firmly in my hand! You have been lucky enough to find a fort not yet burned out, and now you line its walls wondering whether to wait us out behind them or run for the north. I cannot make that decision for you, but I can provide you with a small clue as to the treatment you can expect when we break in and put an end to your pathetic remnant. I have with me a cohort from the imperial Sixth Legion, and these are men who want little more than a chance to take their swords to you. These soldiers are not the raw recruits that were shipped in from Germania, after the act of betrayal that destroyed six cohorts of their comrades. These are men who actually witnessed what you did to their comrades at the battle of Lost Eagle, and they are desperate to take prisoners rather than heads in this coming battle. Any of you that survive will find your last few hours more painful than anything you could ever have imagined. Anyone that lives through this day will be skinned, crucified and left for the birds to feed on their raw flesh!’
Harn leaned forward over the fort’s wall, shouting back his defiance.
‘Why are you telling us this, Roman?! Do you want us to run before you, and save you the grief of having to come and fight for these walls?!’
The tribune’s reply was swift and purposeful, and sent a chill down the spine of any man listening with the learning to understand him.
‘No, Harn! All I want is for my sworn oath to Mithras, for retribution on you and your tribe, to be honoured! And for that to come to pass, I need you to stay right where you are, and wait for us to break in and start killing you!’
Harn spoke out of the side of his mouth, not taking his eyes off the Roman.
‘Shoot him.’
The archer raised his bow, pulling back the arrow until its iron head was level with the weapon’s wooden frame, but before he could loose the missile at the Roman officer, and with a sudden scurry of movement, a group of twenty or so warriors threw open the fort’s main gate directly below them. While they ran down the vicus’s main street, heading for the road to the north, one of the running men, a big man at once strangely familiar and yet hard to place, turned as he ran and shouted back at the men lining the fort’s walls.
‘Run while you can! The goddess is angry with us, and she has called on these Romans to deliver her justice!’
Harn stared at them in amazement for a moment before turning to look down into the street below him at the cluster of warriors gathering around the gate. More than one of their staring faces was pale with fear, and, as he drew breath to put some iron in their backs with a swift series of barked orders, one of them bolted through the gate and down the road in the wake of the running men. An arrow from the waiting archer, loosed at Harn’s terse command, left the man face down and writhing in the road’s mud, but the damage was already irretrievably done. In the next few seconds half a dozen others followed, hurdling their fallen comrade without a second glance, and the trickle quickly turned into a flood as panic spread across the fort at the sight of more and more men running for their lives. Harn cursed loudly and bounded down the steps in pursuit of his fleeing warriors, his shouts of rage lost in the chaos of the warband’s flight.
Scaurus watched and waited as the warriors streamed out of the fort, letting the rearmost men clear the vicus before signalling the legionnaires forward at the double march to occupy the fort, and secure it against any attempt by the Selgovae to return to the sanctuary of its walls. He watched for a moment longer, waiting until the running warriors were well clear of the fort, then turned to his trumpeter.
‘It seems that the barbarian’s ruse has succeeded. Give the signal.’
The trumpeter blew his horn, sending three long peals echoing across the empty landscape, and on the hill to the left of the fleeing barbarians a long line of horsemen crested the ridge to stare down pitilessly at their prey. Their upright spears glittered in the morning sun’s cold light as Decurion Felix rode out in front of his command, his normally urbane voice raised in a stern tone of command.
‘Spears!’
As one, the riders swung their spears down from the vertical to point down at the straggling line of barbarians fleeing to the north along the road’s long dark stripe, five hundred paces down the hill’s slope. Felix looked up and down the line of his men, while his mount Hades snorted and twitched beneath him, eager to run at the enemy warriors. Raising his voice to be sure he was heard along the line’s length, the decurion issued his last instructions.
‘No sword-work today, gentlemen, there are too many of them for us to stop and duel! Pick a target, and whether you hit or miss, ride through them and turn back for another go! Don’t go spearing our barbarians, they’re the ones at the front with the rags round their arms and their hands in the air! And listen for the horn signal; we need live prisoners as well as dead barbarians! Advance!’
