“I’m just a cook,” he said through the tears. “Please.”
His plea was translated and the barbarians laughed all the harder.
One of the legionaries was dragged to the cabinet and smacked in the face. The man groaned, coming to just as he was slammed chest-first onto the stone. Fighting to stand, he was too weak and easily held down.
Looking up, the legionary’s eyes were wide with fear. They focused on Silanus and then the cutting began. The man screamed as the knives peeled the flesh from his back in long strips, blood dripping from the slab and into the statue’s hungry maw.
One of the Ordovices, large and bearded, stepped up. Draped in furs, he looked more bear than man. In one hand he held a chisel. He placed it against the legionary’s back then swung a hammer. The hollow crack of the man’s ribs breaking away from his spine echoed through the woods.
Silanus could no longer watch. He stared at the ground, the smoke stinging his eyes and throat. The man’s screams did not last much longer.
This is the end. I never even got to see Rome.
A whistling sound cut through the air. Silanus looked up in time to see a pila slam into the hammer-wielder’s chest. The man staggered back, eyes wide, and crashed to the ground.
The other barbarians whirled and pulled their swords as more pilum struck their targets. Three more of them went down, two dead and one wheezing bloody foam onto his lips. A fourth had managed to raise a shield and catch the spear that came for him. The soft metal head bent from the weight of the shaft, just as it was designed to, and pulled the man’s shield down. He stomped on the pila but it held. Dark shapes erupted from the trees but his shield had been made useless.
Roman soldiers rushed in. Silanus almost cheered as they cut down his captors. The Ordovices were fierce and met their enemy head on, swinging their long swords and crashing against the Romans with abandon. They were met by sturdy shields when the legionaries crowded them, rendering their long swords useless as sharp gladii stabbed with almost mechanical precision.
Silanus scrambled over to a cart and away from the fight, searching for something he could defend himself with. He found another hammer but tossed it aside when he saw the hilt of a Roman short sword. Knowing it likely belonged to the soldier he’d seen sacrificed, he clutched it tight and crouched behind the cart.
The Romans made quick and vicious work of the Ordovices, blood steaming as it spattered the snow. Silanus could not place what legion the men were with; he’d never seen soldiers dressed in indigo and charcoal armor before, but he didn’t care. He would live because of them.
Bodies littered the small clearing, twitching and moaning. There had been over twenty barbarians when they had stopped here; now only the one-eyed old man and two of the younger ones lived. Scanning the Roman soldiers, Silanus was surprised to count eight of them. It had seemed a full legion descended upon the clearing. How could a single a contubernium take out so many? He hoped there weren’t other bands of Ordovices nearby.
The three survivors dropped their swords and fell to their knees, hands behind their heads, and begged in their tongue for what could only be mercy.
One of the Romans stepped forward, wiping his gladius clean on his thigh before sheathing it. His hair was gray and a scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He must have been the unit’s Decanus.
“I can only assume you’re begging for your lives,” he said. “Where is the Droch-fhola?”
Silanus didn’t understand what the soldier had said. Droch-fhola?
One of the barbarians spat on the ground and the other two glared.
The Decanus sighed. “Then you’re useless to me.” He turned to his men. “Open them.”
The soldiers stepped forward.
“Wait,” Silanus said and stood. They turned as he walked toward them, his voice trembling as much as his freezing muscles. “That one speaks Latin.”
The old man turned his one good eye to the boy. “You bastard.”
The Decanus pulled a thick cloak from one of the fallen barbarians. The dying man weakly clutched at the cloth, and the Roman brought his boot down onto the man’s face as he jerked the cloak away and tossed it to Silanus.
The commander nodded to his men and they went to work stabbing the bodies on the ground to make certain they had all been killed in the fighting. Most had.
Kneeling, the Decanus asked his question again. “Where is the Droch-fhola?”
“Killing more Romans,” the old man said, “if there is any justice in the world.”
Nodding as if he’d expected that answer, he grabbed the barbarian to the old man’s right and pressed a thumb into his eye. The barbarian squirmed and fought, but the Roman’s grip was iron and blood soon ran down the man’s face.
The other barbarian scampered to his feet and ran. He made to shove one of the soldiers out of his way but the soldier pivoted and brought the edge of his shield down onto the man’s knee. There was a loud snap and the barbarian fell to the ground squealing. Looking to his commander, the soldier received whatever confirmation he needed and brought the edge of his shield down again, this time on the barbarian’s throat. The squealing stopped.
“Please,” the old man said. The color had left his face. “I’m sorry. Please.”
The Decanus released the man, who fell to his side and held his face as he sucked sharp, trembling breaths.
“Have you seen the Droch-fhola?”
“Promise you will show us mercy.”
“As you have shown your prisoners?” He motioned to the legionary on the slab, his body limp and eyes empty.
The old man shook his head. “That was an offering. It’s not the same.”
“I’m not here to debate the merits of cruelty. You will die — you and your friend. Tell me what I want to know and it will be quick. Refuse and I’ll cut your tongues from your mouths and remove your feet and leave you here for the wolves.”
“All right,” the old man said, his voice weak. “I’ll tell you, then. It is in these very woods.”
“We know. Have you seen it?”
He nodded. “We spotted it last night. Only the sacrifices would have kept us safe.”
“And how does one kill the thing?”
The old man’s mouth twisted. “Kill it? How does one kill the wind?”
“I am not hunting the wind.”
Scratching the scar tissue where his left eye had once been, the old man said, “You Romans. There is no creature or spirit that you don’t think should roll over and bleed for you. I’ll tell you this thing, and it isn’t much, but is all I know. When I was a child and the Droch-fhola killed our sheep, my grandfather built a hut of yew and we slept there for seven days and seven nights.”
“That is all you know?”
“That is all.”
“Thank you.” The gladius flicked his wrist and opened the old man’s throat.
That one eye went wide and the barbarian fell forward, gurgling and sputtering until his twitching ceased. Another soldier did the same for the remaining barbarian.
The Decanus turned to Silanus. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Decimus Junius Silanus, sir.”
His brow furrowed. “The Younger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your father was a Centurion?”
That took Silanus off guard. “You knew my father?”
He waved the question away. “That was a long time ago. I suggest you find some clothes and shoes.” He walked over to the remaining captive, the legionary that had not been sacrificed, and placed his fingers to the man’s throat. “Who were these men?”