As he repeatedly turned and parried blows from the front and the right, trying to hold off two men at once, in one of those clarity-in-battle moments, he instinctively felt rather than saw his opponent’s mistake. The lithe one on the right suddenly over-extended, trying to bring his blade around to Fronto’s unprotected side. Gritting his teeth, the Roman took advantage, bringing his own sword up and striking at that extended arm, driving the point into the muscle.
As the lithe one cried out, his sword falling from shaking fingers, Fronto almost died there and then. In attacking that man so, he’d opened himself up in exactly the same manner to the tall one in the middle, whose blade had been aimed unerringly for the point just below Fronto’s collar bone until it was caught by the desperate upswing of Aurelius’ blade and knocked aside.
There was no time to thank the man. Even as Aurelius, thrown off-balance in trying to protect Fronto, took the third warrior’s blade in his left arm, the middle Gaul came in for a second strike with surprising speed. Fronto found himself back-stepping towards the stairs, the tall one lashing out again and again at lightning speed, like a snake’s flicking tongue, forcing him on the defensive. The Gaul he’d wounded was recovering from the shock, using his good arm to draw a dagger from his belt, and would soon be in the fight once more, helping force Fronto back.
Aurelius clashed again and again with the man in front of him, and Fronto noted that even Andala was in trouble now, the fourth Gaul pressing her back towards the bed and his wife. As he swung and parried, desperately holding off their blades, Fronto saw brief flashes between the figures. He saw Lucilia motion for the slave women to keep the children back as she herself stepped forward. He felt his heart stop for a moment at the sight of his wife stepping into the fray, handling her blade inexpertly, but with a willpower he recognised as unstoppable.
Even as he fought, he reached up with his free hand and touched the Fortuna figurine at his neck. Across the room, Lucilia’s initial blow was clumsy and easily turned. But Andala was proving to be smart. Despite the failure of his wife’s attempt, the cloaked Gaul had been distracted by the attack, and gasped as Andala drove Fronto’s second best blade deep into his neck, turning it as she did so, ruining windpipe, gullet and arteries all in one, mincing the man’s throat before ripping the sword back out. She was of the Bellovaci, a tribe of the Belgae, and Fronto could remember their first campaigns up there six years ago. Even the women were dangerous, they’d said. Thank the gods, they had been right!
There was no shriek from her victim – he had no throat with which to do it – and as he staggered and dropped to his knees, Andala stepped forward like a victorious gladiator, ripping away the torn cloak and driving her blade down into his chest from above, executing him swiftly.
All this came to Fronto only in brief flashes, and his attention was pulled away as he felt a nick to his side, slicing through his chiton but leaving only a light flesh wound. Hissing, he dipped to the side, knocking the dagger from the third Gaul’s hand with his sword’s pommel and leaving that man unarmed once more.
Aurelius staggered as a heavy blow from the bull-necked one facing him slammed his blade back against his face and almost did for him.
And then Andala was there like one of the furies unleashed, stabbing Fronto’s gladius into the back of Aurelius’ opponent repeatedly and ripping it out – stab, rip, stab, rip, stab, rip.
The bull-necked one shrieked and stumbled forwards, but Aurelius just pushed him back and added his own blade to the flurry that was killing him so viciously, stabbing him in the chest even as his back continued to be ravaged. For a moment, Fronto wondered why Andala had concentrated on that one when Fronto was busily struggling to hold off two men, but the look in her eyes and that in Aurelius’ when they met across their keening victim answered that question readily enough.
The one Fronto had disarmed had stepped back, seeking his fallen sword now, and Fronto took advantage of the situation, finally facing only one opponent. He met the tall one’s blade with his and as the man tried to pull it back for another swift lunge, Fronto’s free hand grabbed the man’s wrist, yanking it to one side. He had the advantage now over a man with only one effective arm, the other being the bloodied result of Andala’s first scuffle in this room. The Gaul gasped. Even as Fronto’s grip tightened, pulling his blade down, so his own sword came up from hip level, point first, driving into the man’s flesh just above the bladder and shearing up through organs inside his rib cage until he felt the tip hit shoulder blade, arresting its gory progress.
The eyes behind that mask widened and the man shuddered as he dropped his sword, a huge wash of blood sheeting out from his belly and across Fronto’s hand. He coughed, and spatters of the blood that he’d spat into the inside of his mask sprayed through the mouth slit and then dribbled down the ceramic chin.
Behind the dying Gaul, Aurelius crossed the room and swiftly dispatched the unarmed one with little difficulty.
Fronto stood in the doorway, chest heaving from the effort, surveying the scene before him.
Four of the Sons of Taranis lay on the floor of his wine cellar. Four! He could hardly believe his eyes. Moreover, apart from the regrettable demise of the two slave girls, only a few minor cuts and grazes remained on the surviving combatants to show for what they’d lived through.
He owed divine Fortuna. He owed her a great debt.
Reaching down, he lifted the golden figurine of his patron goddess and kissed her fondly.
He watched with a newfound respect as Andala went around the room, putting his second best gladius through the hearts of the four fallen Gauls, just to be sure, ripping away their cloaks as she did so. Lucilia ran across the room, hurdling the corpses, and flung herself into his arms, and Fronto had to lean slightly to prevent the waving blade in her hand catching his arm.
‘I thought we were lost,’ she breathed.
Fronto cradled her close, smiling his thanks to the others, and when she finally stepped back, he laughed. ‘Lucky you had your favourite Amazon here!’ Andala gave him a confused look and stepped forward, proffering the sword to him, hilt first. He shook his head as he plucked his best sword from his wife’s hand. ‘Keep it, Andala. It’s yours.’ And to Lucilia: ‘you’ll have to see to her manumission, you know?’
‘So, seven left then?’ Aurelius murmured as he crouched over the butchered one and peeled the mask from his moustachioed, ruddy and flat face, rising with the cloak in his other hand.
‘I guess so. Lucilia? You and Andala stay here with the boys and Balbina until we’re sure the house is clear.’ As his wife and the Bellovaci girl backed over to the bed area again, Fronto gathered up the rest of the masks and cloaks. By the time he and Aurelius were carrying them up the stairs, Balbus, Cavarinos and Masgava had arrived in the corridor.
‘Everyone alright?’ the old man asked and his eyes widened as he saw the masks his son in law carried. ‘Lucilia and the children are fine,’ Fronto replied reassuringly. ‘Luckily it seems that our new Belgae girl is rather handy with a blade. She held them off until we arrived and dispatched one of them herself.’ He threw the cloaks across to Cavarinos. ‘Anything here you recognise?’
The Arvernian noble turned them over and around one by one until he could find the lines of symbols stitched into them.
‘A hammer and a bowl. Most likely that’s Sucellos “the striker”. Not sure what you Romans would call him.’
‘Yes, well, he got struck about forty times, between Andala and Aurelius here.’
Cavarinos peered at the other cloaks. ‘Stone and a severed head – that would have to be Rudianos. And there’s Toutatis here, and Dis, too if I am not mistaken.’