‘Not today, Marcus. We have orders from your father that today your training is to change in recognition of your manhood. Until now we’ve concentrated on teaching you how to use a sword, on the techniques of fighting, and practising those disciplines until they have become automatic to you. From today we’re going to teach you how to fight.’ He’d settled behind the shield, staring over its rim at his bemused pupil. ‘This is where the classroom ends and the real schooling begins. And here’s your first lesson. I’m a robber, with my sword and shield, and all you have to defend yourself with is that stick. When I say the word “fight” you’d better be ready to put me on my back with my ears ringing, because that’s what I’m going to do to you if you can’t work out how to use the staff quickly enough.’
A dozen heartbeats later Marcus had found himself face down in the practice ground’s sand, his ribs aching and his nose bleeding, turning over to find the gladiator standing over him with the same sad smile and a hand outstretched to help him back to his feet.
‘That wasn’t easy for either of us. You don’t train a boy from the age of seven without gaining some fondness for the little bugger, but you’re not a boy any more, not since you put the ceremonial dagger to that goat’s throat yesterday. Now that I’ve made the point let’s go over that again, and see what you can learn from it. For a start, you’re holding the staff with your hands too wide apart…’
Shaking his head to clear his mind, he stooped and plucked the staff discarded by the dying barbarian from the flagstones, turning to face a trio of men charging at him from the right. Ducking low under the leading warrior’s swinging sword, he hooked the staff behind the man’s ankles and pulled it towards him sharply, wrenching his feet out from under him and sending his attacker crashing heavily to the stone floor with a grunt of expelled breath. The Roman spun away, planting the staff’s flat end squarely between another’s warrior’s eyes with enough force to stun him for a moment, finishing him off by slapping its other end across his throat with enough power to rupture his larynx. With two men on their backs, the first still struggling to get back to his feet after his heavy fall, Marcus focused on the last man left standing. The barbarian hacked down with his sword, cutting the raised staff into two halves and raising the weapon again in preparation for a killing stroke on the unarmed Roman’s head. Marcus saw his opening and took it, stepping in and ramming one of the cloven staff’s two sharp-edged halves up into the underside of the lunging warrior’s jaw, burying the jagged wooden edge deep in his head before turning to smash the other half across the back of the remaining barbarian’s head as he struggled to his knees.
Stooping to scoop up the hammer dropped by the man dying with the spatha buried in his side, he spun to face another warrior as the man screamed incoherently and ran at him with a battleaxe, swinging the heavy hammer up to clash with the axe blade as it swept towards him. The weapons met in a shower of sparks and the combatants spun apart, Marcus crouching low and sliding the hammer’s handle through his hand to extend its swing, smashing its heavy iron head into the axeman’s knee. With a loud crack of breaking bones the barbarian’s leg folded beneath him, sending him headlong with a shriek of agony as the Roman spun another full circle, smashing the hammer’s head into the wedge holding the gates closed and sending it flying across the courtyard.
With the weight of dozens of Tungrians pressing hard at them, the gates opened wide in seconds, admitting a tidal wave of angry soldiers who fanned out into the courtyard looking for someone to fight, leaving the half-dozen men killed or stunned by stones thrown down on to them from the palisade lying inert behind them. Julius shouted orders at the men around him, sending them hurrying to break into the buildings surrounding the courtyard in a search for anything with the potential to act as part of a barricade, intended to keep the inevitable barbarian counter-attack away from the gate long enough for the rest of the detachment to arrive, and turn the struggle into a one-sided contest.
Qadir stepped through the gates with an arrow nocked to his bow, barking a command to his Hamians as he chose his first mark, and sent an iron head up under the ribs of one of the men on the palisade. While Marcus stalked over to retrieve his swords from their resting places, the archers made short work of the men on the wall, leaving half a dozen dead and dying men slumped against the timber and the remainder lifeless across the courtyard’s flagstones. More barbarians lurked in the shadows to either side, unwilling to advance for fear of the Hamians’ arrows. Hearing his name shouted, Marcus turned away from the gate to find Julius pointing his sword at the two narrow roads leading away up the fortress’s steep slope from the gate, bellowing an order at his brother officer.
