‘Didn’t think they’d come,’ Vindex said softly.
There was more movement in the doorway as two more men emerged.
‘Bugger, they must have had friends,’ the scout hissed.
‘Must have met up with them here,’ Ferox said.
‘Still think this is a good idea?’ Another man appeared, swatting away the assistance of a boy. Vindex sighed as he recognised the very tall, terribly lean figure. ‘Silly old sod. Must be one of his boys.’
Ferox nodded. ‘Only kill them if you have to.’
He was interrupted by a scream of rage as one of the warriors pelted towards them, little shield in front and long, blunt-tipped sword held high ready to sweep down. Some of the others came on steadily, but there was no time to watch them closely as the attacker was on the causeway. He was heading for Ferox, his high-crested helmet drawing attention as it always did.
Ferox and Vindex both took a pace back as the man stamped his left foot down and swept his sword at where the Roman had been. He recovered before the blade went too low, and that showed some skill, but then the centurion thrust the torch at him, the motion making the fire blaze dazzlingly bright. The warrior dodged, saw Vindex coming at him from the side and switched his shield in that direction just as Ferox jabbed with his gladius. The long, wickedly sharp point drove easily through tunic, skin and muscle, sliding into the ribcage from below. Gasping for breath, the warrior let his sword fall and staggered as the centurion twisted the blade and yanked it free. He sank to his knees, a trickle of blood coming from his lips, and tried to speak, but no sound came. Ferox kicked the dying man into the ditch.
‘They should have rushed us then, while they had the chance,’ he said, his tone almost disapproving of his enemies’ mistake. He heard Eburus shouting something about a spear and shield, his tone as aggrieved as ever, and then his lad trotted over to the far hut. A deep voice protested, then spat a curse at the old man, and the other five came on, the bald axeman in the centre, two warriors on his left and the other on his right. The deserter hung back a couple of paces, sword held low in one of the standard guards approved by the divine Augustus in his regulations for the army. There was no hurry, or any sign that they had drunk too much of the old man’s beer, which had surely prompted the other warrior’s lone assault.
Ferox tossed the torch onto the causeway. It flickered, but continued to burn. Instead he drew his stubby pugio dagger in his left hand, thumb on the pommel and point downwards. Most legionaries either kept their daggers wrapped up and heavily oiled and polished, producing them only for inspection, or treated them casually for cutting their food. Fighting with one was a skill that took a lot of practice, but since he did not have a shield there was nothing he would rather have alongside his sword.
Cistumucus thrust out his matted chest and roared like a beast, brandishing the long axe above his head. The warrior closest to him held a heavy shafted spear. Ferox could see no sign of a sword, which meant that he was unlikely to risk throwing the spear unless he was sure of his mark. Thankfully none of the enemy had javelins, so perhaps some god was on their side after all.
The spearman was on the bald axeman’s left, facing Ferox. Beside him the warrior jumped down into the ditch to threaten the centurion from the side. Rufus kept back, watching and waiting, ready to pounce. Before the deserter had gone over the rampart he had cut the throat of his decurion while the man was asleep. In battles and brawls he’d shown himself a vicious fighter, but he was not a man to take an unnecessary risk.
Cistumucus bellowed again and as he did stamped forward and swung the axe down so that it hummed through the air. Ferox dodged to the side, and only just had time to parry the thrusting spear point of the warrior in front of him, beating it aside with his gladius. He had to step back to keep his balance, and seeing the man in the ditch coming up the shallow bank he stepped back again. Vindex thrust his blade forward, aiming for Cistumucus’ eyes, but the stocky man flicked the axe back up with staggering speed, blocked the attack, then was poised for another downward blow. The two men were a pace apart, eyeing each other warily, waiting for their chance.
On the axeman’s right, the other warrior went into the ditch, moving warily, small shield up. Vindex’s eyes flicked to watch him, then back to face Cistumucus just as the axe flashed down again. There was no time to raise his shield, so the scout slashed with his sword and swayed so that the blade of the axe glanced against his bronze helmet with a clang weirdly like a bell ringing. Vindex staggered, his helmet twisted round and chin bloodied where the cheek pieces had torn loose. His cut had lacked real force, but had gouged across the hairy belly of his foe. In the light it was hard to see whether he had drawn blood or whether the matted hair really was as thick as a bear’s hide and the man could not be wounded.
Ferox jabbed with his dagger against the spearman, and gave a wild slash at the man coming up this side of the ditch. Both gave way for a moment, but the respite was brief and almost at once they came on again. The warrior in the ditch near Vindex saw the lean man staggering and bounded up the bank, then shrieked as his shoes slipped on piled excrement and he flipped backwards, arms flailing and legs in the air. It was so absurd that even the stunned Vindex snorted with laughter, his helmet falling off with the motion.
Cistumucus gave no sign that he noticed and raised the axe again, but the spearman’s head flicked around to see what had happened. Ferox flung his dagger. The pugio was a heavy, clumsy weapon and he did not have a chance to ready it properly in his hand, but the range was short and all the years of practice made it fly true, the point burying itself into Cistumucus’ great belly, making him grunt like an injured animal. Ferox whipped his empty left hand down and grasped the spear shaft just below the head, yanking it towards him. He swung to the right, putting all his weight behind his gladius so that the long triangular tip drove into the man’s face so hard that it burst out through the back of his head.
The sword was trapped and Ferox let go of the grip just as the man in the ditch cut hard against his side. It was not a perfect blow, and a jab would have been more dangerous save that the warrior’s sword had no point, but still it snapped one or two of the mail rings and felt like the blow of a hammer and he fell to his knees. He still had hold of the spear and he wrenched it free from the dead man’s grip, then let himself fall because the axe was slashing at him. Cistumucus was screaming in high-pitched rage, and Ferox rolled aside an instant before the axe struck the hard ground and bounced up. The warrior in the ditch was crouching as he came up the slope. He dropped his sword and grabbed the centurion’s leg. Ferox lashed out with the other foot, struck the man’s face, and the heavy, hobnailed sole of his boot smashed his nose and drove him away.
‘Bastard!’ Vindex yelled as he went at Cistumucus, and the screaming man did not seem slowed or weakened by the knife sticking in his stomach for the axe was up and then sliced down. The scout blocked the blow with his shield, but such was the power that the blade shattered the board, which fell to pieces, the boss riven and Vindex’s fist numb. Ferox managed to get his other hand around the thick shaft of the spear and he used all the strength he could muster to jab the point backwards, luck as much as aim driving it into the axeman’s thigh. Cistumucus wavered and Vindex sliced down so that his long sword bit into the bald man’s skull. Blood sprayed as he yanked the blade free and cut down again. The wounded northerner sank to his knees, flailing wildly with the axe so that Vindex had to leap back. Ferox pushed himself up, still clutching tightly to the spear, and ripped it free. Vindex came on again, slashing his sword down two-handed, and when the axe was raised to block the attack its haft was sliced in two. Ferox thrust the spear into Cistumucus’ eye, this time rolling the point so that it came free easily. The two warriors in the ditch were both standing, staring up in disbelief at their dead leader.