He nodded curtly at Julius and, kissing Felicia on the cheek, turned to leave.
‘I’ll be back soon enough.’
‘And if you’re not?’
The Roman turned, stroking a tear from his wife’s cheek.
‘Then I’ll be with Mithras. In which case, my love, honour my memory?’
He stepped out of the tent and started walking towards the wall’s looming bulk, Julius falling in alongside him and speaking quietly in the morning’s calm.
‘You’re a stubborn bastard, I’ll give you that much. Will you reconsider?’ The only reply his friend offered was a curt shake of his head, the pugnacious set of his jaw making the first spear sigh in only partially affected despair. ‘I know, you gave your word, and the trustworthiness of a Roman gentleman is the last thing he can afford to lose. Except you’re not a Roman gentleman any more, are you Marcus? You’re a centurion in an arse end of the empire auxiliary cohort, and to those people out there your word’s not worth the steam off your piss. So give up this lunacy, and we’ll lower the stiff off the wall by rope. They can have a truce to come and get their dead king. You’ll never see this man Galatas again, so there’ll be no-one any the wiser. What do you say; shall we all decide to live to see tomorrow’s dawn?’
Marcus stopped walking and turned to face him.
‘And if you’d given your word to a man that you would do a thing? What then, Julius? What if your only reward was likely to be cold iron, but you’d looked a fellow warrior in the eye and made a solemn vow? How would you be able to tolerate your own company for the rest of your life if you walked away from that promise?’
The first spear shook his head in bemusement.
‘Marcus, nobody’s going to think any the less of you for not committing suicide at the hands of this pack of howling barbarian scum. Think of your wife and child.’
The Roman nodded, turning back to the wall and resuming his steady pace.
‘I am. I’m sparing them the indignity of watching me deal with the bitterness and self-castigation that will be my fate if I deny my instinct in this matter. Now let us get this done, with no further attempts to dissuade me from following the path my honour dictates.’
Realising that he was beaten, the first spear fell silent for the remainder of the walk to the wall, following his friend up the rampart’s steps to where the king’s body waited on the fighting platform in its tight wrappings. Tribune Scaurus was standing alongside it looking out over the enemy camp, and when he saw Marcus he pointed a finger at the archers waiting patiently outside of the range of the Thracian’s bows in the grey of dawn.
‘You’ll be inside the reach of their arrows by the time you’ve taken fifty paces, Centurion. You won’t be able to make a run without them peppering you with arrows before you can cover half the distance back this way. I suggest you give up this insane idea before I find myself lacking yet another experienced officer.’
Marcus shrugged.
‘I won’t be running, Tribune. Whatever it is that’s waiting for me in that camp is better than dying within sight of our wall with an arrow in my back. You can give me a direct order not to go out there, but you’ll be sacrificing two things if you do.’
Scaurus chuckled softly.
‘I can guess one of them — your sense of honour, yes?’ Marcus nodded gravely. ‘And the other?’
‘The chance that we might yet manage a negotiated peace with these people.’
Scaurus raised an eyebrow.
‘More likely that we’ll manage nothing of the sort, but I can see the way you’re thinking, and if you’re not to be dissuaded. .’ Marcus shook his head, and the tribune turned to Julius with a helpless shrug. ‘Very well. Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’
Marcus watched in grave silence as the dead Sarmatae ruler was lowered over the wall’s edge and down to the bare earth below. Once the corpse was safely on the ground, he faced Julius with a grim smile.
‘It’s time to go and see what fate I’m due. Look after my wife and child, if the worst possibility comes to pass.’
Before any of them could answer he gripped the knotted rope and stepped over the wall’s parapet, lowering himself down to join the king’s corpse. Regaining his feet he cast a glance at the enemy camp and saw a sudden bustle of activity as more warriors issued from the gates to stand ready to repel any attack. Squatting, he untied the rope around the corpse and gathered the dead king’s body into his arms. Struggling to his feet he turned, and began the long, slow walk towards the barbarian camp without looking back at the cluster of officers watching his progress from the wall above. As before, his approach was greeted by a group of horsemen headed by the dead king’s son, although this time, he noticed, the prince had dispensed with the obvious threat of his long lance. Reining his horse in a few paces from the Roman, he stared down at the centurion’s burden with a look of fear and sorrow.