‘There’ll be more of the bastards coming down from farther up the hill soon enough, and we haven’t got our shields. Get your caltrops out and your men ready to defend the gate.’
Marcus nodded tersely, looking about him for his watch officer.
‘Cyclops, where are the men with the caltrops?’
The one-eyed veteran pointed out two men waiting to one side with large sacks held well away from them, the steel points protruding through the rough material glinting in the torchlight. Marcus pointed at the scanty barricade that presented a flimsy barrier to any barbarian attack that might be mustering farther up the fortress’s steep slope.
‘Get them laid out on the far side of the barricade, and quickly!’
Cyclops walked to the barricade behind his men, watching as the first of them lifted his sack to pour the contents over the flimsy barrier, and then froze, his head cocked.
‘What is it?’
The soldier turned back to him with a puzzled look.
‘Sounds like… men screaming?’
Marcus stood alongside him and listened, hearing faint echoes of sound from the streets farther up the massive hill. A man’s voice was raised in a shout of rage, and then, a second later, in a howl of pain and despair. Other voices were raised, some higher in pitch, angry shouts and screams of agony. Realisation hit him with a jolt of amazement, and he turned to Julius with an urgent wave to get his friend’s attention.
‘Something’s happening higher up the hill, something violent, and there’s no sign of any counter-attack! I’m going up there with a few men to find out what it is, you hold the line here and wait for the rest of the cohort!’
Not waiting for Julius’s reply, he vaulted the barricade, selecting Arminius, Qadir and a pair of archers to accompany him, and shaking his head in resigned amusement as Scarface gave him a dirty look and followed them across the piled-up furniture with his face set against any idea of his being sent back. The small party advanced cautiously up the steep and narrow street, their weapons held ready to fight if the expected threat materialised from the fortress’s shadows. In the buildings above them another scream rang out, the lingering, despairing sound of a man with cold iron in his guts and no hope of either rescue or release from his pain, and before the sound had time to fade a sudden glow sprang to life in one of the side streets to their right, accompanied by a noise that would stay with Marcus for years to come, haunting his dreams with its otherworldly echo of damnation.
A burning figure staggered out into the road, a man blazing from head to foot with the bright yellow flame of a freshly lit lamp and howling at a pitch and volume that made the Tungrians stop and stare in horror. A woman’s figure followed the apparition from out of the buildings with a blazing torch, her face demonic in the rippling firelight as she pointed the torch, screaming incoherent abuse as the burning figure fell to his knees, holding his hands out in front of him as if unable to believe what was happening to him. In the light of his death throes half a dozen other fallen bodies became apparent, previously hidden in the street’s shadows.
‘Mercy?’
Marcus turned to find Qadir with an arrow nocked to his bow and drawn back, ready to loose into the blazing man’s body and release him from the torment that was racking him in convulsive shudders. Arminius put a hand over the arrow’s head and turned it aside, shaking his head in a manner that seemed almost contemplative as he watched the tribesman burn.
‘These men have in all likelihood made their captives’ lives a misery over the last few weeks. Who are we to deny them their retribution?’
The blazing figure fell slowly face first to the street’s cobbles, flames continuing to lick at his flesh even as their initial exuberance died away, and the woman lowered her torch, retreating back into the shadows as she caught sight of the Romans advancing up the hill towards her. The Tungrians walked on carefully, peeping warily down each side street before crossing to continue their climb, until they stood over the blackened corpse with their scarves held across their faces against the stink of scorched flesh. Looking about him, Marcus realised that they were being watched from the houses on both sides, the glinting of human eyes in the cracks between window frame and shutter betraying the presence of the fortress’s inhabitants. Raising both hands from the hilts of his swords he turned a slow full circle to display his open hands.
‘We mean you no harm. We have come to release you from the Selgovae warriors who have been tormenting
