“We’ll lie in wait for them here. We shouldn’t allow them to get into the forest, as our bows will be redundant there. At the same time we should wait until they’re away from the hut. We don’t want his new recruits entering the fray. Do you see that tree stump by the track? We’ll hit them there. There’s no cover. We’ll both take out one of the bodyguards with our bows. The third will prove more difficult as his shield will be up. I’ll race over to take him out at close quarters whilst you wing the agent, to prevent him escaping. Shoot him in the arse or leg.”
“Are you looking to capture, rather than kill, him then? And bring him back with us?” the archer asked, his tone laced with a warning at how difficult the task could prove.
“Yes. Those are our orders. To quote one of Fabius’ poems, ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die. What’s that though?” Oppius asked, nodding his head towards an item Teucer had brought back with him, wrapped in cloth.
“A present,” the Briton replied, handing over the bundle.
The centurion unfolded the cloth and held up the gladius, the polished steel glinting as brightly as the soldier’s aspect.
“Someone was selling it as a spoil of war. I thought you might like it.”
“It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” Oppius remarked.
The two men did not have long to wait before the picts, forming a triangle around the agent, appeared. Teucer had not been exaggerating about the size and strange fearsomeness of the northern Britons. They all seemed as large and powerful as Roscius. All were crowned with shaggy locks of long red hair. Oppius thought they might be brothers, such was their similar appearance. Although Teucer had remarked how incest was as popular as drinking in some parts of the country. In contrast to the picts surrounding him the agent was slight, spindly. He was dressed like a barbarian but pick off that scab and Oppius would recognise the kind of haughty Roman who could tax both your patience and income. The centurion recalled Caesar’s comment the other evening, how he distrusted men with a lean and hungry look. It seems he was right in this instance. The agent carried a dagger, but had the look of a politician rather than soldier. He was more likely to stab himself with the weapon, rather than anyone else, Oppius fancied.
Both men took a breath and nooked an arrow.
“You take out the one in front of the agent. I’ll deal with the one on his left,” the centurion ordered, his tone devoid of emotion. Soldiers killed people. Lucius Oppius was a soldier. Therefore Lucius Oppius killed people. The syllogism appeared as straight and true to the centurion as Teucer’s aim.
16.
Teucer breathed out in time to the sound of the arrow sighing as it left his bow. The arrowhead pierced through the pict’s long red beard and into his throat – his life extinguished in a half-formed gurgle. The intake of breath from his cousin was taken in both shock and pain as Oppius’ arrow buried itself easily and deeply into his stomach. This time a scream and then groan did cause the air to shudder. Mourning his comrades not however the third bodyguard raised his large shield up in a defensive position and ordered the agent to stand behind him. The agent barely heard the Briton though as he raced away in the opposite direction to the attack. He caught the sight and sound of an arrow whistle past him as Teucer tried to shoot him in the leg and bring him down.
Oppius covered the ground between the tree line and his enemy quickly, drawing his gladius as he did so. The remaining pict unsheathed a large Roman cavalry sword, a spartha, in reply – another spoil of war. The centurion took in his opponent. He was equal, if not superior, in size and strength to the Roman. As the barbarian snarled he noticed that there were plenty of gaps where teeth once resided. Few Britons seemed to have good teeth. His nose was as crooked as a Roman tax collector. A long red welt of a scar, in the shape of a lightning bolt, ran across his chest.
Swords clashed upon each other. The barbarian roared wildly, but there was still method in his madness. He was agile for his size and his power made up for any deficiencies in technique. The centurion tried to get inside but the large sword and shield kept him at bay. Oppius believed that he could perhaps ultimately defeat his opponent if he kept chipping away at him and picked his moments – but as he caught the agent escaping out of the corner of his eye he realised that time was of the essence in nullifying the bodyguard.
Oppius soon formed a plan. He tried to keep his distance from the pict, parrying any attack, and used his footwork to circle his enemy. The barbarian smirked, sensing that he had the beating of his now defensive minded opponent. He grinned at his ambusher – but one of the last sights the barbarian would see was that of his enemy smiling back at him, as an arrow from Teucer struck him in the spine. The pict arched his back in pain, his arms were spread-eagled. Oppius wasted little time in stepping in and slashing his gladius across his opponent’s unprotected chest. Lightning can strike twice in the same place.
As much as Oppius would grant a portion of respect to his opponent for his skill and courage as a fighter, he stood over his defeated enemy not – but rather set off in pursuit of the agent immediately. Confusion and fear had driven the Roman to head off in the opposite direction to the settlement. His fear and confusion increased when his pursuer caught up with him, zigzagging between the trees, and called out to halt, in his native language. Where words slowed the agent not, Oppius’ knife did – as he threw the blade into the back of his prey’s thigh during a clearing in the woods.
Both men panted as they attempted to catch their breath, whilst the agent winced in pain upon the ground too.
“Who are you working for?” the agent scornfully exclaimed, offering his enemy a look that was as sharp as the dagger in his leg.
“It’s customary for the captor to ask the questions. Now, who are you working for? Tell me, or I’ll cut everything out of you, except your tongue,” the centurion replied, drawing his sword and smiling sadistically. Should somehow he be unable to bring the agent back to Caesar for interrogation, Oppius thought it prudent to try and extract some information now.