‘You bring my father to me, do you, Roman?’
Marcus nodded, standing stock-still with the king’s heavy body held across his chest.
‘As I swore I would, Galatas Boraz. He surrendered to his wounds in the night.’
The prince bowed his head.
‘Tell me truly, did he die alone?’
Marcus shook his head.
‘No. When it became clear that his end was near, my tribune, a warrior of proven courage, paid his respects as was only fitting, and sat with him until the end. The king died with his sword in his hands.’
Galatas sighed, staring down at the body in Marcus’s arms.
‘For that much I am grateful.’
The prince gestured to his men, and a pair of slaves came forward to relieve the Roman of his burden. Marcus stood still, acutely aware of the iron and bone arrowheads pointing at him. After a moment Galatas lifted his head again, unashamed of the tears streaking his cheeks.
‘There are men all around you, Roman, who will be strongly tempted to put their bone heads into you and watch you die in agony as their revenge for my father’s death. Have you seen what our crimson arrows can do to a man?’
Marcus returned his gaze steadily.
‘I have. One of your scouts managed to scrape himself with such an arrow when we disturbed his hiding place during our march here. It did not look to be any sort of death for a warrior. I gave him peace, rather than stand and watch a warrior die in so unfitting a manner.’
‘I see.’ Galatas shook his head, and Marcus felt a slight easing of the tension in the air around him. ‘And for that I give you my respect.’
He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, glancing sideways at the bodyguard beside him, the man Amnoz who had shown such enmity during the Roman’s previous visit. Beneath the looted Roman helmet the bodyguard’s face was set in obdurate lines, his eyes fixed on Marcus with an undisguised, smouldering hatred. Alongside him was another man with their father’s features, clearly several years older and heavier set, and he recalled Balodi telling him that Inarmaz had another son. Where Amnoz’s expression was one of a simple lust to kill the Roman, his brother Alardy’s face was altogether more calculating. Galatas spoke again, and Marcus heard a note of resignation in his voice.
‘You will recall that my uncle Inarmaz swore an oath to have your head the next time he saw you. Amnoz is his son, and he has repeated his father’s oath. I have discussed this matter with them both at length, and expressed my disappointment that they should violate the hospitality of my camp, but my uncle has declared that he will serve only the king. Since I am not yet acclaimed by the nobles, he is refusing to accept my command to desist in this matter. It is a thin distinction, but in the absence of my uncle I am not strong enough to force obedience upon them. Not yet. .’
Marcus looked up at him and realised from the weariness in his face that the young prince had problems enough of his own to deal with. He nodded, casting a level stare at Amnoz.
‘I understand. You cannot protect me from this man without weakening your own position, perhaps to the p
oint of provoking a rebellion.’
Galatas nodded, and the Roman looked at the warriors gathered behind him, seeking out those men whose faces betrayed their uncertainty as to whether they should back the young man at their head. He found enough men who appeared undecided to support Balodi’s assertion that his nephew’s position was by no means secure.
‘I see. You are yet to be acclaimed as the new king of your tribe, since your father’s death has only just been confirmed. And every man here will watch and judge you if you prevent Asander Boraz’s men from seeking some vengeance on the men who killed their ruler. And yet to murder the man returning your father’s body to you in cold blood, that might also earn you the ire of your gods. I see your quandary, Prince Galatas, and I might offer a suggestion that will suit both our needs?’
A curt laugh sounded from behind the prince, and Inarmaz pushed his horse to the front of the group, his powerful stallion biting bad temperedly at the beasts in its way.
‘Go on then, Roman, show the prince here the way out of his dilemma. Doubtless it will involve your being allowed to leave unharmed?’
Marcus opened and raised his hands, stepping slowly forward while the arrowheads tracked his movement. The polished iron head of Amnoz’s kontos dropped to meet him, its point digging lightly into his mailed chest in a clear warning, and Marcus smiled up at the man with his teeth bared.
