Swinging his long sword two handed, he waded into the surprised warriors, scattering them in disarray as the heavy iron blade hacked deep into first one man’s spine, toppling him limply to the road’s cobbled surface, then chopped into another man’s skull, sending him reeling out of the fight with his eyes rolling upwards to display only the whites. Shaking his head and blinking away the momentary confusion caused by the sword’s impact with his helmet, Marcus hefted his weapons and stepped forward to confront the two men who had followed him out of the fight, a movement to his right catching his eye and making him back away again, shouting a swift command at the embattled Lugos.
‘Lugos! Down!’
In a thunder of hoofs a half-dozen riders bore down upon the Selgovae and rode down the tribesmen, one of the horsemen smashing his chosen target reeling to the ground with a crunching impact between his shield’s heavy brass boss and the hapless warrior’s face, and Marcus found himself standing alone, surrounded by prostrate bodies. A horn was blowing insistently somewhere across the field, the signal for prisoners to be taken now that the fight was almost over, and Marcus stared about him, marvelling at the destruction wrought by the Petriana’s men in the short time it had taken to avert the unconscious German’s death. He walked slowly on shaking legs to where Lugos was sitting up after diving to the ground to avoid the cavalrymen’s questing spears, straining to pull the big barbarian to his feet before wearily sitting down alongside the prone body of Arminius.
By mid-morning, Drust’s torturer believed he had the key to the captured decurion’s continued silence under his knives. He spoke quietly to his chieftain as he sharpened the tools of his trade one last time, dragging their razor-edged blades across the whetstone more for the effect that the rasping noise might have on the man strung up and waiting for the resumption of his attentions than to improve their already fearsome edge.
‘He’s a hard man, my lord, a warrior you would have been proud to fight alongside had he been born to the tribe. I have caused him great pain already, but he has given me no more than the occasional grunt as my reward. I can increase the level of pain he suffers, of course. I can sever the muscles that make his arms and legs work and leave him a cripple, saw off his manhood and show it to him before I blind him, if you like.’ He looked back at the Roman, his eyes burning with defiance, before speaking again. ‘But in all truth I doubt that this will break him, and he would die from the blood loss very quickly, and leave your men without the reward of hearing a Roman scream for mercy.’
Drust grimaced.
‘Not what we’d hoped for. You have a better idea, I presume?’
The other man raised an eyebrow at the tethered Roman.
‘I would say that he seems to be motivated by the need to avoid alerting his comrades to his agony at all costs. I would also guess that he is a proud man, and that to cry out would be to turn his back on his pride, to give in and show weakness at the end of his life. I do not believe that the knives hold the key to his tongue, but I think that he will speak readily enough if you can find a way to threaten him with the loss of his dignity. You must put him under the threat of the most degrading end that you have at your disposal.’
Drust stared at him for a long moment before nodding his reluctant understanding and turning to face the naked prisoner, looking him up and down to assess the damage already done to him by the torturer’s knives before speaking.
‘Fetch water. I need him wide awake.’
A warrior stepped forward and emptied his water skin over the Roman’s head, and the cold liquid snapped his eyes open, wrenching him from the moment of respite provided by his loss of consciousness. Drust walked forward until he was close enough to the captive to prod his blood-smeared stomach.
‘Well now, Roman, my expert in the art of persuasion tells me that he believes you cannot be broken by the use of his blades. He believes that you are too proud a man to allow yourself the slightest expression of pain or fear. And to tell you the truth, I am minded to believe him. Look at you – no, seriously, take a proper look at what he’s done to you.’
The decurion stared back at him in silence with stone-hard eyes, their defiant conviction blazing back at the chieftain. Drust shook his head in mock sadness, turning away from his prisoner and looking out across the hundreds of men gathered to watch his humiliation.
‘No, you’ll keep your mouth shut no matter what I tell him to do to you, even as we wreck your body beyond repair, and at the end of that unhappy time all I’ll have for my men’s bravery in taking you from under the noses of your sentries will be a mutilated carcass of a warrior. Your fellow soldiers will revere you for the bravery of your death, and in time they’ll erect an altar for you, somewhere where thousands of them will see it, to give them pride and fresh strength. Perhaps they’ll name a new fort after you …’
He turned back to the captive with a half-smile.
‘All of which is hardly what was in my mind when I ordered my men to bring me a Roman to make some sport with. What I had in mind was some screaming, something to put the fear of the gods into your comrades, and not a glorious end for you. So, I think it’s time we tried something a little different. We think that you are a proud man, for whom any admission of weakness would be worse than death itself. So what, I find myself asking, would your reaction be to being degraded in the face of your comrades in a manner so gross that they will be revolted by what you have become?’
Cyrus’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Drust smiled quietly back at him, seeing the Roman’s face suddenly alive with the emotion he had been seeking to inspire in his captive.
