who had been brave enough to attack without the protection of a shield reeled under the impact of half a dozen arrows and toppled to the ground without ever breaking stride, his legs kicking even as he sprawled full length in blood-slickened grass. Even with half the century now focused on their defence, they were still shooting hundreds of arrows into the defenceless warband every minute, giving the cohorts priceless moments of opportunity to smash through their defence of the hill fort’s walls.
‘You!’
The trumpeter jerked his eyes from the charging barbarians and on to his centurion with a guilty start.
‘Keep sounding the advance. If they break through to the archers you will drop that horn, pull your sword and defend them to the death.’
The other man nodded jerkily, putting the trumpet back to his lips and drawing breath. Marcus turned back to their attackers, judging that the survivors had closed to within thirty paces. He shouted over his shoulder to Qadir over the trumpeter’s renewed efforts, readying himself for the first clash.
‘I’m going down on to the dance floor to try my luck. Try not to shoot me!’
‘What?’
The chosen man paused in mid-shot as his centurion stepped down the earth wall and out into the space between the front rank and the charging barbarians, fewer with each volley that ripped at their tattered ranks but gathering strength with every second as more men fought their way out of the warband’s milling chaos to run towards the 8th’s position on the earth wall. He drew the arrow back to the limit of the weapon’s capacity, forcing his strength into its stressed wood-and-bone frame, waited a second to allow his target to run on to the point of aim, then loosed the missile into the warrior’s face at less then twenty paces, skimming the arrow’s point across the top of the barbarian’s shield and squarely through one eye socket. The tribesman spun to the ground with the arrow’s immense impact, only half of the shaft protruding from his otherwise undamaged face.
Marcus forced his fascinated attention from Qadir’s victim to the next-closest attacker, watching as two, then three arrows slammed into the man’s shield, heavy iron heads punching through the layered wood with ease at such close range. The warrior’s arm was probably pinned to his board by at least one of the arrows, his blood flowing down the inner bowl, but from the wide-eyed rage contorting the man’s features it wasn’t going to hamper the damage he would do if he fought his way through to the Hamians. Another arrow slammed through the attacker’s calf but he staggered on, charging towards the centurion with his long sword sweeping down in a vicious blow at the unshielded officer.
Marcus stepped to one side with an easy grace, caught the barbarian’s blade with his own long-bladed spatha and steered it away to his right, pushing his attacker’s right arm across his body to open up his unshielded right side before stepping in fast, hooking his short-bladed gladius round to punch hard into the warrior’s ribs, then straightening to shrug the grievously wounded man off his blade. Another man charged in to attack him from the left, too close for Marcus to reorient himself in time but giving him enough time to see the pair of arrows protruding from the warrior’s left shoulder. The limb would be pinned in place by the arrows’ unyielding intrusion, useless for anything better than holding the man’s shield in place. Diving to the ground, he scythed the spatha in under the shield’s immobile defence, severed the warrior’s calf muscle and rolled back on to his feet, leaving the staggering cripple to the Hamians’ bows.
A flight of arrows whipped past Marcus and into the oncoming barbarians, close enough that he heard the breathy whistle of the closest as it flicked past his ear. Several more tribesmen went down with wounds to their heads and legs, but enough had survived to narrow his eyes in calculation as to which would be his next combat. The two leading runners made his mind up for him, drawn to his cross-crested helmet’s dull shine in the early morning sun, one of the pair a split second in front of his companion with his eyes fixed wide in the fierce joy of combat. Marcus’s thrown gladius spun one precisely judged revolution through the dawn’s chill air before embedding itself in his throat and dropping him choking into the dew-soaked grass. Parrying the other man’s sword blow with the blade of his spatha, the centurion dropped to one knee to grasp his fallen comrade’s long sword by its carved bone hilt, lifting it to deflect the warrior’s next attack before jabbing the spatha’s blade up into his attacker’s jaw. After an instant of resistance the blade penetrated the roof of the barbarian’s mouth and sank deep into his brain. He staggered backwards out of the combat, his eyes rolling up as he sagged lifelessly to the ground.
Recovering his footing, Marcus saw a trio of warriors closing on him fast, and beyond them another half- dozen advancing with their shields raised, and realised with a sickening lurch that he had allowed the heady exhilaration of combat to put him in extreme danger. A fresh wave of energy washed through the young officer as he steadied himself to meet the threat, his vision seeming to narrow and darken slightly as his body fed every usable drop of blood to his muscles. Nostrils flaring to suck in air, he rose on to the balls of his feet as if preparing to dance as the first three men charged in to attack.
The leading warrior made a straightforward lunge with his long sword, his eyes widening comically as Marcus smashed the blade aside with his left-hand sword, then thrust the other into his thigh, shifting his weight on to the weapon to force it through the heavy muscles and out of the man’s leg in a shower of blood from the severed artery.
As the wounded man screamed in sudden pain, staggering where he stood with one leg unable to support his weight, Marcus hacked the spatha into the face of the warrior to his right so fast that it was all the man could do to parry the blow upwards, leaving himself open to a brutally powerful half-fist that ruptured his throat and dropped him choking to the ground. Marcus hacked at his first victim’s head with his spatha, gripping the sword buried in his leg and kicking the grievously injured warrior backwards to impede the last of the three from bringing his weapon to bear, tearing it free as the barbarian fell away from him. He ducked reflexively as the last man’s sword hacked through the air where his head had been, but before he could move to either attack or defend an arrow flicked over his shoulder and buried itself deep in the barbarian’s ribs, the shock dumping the man on to his backside with eyes slitted against the pain.
Stepping swiftly back from the fallen warriors, wary of a last desperate knife-thrust from one of the wounded, he eyed the next wave of attackers with cold calculation. Where there had been half a dozen only four remained, and two of them were limping from arrow wounds, but they were still advancing towards him with their shields raised to deflect the continual flicker of Hamian arrows, others following close behind.
‘You might be better off behind this.’
A shield slid into place across his body, a strong arm holding the heavy wooden board rock steady. Marcus didn’t need to look around to know who the newcomer was.
‘No, brother, you’ll need it more than me.’
Dubnus chuckled darkly in his ear.
‘Me? I’ve got another somewhere. Ah, here it is.’
Marcus looked round to see a soldier move into position alongside the 5th’s centurion, putting his shield across Dubnus’s body in turn.
‘Well met, Scarface, although you might be better using that board for your own defence.’
The veteran soldier shook his head solemnly.
‘Can’t do that, sir. We look after our officers in the Fifth Century, as well you know, both past and present. And besides…’
Marcus grinned wearily, the fierce heat of combat seeping out of his body.
‘I know, you’ve got a friend or two on the way.’
More of the 5th’s men were pouring over the earth wall, ducking through the still-firing archers to take their place in the shield wall. The four-man group of barbarians stopped advancing a dozen feet from the century’s quickly forming line of shields as the numbers facing them tripled in less than ten seconds, then started to back away as the full 5th Century mustered in front of the Hamians, rapping their shields with their spears and shouting insults at the unnerved barbarians. Marcus spoke without taking his eyes off the scene to their front.
‘This could still get ugly if that lot decide to come at us in strength.’
He turned back to find Qadir on the wall above him.
‘Qadir! Shoot everything you’ve got left into the warband!’
The 8th’s rate of fire increased, the tired archers giving the last of their trembling arm strength to rain their remaining arrows on to the wavering warband. With a triumphant bray of trumpets the hill fort’s southern rampart was suddenly crested by familiar figures, the shields and helmets unmistakably Roman as the auxiliary cohorts fought their way into the demoralised defence.
‘Qadir! Cease firing on the warband. Self-defence only!’