“I refuse to talk to you,” the agent spat back with disdain. “You’re just a soldier, a dog. You’re no better than my barbarian bodyguards.”
“I’d rather be a dog than a snake in the grass. And if I’m no better than your bodyguard, at least I can say that I’ve got more life in me than them. Now tell me who you’re working for.”
“Never. I am armed with my philosophy. My stoicism will act as a shield against any of your bribes or threats,” the agent announced, his intended boldness not quite being mirrored in his reedy, quivering voice.
“Your shield didn’t perform too well deflecting my dagger. It’s doubtful it’ll be able to blunt the point of my sword. Everybody talks – and sooner rather than later,” Oppius replied, slightly distracted by the appearance of Teucer.
“I see you caught up with the bastard. Has he talked yet? I’d be happy to loosen his tongue, in either language.”
“He’ll talk. Caesar will make him scream more than any woman he’s been with. But how are things out there?”
“We’ve started to cause a stir. A few people have just seen the bodies. We should leave, now.”
“I will take my leave of you too. My death is the final duty I owe to my master. A plague be on the tyrant, Caesar,” the agent exclaimed as he clutched his dagger and, though his features were twisted in fear and hesitation, he closed his eyes and rammed the point of the knife into his neck. Oppius was too far away to prevent the agent’s sudden and dramatic action. Blood gushed from the mortal wound and his face quickly became ashen.
“At least we won’t have to now carry the bastard back with us and listen to his yammering,” Teucer remarked, after a pause.
“Let’s return to the camp. I’ve seen enough of the garden of Britain not to want to see any more of it,” the centurion replied, disappointed that he would not be able now to bring the agent before Caesar and unmask the traitor in Rome.
17.
Evening.
The canopy of the trees sheltered the two soldiers from the rain as they sat close to their small fire and finished sucking the bones dry of the two wood pigeons that the archer had brought down.
“Some argue that the channel provides your greatest, natural defence against invasion. Instead I think it’s your weather. No one will want to conquer a land in which it rains so much,” Oppius remarked, whilst tossing another piece of wood onto the fire.
“Never mind the rain. Which way do you think the wind will blow, in regards to what Caesar will do next? Did he give you any indication at your dinner?”
“Caesar wishes to re-draw the maps and frontiers of the world, but ultimately Rome is his home. Also securing peace in Gaul is more important than making war in Britain. I warrant that we’ll be sailing back soon.”
“Do you consider Rome to be your home too? Do you have anyone waiting for you? Who wants to see you?”
“My mother still lives in a village outside of Rome. There’s also my ex-wife. Whether she wants to see me or not the channel and climate will thankfully help keep her at bay,” the centurion remarked, breaking off another leg of his wood pigeon as he did so.
“Did you not love her once? Is there still a spark?”
“It was lust more than love, attraction more than affection,” Oppius replied, looking wistful for once.
“What happened?”
“The usual. Life gets in the way of love. I didn’t spend enough time with her – and she spent too much of my money. What about you? Is there a particular flower in the garden of Britain that you pine for?”
“There used to be too many – I was the chieftain’s son after all – which is why there was never just one. Sometimes I feel I missed out. I’m not sure how much of our love lives could serve as an inspiration for Fabius’ poetry.”
“My job is to teach him how to kill rather than kiss.”
“I’m sure Fabius prefers that scenario too.”
18.
Late morning.
Just as Oppius and Teucer came out upon a field from leaving the forest the sun similarly came out from behind a flock of pink clouds. They were almost home.
“It looks like that we may just make it back alive. Things went more smoothly than I thought,” the Briton remarked, squinting a little in the sunlight.
“Don’t tell Caesar that. It may encourage him to send us out again behind enemy lines,” the centurion replied, half thinking about how Caesar would react to his success, or lack of, in regards to the mission.
“Aye, it’s a shame we don’t have any war wounds to show him when we get back, to prove how much we’ve been to Hades and back.”
No sooner had the Briton finished speaking than he let out a cry, as an arrow slammed into his though, cutting through skin, sinew and muscle. He fell to one knee and nearly passed out. Oppius looked up to see a brace of arrows flying towards him. He quickly dove to his left to avoid the missiles, which thudded into the ground just behind to where the centurion had been standing. When Oppius looked up he saw half a dozen barbarians, armed with bows, rushing towards him from out of the trees. The ground shook beneath him as another barbarian galloped towards Teucer upon a horse. Oppius would be struck by at least three arrows before he would have the time to draw his bow and unleash just one in return.
“Adminus, put the bow down. I meant to shoot you in the leg. I can as easily arrange to shoot you in the head,” Caradog called out whilst riding towards his brother.
Blood seeped out from Teucer’s wound, as did any feelings of hope or revenge it seemed. He placed his bow on the ground. He glanced at Oppius, who was being surrounded by a trio of savage but skilled warriors, their bodies smeared with sweat and woad. Caradog glanced at the centurion too – with a look of recognition, an expression twisted in contempt.