‘I thought that might get your attention. You see, there are men in every army who find the life away from women too much for them, and who turn to their comrades for the pleasures of the flesh. You, however, don’t look like such a man. You probably make jokes about them, and use humorous names to make fun of the very idea, even though you know that this happens more frequently than you would ever admit to anyone from outside of your military world. And so what, I wonder, would your comrades think, what would they do, if we were to lash you up on the walls of this fortress and have a succession of my warriors bugger you in full view of your cohort. I have thousands of men, so I’m sure that a few of them will step forward when I offer the opportunity to fuck a Roman officer in the arse before we let my man with the knives finish what he’s started. Perhaps a dozen of them would be enough to take that pride of yours and tear it into pieces so small that a man would have to get on his hands and knees to find them. And I’ll guarantee you that nobody ever set up an altar to a man who got captured and ended up dying after taking a dozen barbarians in his backside.’
Cyrus glowered at him, his face twisted with repulsion and disgust.
‘Nothing to say, Roman? Perhaps we could pull your teeth and allow two men to fuck you from both ends, just to complete the picture for your friends over there. “Go to war with the Venicones”, they’ll tell each other for years to come, “and if the barbarian bastards catch you they’ll spit-roast you.” How about that?’
Cyrus spat a bloody wad into the dirt at his feet, staring down at the barbarian chief.
‘Can I trust your word, Venicone?’
Drust raised an eyebrow at the growled response, taken aback by the unexpectedness of the Roman’s retort.
‘Trust my word? Why would that matter to a man facing imminent death?’
Cyrus grunted his answer from between gritted teeth, his voice pitched low to make the tribal chief lean closer.
‘Because, King of the Venicones, I have information that I will trade for a quick and honourable death. I know where something is. Something that you have lost, and which can still be retrieved if you know where to look for it. If, that is, you have the balls to turn aside from your flight to the north.’
Drust’s eyes widened, and he stepped in close to the captive, whispering into the Roman’s ear.
‘Tell me exactly what it is that you’re talking
about. If this is a trick I’m going to make you scream for mercy before you die.’
Cyrus grinned back at him through his pain, happy with the realisation that he had the Venicone chief hanging on his next words.
‘You’re missing something, Drust, something important. One of our soldiers found your golden torc in a tent, on the battlefield of your camp. The man you had entrusted to look after it was dead, with an artillery bolt through his spine, and so this soldier took your pretty piece of jewellery for himself. He tried to sell it to an associate of mine, who came to me for money to help him make the purchase, and so I know where that soldier is heading at this very moment, with your precious torc in his pack.’ He spat another wad of bloody phlegm on to the ground at Drust’s feet before speaking again. ‘If you promise me, on your honour, to grant me a quick and honourable death, then I will tell you who that soldier was, and where he’s marching. And I’ll give you a clue to help you decide. His cohort has orders to march to the north, to a place close enough to this that you can be in battle with them inside two days. All you have to do is guarantee me an honourable death, and I’ll tell you where.’
Arminius awoke from his temporary stupor to find Scarface sitting next to him under a clear blue sky, both of their horses contentedly cropping the grass where they were tethered a few feet away. He sat up with a gasp of pain, putting an exploratory hand to the lump on the back of his head, then looked about him, surveying the customary human detritus of any combat, hundreds of dead Selgovae lying where they had fallen, through pain-slitted eyes.
‘What the fuck? I remember hanging on to that bloody horse for grim life, but then …’
Scarface snorted a laugh.
‘But then your “bloody horse” took a header, legs all over the bloody place, jumped back up and booted you in the nut. I might well have pissed myself laughing if I hadn’t been so busy fighting off half a dozen of the hairy bastards, having left my spear stuck in the seventh.’
The German nodded, touching his head again as if to prove the story.
‘I was lucky not to get carved up, then?’
‘You were lucky that a certain young gentleman decided to hop off his own horse and fight the bloody Selgovae off you, that’s what you are, mate.’
Arminius sank back on to the grass and closed his eyes.
‘I might have guessed. How did he fare in the fight?’
‘The centurion will be back soon enough; he went to get his arm bandaged, and make sure that Prince Martos is all right, given that he managed to avoid being skewered by this shower of donkey wallopers. He kept the long-haired fuckers off you long enough for these bowlegged bastards to get their shit in a pile and come to the rescue, him and that big Selgovae monster we spared yesterday. He collected a scratch and a couple of dents doing it, but I doubt it’s knocked any more sense into him.’
Arminius got to his feet, his face taut with the pain in his head.
‘I’ll go and find him. And see who’s doing all that screaming.’
He found Marcus sitting in a queue of men with light wounds waiting for a harassed bandage carrier to attend to them, and dropped to the turf next to him, ignoring the indignant looks of the men behind him.
‘Scarface told me I’d find you up here. Any nice scars in the making?’
Marcus lifted the bandage covering his wound, revealing a foot-long slice up his left forearm, the blood that had welled from the open flesh already mostly clotted.
‘Nice. That’ll be a good one to show off to the ladies once it’s healed. Scarface said you got dented?’
