At first, merchants and escort alike suspiciously eyed the black tunics and silver breastplates that marked them as members of the Emperor’s elite. But gradually the barriers fell as they mixed around the campfires as honest travellers do, and tested their languages against each other. Of them all, Serpentius was most at home among the escort, exercising with them in the cool of the morning and testing the legionary gladius against the curved swords of the Scythians or hefting the heavy axes of the northern giants.
‘You would have done well as an auxiliary, Serpentius,’ Valerius advised him, as they rode side by side at the head of the convoy in the dusty heat of the afternoon. ‘You could still; you are young enough. Twenty-five years and a pension and Roman citizenship at the end of it.’
The Spaniard’s look darkened. ‘I am an honoured member of my tribe, even now, though I am a slave. The Romans killed my family. Why would I wish to fight for Rome and become a Roman?’
‘Sometimes it is more sensible to put the past behind you than to allow it to control you. As long as I have the Emperor’s seal I can arrange it. There is no need to die in the arena.’
Serpentius solemnly lifted his bald head and the dark eyes glittered. ‘Serpentius alone chooses where he lives and where he dies.’ His face broke into a grin. ‘Wasn’t it you who told me I could die in my own time?’ He whipped up his horse and rode on to range ahead of the column, but almost in the same instant whirled and screamed at Valerius.
‘Ambush!’
Valerius used his knees to turn his horse towards the column about two hundred paces back down the rough dirt track. The reins were wrapped around the wooden fist of his right hand and with his left he drew his sword. Arrows zipped past his head and he ducked low in the saddle as he frantically scanned the roadside for threats. A running figure armed with a long wooden spear came at him from his right and he swerved to avoid the point as it sought out his mount’s undefended flank. The manoeuvre brought him close to a raised bank on the opposite side of the track and he heard Serpentius shout a warning. Too late. A second ambusher launched himself from the top of the mound and smashed him from the saddle. Valerius landed with a sickening crash that knocked the wind from him and rattled the helmet from his head. He was stunned by the impact, but his years of training took over. For most military tribunes, service in the legions was merely a step towards a career in politics. They stayed six months, making themselves useful or not, and if they didn’t die in some Brigantean forest or German swamp they went home. But not Valerius. He had discovered, to his own surprise as much as anyone’s, that he was a true warrior; a natural soldier who enjoyed the challenges of campaigning and could kill without hesitation or conscience. Two years in Britain, and the Boudiccan rebellion, had taught him to survive.
He rolled away from the threat and came to his feet in a single movement, crouching to meet his attacker with his sword held low ready to stab at guts or groin. This wasn’t the battle line, it was gutter fighting, but Valerius knew all about gutter fighting. It was about doing whatever it took to win. He noticed with only mild surprise that his opponent was one of the Illyrians who had been waiting at the dock in Acruvium. Dark and feral, the bandit held a long curved knife. He’d be fast and he’d be confident. A scuffling from behind alerted Valerius to a new danger and he half turned to find the spearman fifteen paces away and running towards him. The spear held no fears for the Roman, but the man with the long knife was an added complication. By now Valerius’s horse had struggled to its feet and he backed away, placing the frightened animal between himself and the enemy who had knocked him from the saddle. The move won him vital seconds and he advanced on the spearman to provoke an attack. The Illyrian’s face broke into savage grin and he thrust the point at Valerius’s throat, which was what the Roman had counted upon. He stepped towards the point, angling to his left, and used the walnut fist of his right hand to parry the blow. The spearman had been forced to aim high because of the breastplate protecting Valerius’s chest and stomach and it allowed the Roman to knock the point clear of his right shoulder. At the same time he spun down the length of the spear shaft, slicing the gladius edge into his enemy’s skull. The shock surged up his arm as the iron blade met solid bone and a smear of crimson stained the air. His opponent dropped like a stone, but he had no time to celebrate victory. The spin brought him face to face with his other foe, who by now had worked his way round the horse and was preparing to plunge the knife into his back. The sight of the bloody gladius made him pause, but he jabbed the blue-green blade at Valerius’s eyes as he sought the weakness that would give him an advantage. He had to get close, but the Roman’s skill with the short sword kept him just out of range for a decisive thrust. The Illyrian danced right and left, seeking an opening, and Valerius was reminded of his bout with Serpentius. Don’t fight like a one-handed man, or a two-handed man. Fight like a killer. Marcus’s words made him smile. The assassin saw the grin and for the first time he felt doubt. He’d seen what had happened to his companion, but that only meant the spoils would be all the greater. All he had to do was kill as he had killed many times before. The smile made it different. The smile meant he faced a man who wasn’t cowed by his speed and who would meet his aggression with aggression. The smile meant he needed a way out. But Valerius wasn’t going to give him a way out. Fight like a killer. He used his own speed and the left-handed sword to keep his opponent off balance, always looking for the opening. He saw the wild eyes flick to the left as a scream told him Serpentius too was keeping his attackers busy. The Illyrian was ready to run when Valerius gave him his opportunity. A slight stumble left his right side open to the knife. The blade flicked out like a viper’s strike, but the Roman met it with his wooden hand. Designed to hold a shield, it was shaped like a partially closed fist, and now the fist caught the knife blade and twisted in the same movement. A normal hand would have been cut to the bone, but this was no normal hand. The seasoned walnut bent the inferior iron of the knife and trapped it in its grip. The Illyrian frantically tried to tug the blade free even as Valerius drove the gladius deep into his body. The point entered below the breast bone and the force of it drove a grunt of agony from the assassin’s throat. Still he kept his grip on the dagger. Only when Valerius twisted the short sword free and the blood spurted from the terrible wound in his abdomen did the dying man collapse to his knees.
Valerius turned to find Serpentius calmly leading his horse towards him, his sword bloody to the hilt. A dozen men came running from the direction of the convoy. The Illyrian spearman’s heels still twitched in the dust and someone cut his throat as Valerius’s horse snickered nervously over his body. The other man rocked back and forth on his knees, his dark head bowed over his chest and his hands attempting vainly to hold in his insides. As Valerius watched he vomited a fountain of dark heart blood and rolled slowly forward on to his face.
Two riders appeared from beyond the bank where the ambushers had struck and threw a filthy, ragged bundle at Valerius’s feet; a boy of about ten, who immediately began pleading in a language the Roman couldn’t understand.