He turned Hades through a prancing half-circle and led the detachment down the gentle slope, raising his good left hand in the command for the riders to keep pace with him while allowing Hades to lengthen his stride to a canter, controlling the stallion effortlessly with his knees as the hill’s slope eased towards level ground. In the line of horsemen behind him Marcus clung tightly to the big grey’s flanks with his thighs, pulling at the reins to lift the beast’s head, physically holding him back from charging at the enemy prematurely. Looking to either side, he saw Arminius to his left, clinging to his mount with a look that combined exhilaration and terror, while to his right Qadir’s face was alive with the joy of the moment as the chestnut mare increased her pace to match the animals to either side. The line of horsemen cantered steadily across the open space between hill and road, quickly closing the gap between them and the barbarians, who, rooted by the horsemen’s thundering approach, had drawn their weapons and were readying themselves to meet the attack. When the horsemen were a hundred paces from the barbarians Felix lowered his hand to point at the enemy, his command delivered in an almost incoherent bellow.
‘Charge! Petrianaaa!’
Ignoring the bit’s hard grip on his mouth, Marcus’s mount responded to the command the way he had been trained, putting his ears back and gathering himself for a split second before he sprang forward to rip across the turf in a furious gallop that took the pair out in front of the surging line of horsemen. Horse and rider seemed to float across the ground, such was the animal’s speed and purpose, and he barely had time to pick a target from among the mass of screaming warriors before they were upon the quavering barbarians. Putting his spear through the man’s throat more by luck than judgement, Marcus dragged the blade free as the horse, disdaining any show of fear at the warriors’ screams of pain and anger, burst through the enemy line in a scatter of bodies. He pulled the big grey back round for another pass through the enemy just in time to see disaster strike. As Arminius’s mount Colossus crossed the road’s slippery surface the animal lost balance, sending barbarians flying as he slid into them in a flurry of skittering hoofs before crashing unceremoniously to the ground with the German trapped under his struggling mass. The horse fought his way back on to his feet in an ungainly lunge, and a stray hoof clipped his helpless rider’s head, stunning Arminius and sending him headlong across the road’s hard surface. The warriors around him, momentarily scattered by the horse’s flailing limbs, raised their weapons in anticipation of an easy kill, ignoring the chaos around them.
Marcus instinctively dropped his shield and pulled the grey up sharply, releasing his mount’s reins and lifting his left leg to slide over the horse’s side to the damp turf, dropping momentarily to one knee before springing back to his feet. Two hundred paces to the north Martos and his chosen warriors, having managed to outpace the fleeing Selgovae, had slowed to a walk while they watched the Roman cavalry tear into their sworn enemies. Lugos, standing among them and yet still in no way accepted as one of them, saw Arminius fall unconscious to the ground and reacted swiftly, drawing his long sword and sprinting back towards the embattled Selgovae with a roar of challenge. The leading Selgovae warriors turned to meet him but were already too late, one man falling with his stomach torn open while another reeled back with his nose spouting blood, smashed by the giant’s massive fist.
Running towards his friend’s prostrate and unmoving body, Marcus calculated fast as several barbarians moved in for an easy kill, their swords poised to stab into the unconscious German. Drawing back his spear as he ran, he slung the weapon at the man closest to Arminius and missed by inches, sending the weapon’s wickedly sharp blade clean through the huddle of warriors without drawing blood, but scattering them in surprise and giving him the precious few seconds he needed to close the distance between them. Drawing his swords and screaming his rage at the warriors gathered around his friend, he confronted the half-dozen men poised for the kill. In the split second before the fight began, as the warriors took stock of the lone soldier confronting them, a rider clattered past the group, expertly spearing one of the barbarians in the back, dropping the man twitching across Arminius’s body. With that, Marcus was among them with his swords blurred arcs of polished iron. Hamstringing the closest man
