The older man snorted a laugh.
‘Your first spear is keen to jump out of the skillet, is he? In that case we’ll just have to hope that the fire isn’t too hot!’ His expression softened as he watched Felicia climb up into the cart and take the child from her friend. ‘As for your woman, you needn’t worry yourself as to her safety while you’re away pulling barbarian beards. I have a woman in the vicus at Yew Grove who’s well accustomed to the life of a soldier’s wife, and she’ll make sure that they’re both looked after.’
Marcus nodded his thanks, tensing slightly as he saw that Julius was beckoning to him.
‘Excuse me, Prefect, my presence is being requested by my superior officer.’
The prefect nodded, his face creasing into a smile.
‘It’s time then, is it? Have fun …’
The young centurion saluted Castus and turned away, walking towards the parade ground across which the First Tungrian Cohort was arrayed. As he made his way between two of the convoy’s gold carts he found his path blocked by the Sarmatae, Ram and Radu, who stood waiting for him with their hands on the hilts of their swords. He paused for a moment, waiting for them to step aside, but neither man showed any intention of moving.
‘Gentlemen?’
Ram stepped forward, a broad grin on his face as he closed to within a foot of the Roman.
‘We fight. Now.’
Marcus shook his head.
‘No. We march now. There’ll be plenty of time to fight later, and besides, we have no practice weapons to hand.’
The answer was instant, and delivered in a tone of voice which raised the hairs on the back of Marcus’s neck.
‘Now! We practise like we fight, not with wood, but with iron! We fight like men! We promise not to cut your pretty face, Centurion …’ Ram looked back at his brother with a smirk, missing Marcus’s quick pace backwards, and the sudden narrowing of his eyes as he readied himself to fight. ‘But perhaps he not a man, perhaps he a-’
Whatever insult the Sarmatae had intended to throw at Marcus was lost in the sudden woosh of air from his lungs as the centurion stepped forward swiftly and put a hobnailed boot into his groin, sending him reeling away from the wagons, clutching at his abused testicles and fighting for breath. Regaining his balance to toss his helmet aside and unsheathe his swords in a flicker of polished metal, the Roman barely had time to raise his defence before Radu was upon him, his swords a whirling torrent of sharp iron, and for the next dozen heartbeats it was all he could do to parry the other man’s cuts and lunges.
Only distantly aware of an uproar of noise from the gathered soldiers, and wondering what his wife was making of the unexpected display, he bared his teeth in a snarl of naked aggression and sprang forward at the Dacian with a ferocity born of the anger that had swiftly replaced his initial surprise at the nature of the twins’ challenge. Matching his opponent blow for blow he began to force the pace, his retaliatory cuts and lunges delivered so fast that the Sarmatae’s eyes widened as he found himself unexpectedly on the back foot in the face of the Roman’s speed and power. Parrying a thrust of the long spatha’s evilly sharp patterned blade, Radu spun away to his right, escaping from Marcus’s incessant attacks for a moment and shouting to Ram in a tone laced with urgency.
Flicking a glance at Ram, Marcus realised that while he was bent over with his hands on his knees and his chest heaving, still struggling to breathe, he was clearly already over the worst of the kick’s physical impact. Looking back to Radu just in time to steer a vicious stab aside with his gladius, he realised that his opponent would simply seek to hold him at bay until his brother regained his wind and returned to the fight, at which point the two men would clearly overwhelm him with their combined pace and ferocity. Realising that he needed to overcome the man facing him in the next few strokes or face inevitable defeat, the Roman stepped into the next attack and pushed Radu’s swords wide before snapping a vicious butt into his face, the crushing impact sending the Sarmatae reeling away with blood streaming down his face from his broken nose.
Grasping at the fleeting opportunity he had created, the Roman took two quick strides to Ram, tossing his own weapons aside and smashing the stooped tribesman’s head back with a vicious uppercut before grasping his tunic and spinning him round, wrapping one arm across his face. Whipping out his dagger he put the weapon’s point under his captive’s jaw, pressing its point on the spot where a simple thrust would open the blood vessel beneath the skin. The Sarmatae reacted instinctively, biting down hard on the tunic-covered arm that was holding his head back, stiffening with a squeal of pain as Marcus quickly moved the knife’s point to the soft flesh beneath his ear and pushed it into the gap between cartilage and skull to send a thin runnel of blood down his captive’s neck.
‘If you bite me again I will make a gift to you of this ear, as a memento of our fight today. That, and your brother’s head.’
Radu shook his head and advanced towards the two men, ignoring the blood that masked his lips and chin, crabbing sideways in search of an angle at which he could renew his attack on the Roman only to be frustrated as Marcus manhandled his brother round to negate the threat.
‘You’ve lost. I could cut his throat and take his swords in less time than it takes to tell, and you wouldn’t be much of a challenge now that I understand your rather crude style. Stand down.’
Before the younger twin had time to reply a commanding voice rapped out from behind him.
‘Leave it!’
Marcus craned his neck over Ram’s shoulder, jerking the dagger’s blade fractionally to ensure that the Sarmatae stayed quiet. Drest was approaching them across the parade ground with a hard grin, and as he passed Radu he patted his man on the shoulder.
‘You lost to a man with more battlefield experience. Learn from that, eh? And next time, you might want to give him a little more warning. It seems that the centurion here has something of a temper once he’s roused.’
Radu shook his head dourly, re-sheathing his swords as he spoke to Marcus with a dismissive tone to his voice.
‘If this fight were real I would have killed you by putting my iron through my brother. We take no prisoners!’
Marcus pushed Ram away, bending to wipe the dagger’s point on the grass before dropping it back into its sheath and reaching for his swords.
‘I will remember that. And perhaps next time we spar you can give me a little more warning, so that I won’t have to resort to such ungentlemanly conduct to fight the pair of you off.’ He turned to Drest. ‘That was a little more intense than I was expecting, not to mention somewhat sooner than I thought we’d planned it?’
The Scythian shrugged.
‘This way it looked somewhat more convincing than would otherwise have been the case. And this way we had an audience of men all baying for blood, and one man in particular who was sufficiently distracted for Tarion to perform his magic.’
The Roman resisted the temptation to look around at the spot where Procurator Avus had been standing a moment before.
‘And it worked?’
Drest shrugged again.
‘I have no idea. But I hear no cries of “thief”, which is always a good sign …’
The Thracian tipped his head towards the waiting cohort, and Marcus turned just in time to see the thief pass something to Tribune Scaurus and slip away between two centuries, a wink of gold catching his eye as whatever it was changed hands. He glanced at Drest before walking away towards his place in the cohort’s line, shaking his head at the cheers that were now echoing off the Arab Town transit barracks as the Tungrian soldiers roared their approval of his victory. His Fifth Century greeted his return by beating their spear shafts against the brass rims of their shields until Quintus called for silence, and the Roman settled into position next to Morban with a sidelong glance at the standard gleaming atop its pole.