Obduro’s men recover from their nasty surprise and make a run for it.’ Scaurus gestured his assent, his attention still held by the twin conflagrations before them. Frontinius pushed his way back through the first century’s line, bellowing an order at the closest centurion of the Second Cohort, whose line was still only half formed as each of its centuries split from the line of march to either side. ‘We’re attacking now. Follow us in once your line’s complete!’ He stepped back to his own front rank, pointing to his trumpeter. ‘Sound the advance to battle!’
At the trumpet call, its notes repeated by each century’s trumpeter, the Tungrians stepped forward holding their spears ready to strike, then they walked steadily towards the wrecked grain store. A man wearing the mail armour of an auxiliary soldier ran towards them out of the smoke, then, seeing the line of advancing soldiers coming at him out of the night, he turned and fled in the other direction, screaming a warning to his fellow Treveri. A spear arced out from the Tungrian line and took him between the shoulder blades, its heavy iron head punching through the mail’s rings and dropping him to the ground. As the line went forward the soldiers marched over debris thrown out from the explosions; at first it was scattered single bricks and splinters of wood, but as they drew closer the wreckage thickened until it was almost a carpet of rubble.
‘They’re falling back! Do you think we should pursue? Or should we let them go and round them up later?’
Frontinius shook his head.
‘Now’s the time to deal with them, not when whoever’s managed to get away has had time to sort themselves out. Otherwise we’ll be digging them out in ones and twos for the next six months.’
Scaurus nodded his agreement.
‘You’d better set your dogs loose, then; they’re not going to stand and fight.’
At the first notes of the signal for general pursuit the cohort’s line shivered and broke, men streaming forward, eager to kill, the weariness of their long march forgotten in the promise of monetary reward for the capture of bandits. They went forward in teams of two and three men, all focused on finding those bandits too stunned or stubborn to have run for the shelter of the night. Tribune and first spear walked past a surrendering Treveri auxiliary dressed in the tattered remnants of his uniform, Frontinius ostentatiously ignoring the heated debate between the two soldiers standing over him as to just whose captive he was. The grain store gates opened, and First Spear Sergius stepped through them to greet the two officers with a broad smile. Scaurus shook his hand, slapping the legion officer on the shoulder.
‘You seem to have done a very effective job of seeing off Obduro’s men, First Spear, even if you have reduced an imperial grain store to rubble and burned half its contents.’
Sergius saluted, then tapped his ear, shouting his response.
‘I’m sorry, Tribune, but I can’t hear a thing! That second explosion seems to have taken my hearing! Sorry about the damage, but we do seem to have seen off the bandits! Mind you, I can’t take much credit for beating them; the trick of setting fire to the grain dust was all your centurion’s idea!’
Scaurus nodded his understanding, speaking quietly to his first spear.
‘That will doubtless suit Tribune Belletor very nicely when the account for this destruction is tallied up. Ah, and speaking of Centurion Julius…’
The big man was hobbling towards them with a spear shaft for a support, his face wearing the same slightly baffled expression as Sergius’s. At that moment, with all eyes focused elsewhere, the two soldiers and their captive Treveri mutineer passed within a few feet of the officers, the Tungrians still bickering as to which of them had captured the man. Momentarily ignored, and not yet restrained by anything more than the threat of his captors’ swords, he snatched at the fleeting opportunity, grabbing up a spear from the ground and lunging forward, aiming the weapon’s blade squarely at Scaurus’s back with a berserk scream of incoherent rage. The only man to react quickly enough was Frontinius, stepping forward empty-handed to defend his superior. Grabbing at the spear’s head he pulled hard at it, his eyes widening as the bandit, rather than fighting him for control of the weapon, and as the soldiers around him stepped in with their swords raised to strike, thrust the spear through his mail and deep into his chest. A stab to the back felled the bandit, and another to the back of his neck killed him instantly, but as the first spear sagged to the debris-strewn ground it was clear that the damage was already done.