‘As to your last point, Inarmaz, the answer is more than likely yes; I assure you that I will be walking away from this place. But to understand why that would be the case, you might want to consider the possibility that far from protecting me from you and his father’s men, Prince Galatas might be trying to protect you from me?’ He stared at Amnoz for a moment longer, then spat on the ground before the horses’ feet.
Galatas whipped out a hand, taking a handful of the tunic protruding from beneath Amnoz’s mail shirt and preventing him from dismounting with a sudden harsh word of command. Turning back to Marcus he narrowed his eyes in question.
‘You wish to forfeit the traditional protection I am obliged to offer you, given that you have returned simply to bring my father’s body to me?’
Marcus nodded curtly, staring at Amnoz with an intensity that was only partly feigned.
‘I do. I challenge him to a duel in the manner I am told is traditional for your tribe, one sword and two men, with only one allowed to leave the ring of shields. Does he accept, or is his bravery nothing more than a show to impress the boy he keeps in his tent?’
Inarmaz looked down at him with an ugly grin.
‘My son may not speak your tongue the way I do, but I’m sure he’ll have recognised the term you just used. Unless you’re as good in the circle as you seem to believe, Roman, you’ll soon find yourself on your back in the mud with your guts split open and the dogs pulling at your entrails.’
He nodded to his son, and the bodyguard shouted a string of orders to the peasant infantrymen gathered behind the horses. While Marcus watched they hurriedly formed a wide circle around him, planting their shields in an uninterrupted barrier of wood and iron that would hem the combatants into the arena in which their fate would be decided. The prince dismounted and took a shield from one of them, carrying it across to Marcus and handing it to him with a grimace.
‘You’re possibly the bravest man I have met, Centurion, or the most stupid. Probably both. Unless your supreme self-confidence is justified, Amnoz will play with you for a while before crippling you in order to have his sport, and then when you are too weak even to beg for the mercy stroke, he will most assuredly open your body and leave you here, alive but helpless for the dogs. I’ve seen him fight a dozen such duels, and trust me, there’s no contest involved. For Amnoz such matters are simply sport.’ He looked Marcus hard in the eyes, shaking his head slightly. ‘The conditions for this contest are simple. Firstly, you must fight bareheaded.’
Marcus loosened the strap of his helmet and took it off, handing the heavy iron bowl to Galatas, who in turn passed it to one of the men forming the circle. Amnoz shouted a comment across to the warrior, and the men around them laughed at his words while Galatas smiled darkly, drawing his sword from its scabbard. Marcus looked down at the blade, wondering how heavy it would be in comparison to his own patterned spatha. The weapon’s hilt was decorated with a pommel fashioned in the shape of an eagle’s talons gripping a ball of metal.
‘If you are needing any motivation then it might help for you to know Amnoz is telling him to take good care of that helmet, since he’ll be wearing it from now on. Very shortly now I will place this sword in the ground in the middle of the ring, and at my signal the fight will begin. The first man to the sword has the right to draw it from the earth and attack the other in whatever way he chooses, while his opponent can resist that attack by any means at his disposal. Do you understand?’
Marcus looked across the ring at his opponent, seeing the confidence in Amnoz’s eyes as he swung his arms in a perfunctory warm-up.
‘I understand. And for my part, I’m told that Amnoz is a good swordsman, not supremely talented but faster and stronger than most of your men. He’s also somewhat overconfident, and stronger on his right-hand side than his left. And your uncle Balodi sends you his regards. Do you understand?’
