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The warrior’s free hand came up, fingers stretched out as he clawed at Pandarus’s throat. Pain exploded in the optio’s neck, and he clamped down with his chin to stop the man throttling him. Swinging his arm back, he bunched his muscles and slammed the knuckle guard into his foe’s gut, driving the air from his lungs. Hot breath flushed across his face. For an instant, the grip on his throat slackened, and he jerked back, opening a small gap between their bodies. He struck again, directly at the man’s face, and the iron guard tore at his broad nose and crushed the bone beneath. The warrior’s eyes widened in agony and rage, and his yellowed teeth bared in a wild snarl as blood coursed from his nostrils. Pandarus drew his fist back and threw all his weight into the next blow, striking directly at the temple. He connected squarely, and the warrior’s head snapped to the side, limbs spasming, before his body went limp and slumped into the tussocks of grass on the slope of the hill.

Pandarus crouched over him, fist raised, then saw that his foe was out cold and eased himself back on his heels, breathing hard. Once he had caught his breath, he stood and slipped the bloodied knuckle guard from his trembling hand and returned it to his side bag. The warrior’s horse stood a short distance away, eyeing him warily, its ears twitching.

‘Easy there, boy.’ Pandarus spoke softly, edging slowly towards the beast. He took the reins and stroked the horse’s cheek until the animal had calmed sufficiently to be led back to its fallen rider. Then, cutting strips from the man’s woven tunic, Pandarus bound his hands and feet, before gagging him and lifting him across the saddle. Satisfied that his prisoner was secure and would not fall off, he took a last glance at the native army snaking across the floor of the valley. He made a quick estimate of their strength and then turned to lead the horse towards the crest of the ridge and his men waiting for him on the far side.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Out of bounds!’ Macro shouted from the reviewing mound looking over the drill ground outside the fort. In front of him, an area had been marked out for a Harpastum pitch, with posts at each corner and a shallow chalk-filled ditch marking the halfway line. He had decided to introduce the sport into the training for the Illyrians to toughen them up and get them acting more closely with their comrades. Two sections of eight men were playing at a time, while the rest of the Illyrians and the civilians, who had been given permission to watch, stood on the sidelines and cheered or shouted ribald insults. The officers were included in the games, and Macro grinned openly as Centurion Fortunus picked himself up from the muddy surface and handed the feather-stuffed leather ball over to the opposing side.

Already the other players, in their mud-streaked tunics, were jostling for position around the man holding the ball, and he quickly hurled it towards a comrade who had broken free of the pack and now sprinted for the home side of the centre line, chased down by his opponents. He got within ten paces of the line before being tackled and pitching face first into the churned-up ground and slithering to a halt. At once the other players piled in, desperately struggling to wrestle the ball away.

Macro cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Get stuck in, Fortunus. Get on with it, man!’

The overweight officer hitched up his tunic belt and jogged towards the fray. The two teams fought for possession of the ball, and at length it slipped free and splashed into a puddle at Fortunus’s feet. He was slow to react but managed to sweep it up and advance a few paces before he was flattened by one of the opposition. The spectators roared with delight as their commander went down and more men piled in, so covered in mud that it was hard to distinguish which side they were on, despite what was still visible of the red and blue strips of cloth tied around their right arms.

A well-built player with blond hair and beard wrenched the others aside and plunged into the scrimmage, ripping the ball free before making for the halfway line. The other teams threw themselves at him, but he thrust them aside with contemptuous ease, trampling down the last defender. With a triumphant shout he half ran and half slithered the remaining distance to the line marking the home territory and slammed the ball down to the ground before punching both fists into the air and bellowing his war cry. Fortunus and the rest of the team crowded around him to slap him on the back and share his triumph, while the other team looked on in dejection.

‘The first section of Fortunus’s century wins!’ Macro announced. ‘The game’s over! Next two sections, on the pitch now!’

As the weary, filthy teams left the field and the new contestants took up their positions, Macro called Optio Diodorus over.

‘Sir?’

‘The big fellow. What’s his name?’

Diodorus glanced at the tall figure still grinning as he celebrated with the rest of his section. ‘That’s Junius Lomus, sir. An excellent man.’

‘I can see that. He’s got good spirit. Of course, it helps that he’s built like a brick shithouse.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macro considered Lomus for a moment. ‘Doesn’t look to me like he’s from Illyrian stock.’

‘He’s not, sir. He was recruited here in Britannia. His father was a wine trader from Gaul and his mother is from the Cornovii.’

Macro nodded. ‘That would explain it.’

Like many long-established auxiliary units, the Illyrian cohort had largely become Illyrian in name only, having accrued replacements from its various postings across the empire. Macro clicked his tongue. ‘He’s wasted on a second-rate unit like this. I’ll see if he’s interested in a transfer to the Blood Crows. Lomus is just the type to put the fear of the gods into the enemy. Have him come to see me after the first watch is sounded.’

Diodorus nodded.

Macro waited until the ball was placed to the rear of the team that had won the toss and elected to defend. Then the two sections lined up each side of the halfway line and waited for the signal to begin. The babble from the spectators quickly died away as Macro raised his vine cane. He waited until all was quiet and still, and then slashed the cane down to point towards the playing field. ‘Begin!’

At once the attacking team raced forward. The defenders did their best to hold them back by barring the way and roughly shoving them. Inevitably, one of the attackers slipped through, and then both teams turned and rushed towards the ball as the excited spectators shouted their encouragement. The leading attacker grabbed the ball and turned back towards the far end of the pitch, sidestepping the first tackle before he was held by a second man. Then another went low, grabbing his leg and upending him with a vicious lift that sent the ball-carrier splashing into the mud on his back. Another scrimmage started as both sides charged in to fight for possession.

As the crowd cheered, Diodorus leaned towards Macro and pointed towards the nearest of the hills. ‘Sir, up there!’

Macro squinted in the direction indicated and saw a small party of riders cantering down towards the fort. He felt a brief moment of anxiety before he picked out their red tunics.

‘It’s the patrol. They’re in a bit of a hurry. Looks like Pandarus has something to report. I’ll see to it. You take charge here. It’ll be dusk soon. Better make this the last game for today.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They exchanged a brief salute before Macro made his way down from the mound and set off towards the nearest gate of the fort. Behind him, a loud cheer went up as a player broke free of the ruck and gained several paces towards his home territory, before being caught and brought down by the other side. Macro glanced back, tempted to watch a little longer, then sighed and continued towards the gate. Pandarus would make for headquarters as soon as he returned to the fort, since that was where the garrison commander was most likely to be. And if the optio had anything significant to report, it was Macro’s duty to hear the news as soon as possible.