Obduro walked quickly down the temple’s steps with a torch held in his right hand, grimacing at the moisture coating the ceiling and walls of the tunnel-like staircase.
‘Two of you, down here now! There’s a heavy weight to move.’ He advanced on the altar, sizing up the massive stone frieze as a pair of heavily built men, clearly selected for their strength, came down the steps and joined him in contemplating the ornately carved slab of rock. He waved a hand at the altar.
‘Time to earn all that corn that’s gone down your necks in the last few months. I need that thing lifted off the turntable.’
The two men took up positions on either side of the frieze and gripped it at the base, their big hands searching for purchase on the heavy piece of stone. Nodding at each other they strained at the lift, their heavy muscles flexing and tensing as they heaved the frieze off its rotating plinth and half carried, half staggered away to put it down on the floor, leaning it against the temple’s wall. Obduro gave them a moment to recover from the effort, then gestured to the platform on which the frieze had rested.
‘Now that. Careful with it — it’s solid iron.’
They repeated the lift, grunting at the iron disc’s weight and lifting it to reveal a cylindrical stone-lined hole beneath the frieze’s usual resting place. Obduro pointed down into the concealed hiding place, and was about to speak when a voice from the other end of the temple cut him off short.
‘What in the name of our Unconquered Lord are you doing here, desecrating a holy place?’
The temple’s pater stood at the foot of the staircase, bristling with indignation. Obduro shook his head at his men, walking round the uncovered hole and barring the priest’s way through to the altar.
‘Usually you can expect your word to be the law in this place, I suppose, but today, priest, you are reduced to the role of bystander. I’ve come to reclaim the gold that has been hidden here. You did know this day would come, didn’t you? After all, why else would we have spent so much perfectly good coin building a shrine to a god that none of us believe in?’
The priest frowned, shaking his head.
‘But I was told that the money was intended to spread Our Lord Mithras’s word, when the time was right…’
He trailed off, suddenly intimidated as Obduro bent close enough to him that his own face was reflected in the mask’s surface. The bandit leader lifted the mask, watching as the priest recoiled in amazement.
‘I know you were, priest, because it was me that gave Albanus the lie to feed to you in the first place. I came to your celebrations of this false god with a smile, and encouraged you to see me as a devout member of your congregation, but all the time I was secretly worshipping Arduenna, and waiting for the right time to reclaim what is mine. Can you really see me leaving enough gold to make me a senator to a deluded old fool like you? You labour in the service of a false god from the east, a god served by the soldiers and emperors who enslaved my people. Now get out of my way! You two, bring the gold!’
He pushed the priest aside and lowered the mask again, gesturing to his men to pull the chest of gold from its hiding place. With an indignant yelp the reeling pater stumbled over the raised feasting platform behind him and fell heavily, banging his head on the stone surface. He lay still, with a trickle of blood staining his thin hair. Obduro’s men bent back to their task, then started away from the hole as a man stepped out of the robing room at the temple’s far end, with a drawn sword and raised shield. The newcomer was wearing a cavalry helmet almost identical to that on Obduro’s head, and his round shield was decorated with an exquisitely detailed rendering of the goddess Arduenna riding a monstrous boar, her bow drawn to shoot an arrow at her foe.
‘Leave now, unless you all want to die in this holy place.’
The speaker’s voice was muffled by the helmet’s lowered mask, and Obduro tipped his head to one side in bafflement.
‘They do say that the imitation of a thing is the most sincere of compliments, I believe. In which case I suppose I should feel myself thoroughly complimented by whoever it is that you are. You’ve adopted my style of headgear, you have my goddess on your pretty little shield
… Yes, all in all you’re quite the image of me. Although of course you’re not me, are you? So let’s see how good you are. You two, you ought to be enough. Take him, and let’s see who’s beneath that helmet.’
The big men drew their short swords and advanced on the waiting figure, who stepped forward to meet them with his sword raised. Nodding to each other they attacked simultaneously, one of them lifting his blade to hammer