Galatas nodded in response to the question with an expression of slight bafflement and then turned away, firmly planting the sword’s blade in the turf between the combatants before stepping back out of the ring of shields which closed behind him, isolating the two men within an arena roughly thirty feet across. Amnoz nodded to his father before turning to face Marcus, and silence fell across the circle as the men around them watched the Roman square up to their champion with grins of anticipation. Galatas gave the necessary signal to a warrior holding a horn, and as the instrument touched the man’s lips Amnoz sprinted forward to rip the sword from the turf with a triumphant shout while Marcus stood and watched, allowing his shield’s rim to rest on the ground at his feet. The Sarmatae turned to his comrades and raised the weapon in triumph, receiving their cheers with the outstretched arms of a victorious gladiator, but his look of glee faded when he turned to the Roman only to find him watching the spectacle with apparent disinterest. Raising the sword to his lips, Amnoz kissed its blade reverentially to renewed cheers, then swung it with a smirk to point at Marcus, stepping into a fighting stance and advancing slowly towards his intended victim.
Still the Roman waited and watched, holding back from making any move until the weapon’s point was only feet away from his face. Sliding one foot back he raised his right arm to bring the shield into place, watching Amnoz’s eyes over the rim and waiting impassively for him to make the first move, hoping that his immobility would be taken for fear by the grinning barbarian. With a casual shrug to his comrades the champion stepped in closer, swinging his sword in a vicious attack at Marcus’s bare head. The blade clanged off the Roman’s raised shield in a flash of sparks from its iron rim, and the centurion stepped back again, pulling the shield back close to his body, while the men in the ring of shields jeered at the tactic. Amnoz swung the heavy blade again without any pause, attacking with a horizontal cut that hammered a deep groove in the wooden board and jarred Marcus backwards to renewed cheers from the men around them. Again the Roman stepped back, pulling the shield so close to his body that his nose was almost touching the iron rim, reaching stealthily to his belt with his left hand behind its cover. Sensing victory, Amnoz swung the sword up over his head, clearly aiming to chop it down into the shield with enough force to split the iron rim and cleave the wood behind it asunder, but as the heavy blade reached the height of its swing Marcus stepped decisively forward, taking a deep lungful of air as he did so. Pushing the right-hand edge of his shield behind his opponent’s board he bellowed defiantly into Amnoz’s face, then used the momentary advantage of surprise to wrench the other man’s shield away from his body. Discarding his own shield he stepped in close and reached up to take the other man’s raised sword ar
m in a powerful grip that held the weapon uselessly in the air above them.
Amnoz had only an instant in which to realise that the Roman was armed before the knife was between his ribs, shuddering as Marcus pushed a hunting blade of polished metal the length of a man’s hand through his mail armour and into his chest. Looking down he frowned in disbelief at the sudden shock of the wound, staring with blank eyes at the odd swirling pattern which decorated that portion of the blade not buried deep in his chest. A shocked hush fell across the circle, and the warriors around them watched in amazement as Marcus, keeping a firm hold of the wounded warrior’s sword hand with his left hand, twisted the knife’s handle to bring the blade’s cutting edge uppermost and dragging a groan of pain from the agonised champion’s lips. Setting his teeth in a snarl, the Roman wrenched the steel up through his ribs, angling the blade to carve its point into his opponent’s heart. Amnoz died where he stood, his eyes rolling upwards, and his body sagging loosely on pain-stiffened legs. Releasing his grip on the knife’s handle Marcus pried the sword from the dying man’s slack grip, leaving the smaller blade buried deep in his chest and kicking hard at the tottering corpse to send it sprawling into the centre of the circle.
After a moment’s stunned silence, Galatas stepped into the ring of shields, but as he opened his mouth to speak Inarmaz shouldered his way into the circle from behind him, his other son a pace behind. Ripping his sword from its scabbard the noble pushed his nephew aside and stalked forward to pick up his dead son’s shield, ignoring the angry words his prince was shouting at him, while Amnoz’s brother Alardy took a shield from one of the men lining the circle. Marcus took stock of Inarmaz’s older son in that brief moment while Galatas railed at the nobleman, watching as the heavily built warrior hefted his sword and stared back at him over the shield’s rim. Pointing his blade at Marcus, Inarmaz barked a terse sentence over his shoulder in his own language, smiling grimly as Galatas fell silent. Stepping forward until the two men’s swords were close enough to touch, Inarmaz spat out his fury in a tone edged with hatred.
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