I skidded the last paces and threw myself at the solid rock as much to keep from falling as to gain admittance. My shoulder crashed against the stone. I clung to it, pressing my face to the thin-grown moss, drawing in the iced air and with it the scent of recent cooking, of roasted meat, of barley, of warmth and camp and home. To the door’s other side, Syrion mirrored me. He drew his gladius; mine was already drawn, although I didn’t remember doing it. Their woollen covers made them fat in the moonlight.
I cast a glance back. Our fourth, fifth and sixth units were nearly on us. The second and third had gone with Lupus to the mule stockade, to take the mules and as much fodder aseach man could carry. The seventh through to the tenth were holding off, ready to cover our escape. Syrion jerked his head at the opening.
‘Ready?’
I nodded.
‘Go!’
Shoulder to shoulder, we burst through the narrow gate, blades held forward like clubs. Four men waited for us, two on each side. I tripped the first, smashed the hilt of my gladius into the face of the second, bent and clubbed the fallen man on the side of his skull and stood, ready for the next.
There was no next: Lupus had trained us well and we had beaten our first true opponents in hand to hand combat. Not bad for a horse-trader’s second son who had never wanted to fight. Exhilarated, I caught Syrion’s fierce grin and returned it, then saw his eyes widen, and his lips form a silent whistle as he turned on his heel, and looked about.
What he saw was worth more than a whistle.
We had come into a small, warm compound, overshadowed by the mountain, so that it felt like a covered market, or a high cave: the IVth had, indeed, forsaken tents and built houses for each of the ten units, and one smaller, set back against the other wall, for the centurion.
I tried to remember him, this centurion; a thick-set man with a bull’s neck, a sharp nose and a head of glossy curls much too like the images of the Emperor Nero for comfort. Gaius Hostilius Liccaius, I thought, but wasn’t sure.
The houses seemed empty, which could not be: one of them had to hold Polydeuces and I did not believe they would have left him unguarded.
The plan was to find him before the IVth realized their mistake and came back from the wild hunt on which they had been lured. A dozen of our men joined us and more were pouring in through the gate, sent by Lupus who washolding guard outside against a renewed attack. I gestured two of the incomers to tie the men we had disabled and then waved the rest on; they fanned out and approached each hut in pairs.
Syrion and I took the first hut on the wall side of the compound. It was empty, although a brazier glowing in the centre showed two rows of four beds with hides and furs atop them, still crumpled as if newly vacated. The air smelled of harness oil and newly honed blades and the sweat of men waiting for war; I had come to know what that smelled like now, having been amongst it all day.
We left that hut and found the next as empty, and the next. Approaching the fourth, I heard the sound of a man’s muffled grunt, through wool, or linen, or another man’s clamped hand.
Syrion heard it too. He flung his hand up for caution, and we took more care to enter this hut together, hard, low, crouching down against the possibility of men with blades at the door.
They were not at the door. A half-unit of four stood in a line across the hut, with their beds pushed behind them, making a wall. And behind that, Polydeuces was stuck head first into a ruck of furs and hides, like a rabbit seeking its hole.
‘Here! Fourth hut, wall line. Reds to me!’ I called aloud over my shoulder; no point in secrecy now. The men of the IVth heard the same running feet as we did and knew what was coming.
Their leader was a small, wiry man with his lower face unshaved, which made him look like a haggard weasel. He spat an order in Latin and I, used to Greek, was slow to understand it, so that when they came at us, bunched in a boar’s snout formation, two in front, two a little behind at the wings, I might have fallen to them but that my body actedfaster than my mind, and I rolled sideways and down, below the level of their barely padded blades, and flung myself in a lengthways roll along the floor.
I had seen Pantera do something similar one night when we… never mind, it was in Hyrcania and we were in no real danger. Not as now, when these men had murder in their eyes and were not remotely afraid of dying under their centurion’s lash if they killed us.
Rolling, I toppled them. They fell in a clutter of stamping, cursing limbs. I bunched my legs under me and thrust upright, slamming my padded blade randomly at a calf, a heel, an elbow, as they came within reach. I felt a blow slice past my head and ducked under and slashed back, and struck out at the same time with my left hand at a shadow on that side and by the gods’ luck it wasn’t Syrion but one of the IVth who went down, choking, for I had caught his larynx and robbed him of breath. I saw another to my right and kicked at his groin, then brought my blade round in a full circular swing, straight for the great vessels of his neck.
‘Stop!’
My gladius stopped, a hand’s breadth from his throat. Even padded, it would have killed him. He stared up at me in mortal terror, and then looked past me with gratitude to Syrion, who had grabbed my arm, and was pulling me back.
‘We’re taking our man,’ he said. ‘If you let us go, we’ll leave you here. Try to stop us, and we’ll take you with us. You know what that means.’
They did, but still they did not stand and spread their arms and wave us past. ‘Our centurion will flog us if we let you go and we are not injured,’ said the leader, the unshaved weasel.
‘Tie them,’ I said. ‘Cut the bed hides for ropes. They can’t stop us if they’re bound. We don’t have to take them with us. Just do it now, while there’s time. We have more to do here.’
‘But…’ Syrion caught my eye, puzzled, and then with slow comprehension. His smile grew like the rising sun, warm on his face. ‘The Fox has nursed his plan to life?’
I grinned back. I was feeling more alive than I had for years, drunk on danger and the promise of success. ‘Get the rabbit out of his hole and safely on his way and I’ll tell you.’
The rabbit — Polydeuces — was warm and uninjured, if you forget the breaking of his pride. I sent him with the tenth unit who had waited outside to cover our retreat. They were men I knew by sight and hearing, but not by the colour of their souls; I had no idea if I could rely on them to guard my back in a tight corner. I told them to get him back to our camp if they could, or, if not, to stop with Cadus and ask for shelter there.
Outside, with Syrion at my side, I gathered the rest of our men.
‘Our orders are to return now with the rabbit,’ I said. ‘But I have a different idea. Anyone who wishes not to be a party to it may leave now.’
‘What idea?’ someone asked from the back.
‘One that might get us flogged, but will set the Fourth back for ever. Your choice. Go or stay. I won’t say it until you’ve decided.’
Those that stayed did so, I think, for Syrion. We stood in darkness, with a nearby brazier glowing red. The tinted light caught him from behind, casting him in liquid bronze. He had thrown his cloak back and was standing square with his arms folded, so that he was the very image of a Gaulish chieftain, ready for the ultimate battle. It was a sight to strengthen the weakest heart, but even so, we lost two units. We watched them go, and did not mourn their loss.
I turned in a circle on one heel, thinking.
‘Demalion?’ Syrion was at my side. ‘What are we doing?’
‘The first century of the first cohort has charge of the legion’s Eagle. We’re going to find it and take it,’ I said. ‘It’s the equivalent of taking a man, but nobody will be flogged for it.’
‘They’ll be flogged for losing it,’ Syrion said cheerfully, ‘all of them.’