The nobleman shrugged.

‘I told him the truth, that many of my brothers would rather kill their slaves than hand them over to you under duress, and since you have no idea of how many of them we possess, many would most assuredly die if the king were to enforce their freedom. It will be much easier to have them freed quietly, and without fanfare once we have departed from this place. You have my word upon it.’ He eyed Scaurus speculatively. ‘And speaking of Inarmaz, what of this quick death your colleague has assured my nephew you’ll grant him?’

The Roman shrugged, hooking a thumb back over his shoulder at Marcus.

‘My centurion here has a sword sharp enough to slice fine cotton dropped onto the blade, and little enough love for Inarmaz. He’ll take the man’s head off with a single blow, when I tell him to do so.’

Balodi stared at him for a moment.

‘What other methods of punishment are usually employed to punish traitors to your empire?’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow.

‘We would usually give the convicted traitor thirty or forty lashes with a whip whose braids contained nails and fragments of glass. A skilled executioner can scourge a man to within an inch of his life without allowing him any easy exit. After that he’s nailed to a cross through his wrists and ankles with only three nails, by a man who knows how to drive in the iron without severing a blood vessel. After that it’s only a question of time before he dies of suffocation as his weight sagging from his arms stops his breathing. With his legs left unbroken a strong man can hoist his weight up on that single nail driven through his ankles for long enough to avert suffocation, although clearly at the cost of the most intense pain. Such a man might last for two or even three days, but the crows have usually taken his eyes before the end comes. It’s not a death you would wish upon anyone for whom you retained any family feeling.’

He looked steadily at Balodi, waiting for the noble to speak.

‘Tribune, my brother’s brother by marriage is responsible for the death of my brother, and for the slaughter of some of the bravest and best warriors in our tribe. I do not find the prospect of his swift and merciful death an attractive one, and if it were my choice he would endure the fate you have just described. I feel that the promise of such an end for Inarmaz would be the best possible way of ensuring a lasting peace between us. And besides, the men I will be gifting to you are Inarmaz’s followers, as I am sure you will have guessed. My people respond best to demonstrations of strength, and so I will counsel your colleague Belletor to begin their time in your army by showing them your iron fist, if you take my meaning?’

Scaurus nodded slowly, his voice flat.

‘I do indeed. I don’t expect you’ll find him any less malleable on this subject than you did before.’

Balodi clapped him on the shoulder and then stood up, a little unsteadily, bellowing a challenge into the tent’s noisy interior.

‘Excellent! Now, where’s that big ugly ox of a first spear of yours? He promised me a contest of arm strength and the time for that mighty battle’ — he drained his cup of wine and held it over his head with the last drips raining onto his hair — ‘has come!’

‘Not looking quite so full of himself now, is he Centurion?’ Marcus stared across the parade ground at the cross onto which Inarmaz had been nailed the previous day, noting dispassionately that the slumped body was now motionless, in stark contrast to the frenzied struggle for life the Sarmatae had put up the previous day. Morban leaned closer to his officer, muttering quietly from the side of his mouth. ‘I heard that someone came out here in the night and put a spear in his heart. When the guards came to give him a prod in the morning he was already stiff as a plank. Some soft-hearted idiot who ought to have known better. .’

Marcus looked down at him with pursed lips, ignoring the disapproving gaze that his standard bearer was directing at him.

‘Your point is taken, Standard Bearer. I will remember to apply it rigidly when your continual flow of insubordination and invention of schemes to defraud your fellow soldiers leads to your taking your turn to dance on the shaft of a nail. Or would that be different?’

The two men stood in silence and watched as the Second Cohort marched onto the parade ground and took their place behind the First. The Tungrians were loaded for the march, their carrying poles topped with the bundles that contained their lives, and it wasn’t hard to detect a certain lack of enthusiasm for the day’s march in the soldiers’ bearing. Once the Tungrians were settled in place the legion cohort made their entrance, and the soldiers standing behind Marcus started their accustomed stream of insults and jibes, albeit muttered at a volume low enough to prevent them carrying beyond their own ranks. Swinging to face his men, Marcus lifted his vine stick to Quintus who was standing in his usual place behind the century’s ranks.

‘Chosen Man Quintus, you have my permission to put your pole through the head of the next man to speak! And on this occasion I won’t be finding fault with your selection of targets! Should you give a nasty headache to the most unpleasant man in the century in error I’m sure he’ll know who to blame once the initial shock has worn off.’

He turned back to watch the legion cohort’s arrival, smiling at the sudden complete silence behind him as the likely consequences of the next smart comment sank into his soldiers’ minds.

‘I see the German’s come to see us off.’

The Roman turned his head at Morban’s muttered comment, quickly finding Gerwulf standing alone at the side of the parade ground in full uniform.

‘Indeed so. I wonder. .’

A hurrying figure caught his eye, a woman dressed in a heavy cloak against the morning cold and escorted by a pair of solidly built men, one of whom was carrying a long bundle in his arms. She hurried across the parade ground looking from side to side, obviously seeking out somebody in particular.

‘It’s the floozy that owns the Ravenstone mine. Gods below, but she could make a man forget that he ever had any troubles. Good legs, fair-sized tits, a pretty face. . and all that gold.’

Marcus ignored the standard bearer’s musings and watched as Theodora made a beeline for Scaurus. With a sudden presentiment of what could have upset the woman quite so badly, he stepped out of his place in front of the century and strode down the cohort’s line to join the tribune and the first spear as they listened to her near hysterical recounting of the night’s events.

‘They broke into the villa at dawn and held my staff at sword-point. They killed the boy, Gaius!’

Scaurus leaned closer, staring into the woman’s eyes with a slitted gaze, his voice hard in the sudden silence as she fell quiet at the sight of his murderous expression.

‘Who were they?’

His answer was a wail of despair and fury, as she turned and pointed at the stationary figure of the German prefect still staring at them from the parade ground’s edge, a smile creasing his lips.

‘They didn’t say, but it must have been him! Look at him standing there with that smug expression on his face and tell me that they weren’t his men!’

Looking at the bodyguard’s burden, Marcus realised that it was Mus’s body, wrapped in a sheet. A small bloodstain had leaked through the material, and the realisation that the child must have been killed with a blade sent a wave of icy fury through him, but before he could move Scaurus barked out a command.

‘No!’

The tribune stared at his furious officers with a face set hard.

‘If we have no proof then we cannot act. Gentlemen, return to your duties.’ Neither Julius nor Marcus moved, both men staring across the parade ground at Gerwulf with murderous intent, but before either of them could translate intention into action the tribune spoke again, his tone suddenly matter of fact.

‘This one we lose, it’s as simple as that. I thought asking Theodora to hide the boy was enough to safeguard him, but I was wrong. He’s dead, which destroys the last chance of anyone bearing witness to Gerwulf turning his men loose on that village. And if any of us attempt to make him pay for Mus’s murder Belletor will be provided with exactly the evidence he needs of my insubordination. The bastard’s got away with it this time, and he knows it.’

The German stared at them for a moment longer and then raised his arm in an ironic salute. He turned and strode away down the hill without a backward glance, leaving the three men staring at his back until he vanished from view among the tents of his cohort’s camp.