‘The hunters have crossed the river. They’re close now, too close for us to outrun the dogs.’
Lugos clenched a fist, raising his hammer defiantly.
‘Then we fight!’
Marcus shook his head.
‘There must be twenty of them, or more. If we make a stand here they’ll attack us from all sides and drag us down with the weight of their numbers. The only place we stand any chance of defending against that many people is with walls around us.’ He pointed down the gravel track’s grey ribbon. ‘There’s no choice. We either get to Gateway Fort before them or we die here, and everything we’ve gained is handed back to the Venicones.’
Arminius and Lugos shared a momentary glance and then nodded together, the German holding out a hand to the Roman.
‘Very well, we run, but when we reach the fort we find a strong place and make a stand. Now give me the cloak. You’ve carried that weight for long enough.’
Marcus shrugged, turning to the path.
‘I’ll carry it a while further yet. My birth father’s head and a legion’s standard are no burden, and I’d rather have you and Lugos with your hands free to fight.’ The long, baying howl of a dog sounded again, closer than before as the animal threaded its way through the marsh’s paths on the trail of their bloody scent, and the four men set off into the encircling mist at a loping trot.
Knowing instinctively that his place was at the front of the fleeing cohort, Julius tossed aside the shield he’d taken up a moment before and shouldered past the men to his right, bursting through the ranks of his century into the straggling knee-high vegetation between the path and the encroaching forest, moisture steaming out of the greenery as the fire’s blazing heat grew. Freed of the obstruction of his men he ran down the length of the Tungrian column with the scrubby bushes and trailing brambles tugging at his legs, his lungs labouring as the blaze raging about them greedily sucked at the forest’s air to feed its swelling conflagration. The Tungrians’ rear had escaped from the worst of the inferno for the time being, but the first spear realised with a sinking feeling that their progress was slowing, the soldiers bunching up as their pace reduced from a run to little more than a walk. Catching the leading century he quickly realised the reason for their slow progress, the men behind struggling one at a time to a confused halt as they ran into the rear of the Tenth Century’s pioneers, who were battling to fight their way through several dozen Venicone warriors. The enemy fighters had clearly been told to close the path to any Roman attempt to retreat, and they were fighting a stubborn action against the Tungrian column’s leading ranks despite the desperate situation unfolding about them. The Tenth’s hulking axe men were tearing into the enemy with their fearsome blades, but the forest looming to either side was restricting their frontage to no more than half a dozen men, and the Venicones’ stubborn defence was holding firm in the face of their assailants’ otherwise overwhelming strength. Behind the line of struggling, screaming combatants the pioneers were hacking at the tangled undergrowth to either side of the path in a bid to outflank the outnumbered barbarians and bring the fight to a swift conclusion, but the impenetrable thickets of thick, springy brambles were soaking up their assaults with little visible sign of progress.
The pioneers’ centurion Titus stepped forward to meet Julius as the first spear stopped in momentary calculation, his double-bladed axe held in one hand, and his deep, rumbling voice was barely audible over the blaze’s growing roar as he bent close to the other man’s ear.
‘We will all die here in the fire, unless we can break this resistance very quickly now!’
Julius nodded, his face hardening into a snarl as he felt the familiar, irresistible surge of battle rage whiten his knuckles on the hilt of his sword and raise the hairs on the back of his neck. When he replied his voice was thick, and his nostrils flared.
‘You’re right, Bear, it’s time to earn our vine sticks and show these fucking ink monkeys who the real animals in this fight are!’
Titus nodded, gesturing to a pair of his men and growling a response, smashing a fist against his chest.
‘Four of us will be enough to unlock this cage. If you three open the door for me then I will paint this forest red with the blood of these sheep fuckers!’
He took a second axe from one of his soldiers while the two men he had beckoned stepped out of the packed ranks stalled behind the desperate fight with expressions of pride and resolve, both of them putting aside their shields and hefting an axe in both hands in the manner of their tribal ancestors, the heavy iron axe heads twice the size of those usually carried by legion pioneers. In a century of men selected for their physical prowess both stood half a head above their peers and almost as tall as Titus himself, their shoulders bulky with the muscle required to swing their heavy weapons in combat. Julius grinned at Titus and his men and then turned wordlessly to face the enemy, pulling off his helmet and tossing it aside along with his vine stick in readiness for the melee before sheathing his sword and stooping to pick up a shield and an axe dropped by a wounded man, screaming a challenge at the enemy warriors barely a dozen paces distant.
‘Tungria! Tungria and Cocidius!’
Planting his feet ready to charge, his gaze locked on the short enemy line, he felt the bulk of big men on either side as Titus’s selected soldiers settled themselves at his shoulders while their monstrous centurion stepped close in behind the first spear. Their voices echoed his bellowed challenge loudly enough for the enemy warriors to look past their assailants at the small knot of men.
‘TUNGRIA!’
Baring his teeth in an uncontrollable snarl Julius raised the axe in his clenched right fist and pointed its blade at a face chosen at random from the line of warriors, selecting a man with a long white scar down one side of his jaw and deciding without any conscious thought that the Venicone would be the first victim of his burning need to kill. The tribesman shouted a challenge back at him and raised his spear, his defiance wrenching an involuntary barking laugh from the Tungrian as he lowered the axe and readied himself to attack, sucking in one last deep breath. Raising his shoulders like a sprinter readying himself for the burst of effort required to take him to the winning post, the first spear took one last look at the man he had made his target, then bobbed down into a slight crouch, feeling his thighs tense in readiness before springing forward in an explosion of effort, his scream of unleashed fury piercing the fire’s incessant roar and turning all heads towards the charging knot of men. The pioneers in their path stepped hurriedly back to clear a way for them, their eyes hardening at the sight of their first spear and centurion rampaging forward at the enemy, ready to throw themselves back into the fight at their officers’ backs.
Bounding towards the man he had selected as his target, and watching as the Venicone stepped back a pace in preparation for the impact, Julius retained sufficient calculation in the last moment before colliding with the warrior’s raised shield to sidestep the man’s spear thrust, marvelling for a brief instant at the fleet-footed skill with which the big man to his left matched his movement. Without time to consider his next move the Tungrian dipped his shoulder and smashed his shield hard against his enemy’s, bursting through the line of tribesmen with a triumphant roar and scattering the warriors to either side in momentary confusion. Knowing that Titus would be a half-pace behind him he spun to the left while the Venicone was still reeling off balance from the impact, allowing the axe’s handle to slide through his hand until he held the fearsome weapon by the last few inches of the stave’s length. Judging the blade’s arc to perfection, Julius buried the brutally sharp blade deeply into the hollow just above his victim’s buttocks, snapping the Venicone’s head back with the agony of the cold iron’s brutal intrusion even as his spine was severed, and wrenching an involuntary wide-eyed howl of triumph from the first spear as his victim arched back over the axe’s head before sagging limply to the ground.