He took the proffered helmet and examined the crease hammered into its surface.
‘Impressive. And a good thing that whatever did this didn’t get through it.’ A noisy commotion from the small group of warriors who had been taken prisoner, held captive under the spears of the legion cohort, made him wince. ‘Mithras, but I wish that shouting would stop! What are they doing to the man?’
Marcus lifted an eyebrow.
‘We took nineteen prisoners, including their leader Harn and both of his sons. I’d imagine the noise has something to do with what the Votadini would like to do to them.’
The German caught the slight bitterness in his tone and nodded his understanding.
‘Martos and his volunteers waited all night in the vicus for their chance to encourage the Selgovae to run for it. I suppose they had plenty of time to listen to the inhabitants of Alauna being raped and killed. Alauna being a Votadini settlement, you’ll have remembered …’
He slapped the Roman on the shoulder encouragingly.
‘I’ll go and have a look, you stay here and get that scratch sewn up.’
He stood, rolling his head on his thick neck, and then leaned back down to speak quietly in the centurion’s ear.
‘And thank you for standing over me when I was helpless. I owe you a life.’
He strode away towards the source of the noise. In the middle of a circle of variously amused, amazed and horrified cavalrymen, Martos’s warriors had erected a hasty tripod formed from the trunks of saplings felled from the copse behind which the cavalry detachment had taken shelter from view the previous evening. A group of his men had lashed a naked young Selgovae tribesman to the frame’s apex by his bound wrists, his feet tied together to prevent him from struggling and his feet barely touching the ground, requiring him to stand on tiptoe. When they stepped away, having gagged him to stop his shouts of protest, one man remained in place before the helpless prisoner, a long-bladed knife held in one hand. Scaurus and Martos were watching the preparations with apparent interest, while alongside them an older man was being restrained by a pair of burly legionaries. Catching sight of his master, the German strode across the space around the prisoner and stood before Scaurus with a slight bow. The tribune greeted him with a wry smile, returning the bow with a nod of his head.
‘You’ve recovered from your knock to the head, then, have you, Arminius?’
He nodded gingerly.
‘Apart from a headache that may be with me until the day I die, yes, Tribune.’
Scaurus shrugged, raising an eyebrow.
‘Perhaps this is what will happen every time I order you on to horseback? You managed to end up on your backside the last time as well. Since the young centurion can clearly handle himself well enough to save both his own skin and yours, perhaps I should return you to your normal task of standing at my shoulder and glaring at anyone that comes near me?’
The German bowed his head slightly.
‘I will, of course, accept any duty to which you choose to put me, but I should point out that I now owe your centurion a life.’
‘In which case you’d best stay close to him a little longer, I suppose. I believe that your horse was unhurt in your accident, so perhaps you should reclaim it and prepare for our next move. And now, if you’ll excuse me …?’
Arminius bowed again, watching as the tribune turned back to the barbarian being restrained by a pair of hefty soldiers beside him.
‘Have you seen enough of this to be sure I’m serious, Harn? I can’t say that I would enjoy having that young man tortured all that much, but then I’ve seen worse things done to my comrades over the years by men just like you, so please don’t imagine that it would trouble me in any way. And let’s not forget what we found when we searched the fort you’d just left in such a hurry.’ He looked at the fingernails of his left hand, nibbling at a rough edge before speaking again. ‘You know what treatment that boy will receive if I ask my ally Prince Martos here to let his man off the leash. In fact I’ll wager you know it better than most, given your master’s tolerance for his men’s brutality towards Romans, soldiers and civilians alike. Your man there will have his skin removed, one long strip at a time. Martos tells me that his man is an expert, and can keep his subject alive for up to a day while slowly but surely reducing him to a gibbering idiot with the pain of the whole thing. Or, of course, I can have your man there cut down and returned to hi
s fellow prisoners. All that you have to do is swear to behave yourself, and provide me with just one little bit of help. Should you choose not to do so, I have quite a good supply of your men for these Votadini to play with. The same Votadini whose king your master Calgus murdered in cold blood, you will recall, and whose warriors were betrayed to us in order to remove the inconvenience they might have otherwise posed. I doubt they’re going to get bored of hearing the screams of a dying Selgovae any time soon. So, what will it be?’
Harn stared at his feet for a long moment before raising his gaze to stare into the tribune’s eyes.
‘You’ll spare that man his life?’
‘Yes. I will personally take my sword and cut him down from where he’s hanging.’
‘And you’ll keep these Votadini dogs from torturing any of my men?’
‘If you keep your side of the deal, yes. It won’t be hard, since they want what I want just as badly as I do. But I think you ought to listen to what it is that I want before you agree too quickly. Your man there will keep while we discuss how you’re going to help us liberate Martos’s people from yours. It’s either that, or we’ll all spend an entertaining day watching him peel your young lad there down to a strip of raw meat. And we have a plentiful supply of salt, should simple skinning get too repetitive.’
Fortress of Spears Page 17