“It’s you. Roman bastard,” the cruel-faced Briton exclaimed – and then spat at the centurion. “Tell your foreign friend that I missed him on the beach, but I won’t miss him again.”
It dawned upon Oppius who the barbarian was. He recognised the same jewellery. The same hatred. Although he could not understand what he was saying, Oppius sensed that he was not inviting him to share his lunch. When Teucer finished translating the centurion met the barbarian’s vicious glare and replied.
“Tell your brother that I’ll only require one shot. I won’t need a second.”
Before Teucer was able to reply however Caradog spoke.
“Why did you come back?”
“I missed the weather.”
“You have a joke for everything brother, but I’ll have the last laugh. Now, unless you know them yourself, ask your friend what Caesar’s plans are?”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“Burning him alive might help him cook up some thoughts.”
Teucer translated the question for Oppius, although the centurion gazed off into the distance somewhat, seemingly distracted. Perhaps he was collecting his final thoughts, or praying. Oppius thought about the question for a moment or two and then replied.
“What are Caesar’s plans for Britain? To encourage Britons to start dyeing their clothes instead of their bodies.”
19.
The chieftain manoeuvred his horse over towards the foreigner and kicked him in the face, in reply to his insolence.
“Your brother is as hospitable as the climate,” Oppius remarked to Teucer. He smiled, in defiance. The smile was also due to the fact that half of his captors had now slung their bows back over their shoulders.
“The Roman will eventually reveal what he knows of Caesar’s plans. Everybody talks. I’ll be more open and reveal my plans to you. I’m going to take you both back to the village. I’ll take as much pleasure in keeping him alive – and torturing him just for the fun of it – as killing our unwanted visitor to these shores. And as for you brother, I’ll be having you for dinner. You’ll be your own last meal,” the chieftain remarked and laughed, inspiring mirth in his warriors too. As his brother grinned Teucer noticed his filed, sharpened, teeth. His brother was a cannibal.
“And did you put poison in father’s last meal?”
“This question has probably been eating away at you for years little brother, no? I am nothing if not a merciful leader though and I will put you out of your misery. I poisoned him. But you, through your grab for power in trying to usurp me, killed him.”
Sadness and anger swelled up in his stomach and Teucer’s fingers crept closer to the knife upon his belt. Despite his wound he would attempt to stand and kill his brother. Oppius witnessed the look in Teucer’s eye and saw him slowly reaching for his dagger. The centurion knew however that he would be cut down by an archer before he had a chance to attack his brother. Oppius decided that it was time.
“Caradog,” the Roman exclaimed, attracting the attention of the chieftain. Oppius met his enemy’s baleful stare and then drew his finger across his throat as a sign.
The chieftain looked somewhat confused and amused, yet an expression of alarm soon clouded his face as he heard the sound of two arrows thud into the backs of two his archers. As soon as the arrows struck Oppius drew his knife and threw it into the remaining warrior who had an arrow upon his bow. Roscius and another legionary, unknown to the centurion, appeared from out of the trees and ran towards the enemy, roaring to distract the Britons from their prisoners. Two of the barbarians drew out arrows from their sheaths. Yet just as they both nooked their arrows they were both struck in the chests by pilums, launched with deadly accuracy and power by the advancing legionaries.
Sensing defeat Caradog turned his horse around and abandoned the fight, riding in the opposite direction to his enemy. The remaining barbarian drew his large hunting knife and ran towards Teucer, who still remained on the ground from his wound. He would at least kill one of the bastards, before fleeing too. He stood over the helpless, weakened Adiminus. But rather than his blade meeting the neck of his enemy it clanged against Oppius’ sword. The warrior attacked th
e Roman but, after parrying the Briton’s offensive, Oppius stepped inside and butted his opponent in the face, disorientating him enough to then slash the barbarian’s face, twice.
His heart raced in unison with the tamp of his brother’s horse upon the turf. As heavy as his eyelids felt the biting pain in his thigh kept him conscious. Teucer propped himself up as best as he could upon the ground. The grass felt cold, or perhaps it was his body growing colder, dimmer. He took a breath and nooked an arrow. Teucer grimaced as he pulled back the bow, aiming out the corner of his eye. He followed the course of the arrow not as it arced in the air and lodged itself in the back of his brother’s throat.
20.
Oppius wiped his sword upon his trousers, which he hoped he would never have to wear again, and looked up to see Fabius appearing from out of the trees, along with another young recruit, clutching a bow too.
“We were in the area, for archery practise of all things,” Roscius exclaimed, grinning.
“Well as Teucer says, the harder you practice the luckier you get,” Oppius replied whilst the two men gave each other another firm, meaningful handshake. As ever, much remained unsaid between the two friends and soldiers. “Fabius, I could get used to you helping to save my life. I may have to write a poem in your honour,” the centurion called out to the recruit. “Now attend to Teucer, before I have to give you another compliment.”
The youth smiled sheepishly and attended to his comrade.
“I must thank you too, legionary,” Oppius remarked to the soldier who had rushed out of the forest with Roscius.
The soldier turned around, after pulling his javelin out of the barbarian. He was older than Oppius, a veteran. His build was compact, his body marked with scars.
Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer Page 4