The station was much like any other Roman military structure he had seen. They were so damned predictable! A stockade of sharpened stakes surrounded a small dome-shape in the land which rose above the tree line to give the occupants a clear view. It would have a gate in it, probably barred and tied. Inside was a low timber building, the roof of which was just visible above the stockade — the barracks of the garrison, of course. And a very basic timber-frame tower with a platform. Lucterius could see no sign of a beacon, but then such a signal would probably burn down the tower. He’d not thought to enquire of the Ruteni what system of signalling they used. He had assumed flame. Never mind… whatever system it was, they would not get to use it.
There was no sign of the usual ditches outside the stockade, the rocky hillside rendering such defences both unnecessary and impossible. He could vaguely hear the sounds of a horse within, which would likely serve to ride for the city should need arise — that would need to be taken out straight away, just in case. And atop the tower, leaning on his curved body shield, lounged a watchman. His gaze seemed fixed on the horizon far from the tower, unaware of the true proximity of danger.
Lucterius turned and made motions to his men. Two of them were Ruteni archers — the best he had, according to their chief, and at his signal, they took up position at the far side of the stone tomb. Lucterius and his remaining ten crouched low to best use the scrub for cover and began to work their way up to the walls, the leader praying to his gods that the watchman remained oblivious.
In a score of heartbeats he was closing on the stockade. All seemed to be peace. Not a single voice echoed from within, just the snorting and huffing of the horse. It was so quiet that when they stopped and held their breath that he could hear the sound of the man atop the platform scratching himself. Another set of hand signals, and his favoured warrior nodded, drawing a wicked-sharp sickle from his belt. With three deep, steadying breaths, Lucterius turned and gave a wave back at the chambered tomb.
An arrow sped from the shadows below the tomb and thudded into the Roman watchman’s face. It had flown true and deadly, killing the man and silencing him instantly in the very act. The only noise that arose from the attack was the thump of the body hitting the wooden platform and the faint clunk of the shield falling on top of it.
As soon as Lucterius saw the body vanish, he started to run around the stockade, his warriors with him. The other seven men of the garrison would hear the attack now and rush to defend the gate while sending another man or two up the ladder. But the two archers by the dolmen had proved their skill, and Lucterius didn’t fancy the chances of a Roman reaching the tower platform alive, let alone managing to get off a warning.
And they were at the gate suddenly, rounding the stockade in moments. Lucterius was thrilled through with joy and surprise in equal quantities to discover the gate wide open and inviting. His gaze took in the surrounding area and spotted the Roman, who had been standing near the trees a few paces away, urinating happily. Now he was turning, his privates still bared, desperately trying to draw the blade at his belt, his shield absent, presumably still inside.
Lucterius gestured to more of his men and two warriors peeled off from the group, mobbing the unfortunate Roman and dispatching him with twin thrusts to neck and groin before the tip of his sword had even left his scabbard. The man’s scream was cut off instantly as the steel cut through windpipe and voice box before grating on spine.
Ignoring the man’s demise, Lucterius hurtled through the inviting gate, his remaining eight men at his heel. Cunorix, his best warrior and chosen companion, was already making for the horse, sickle out to the side ready for the blow. The Cadurci leader loved horses, and the necessary death of the Roman beast weighed upon him, so he turned from the scene and made for the barracks, the only evidence of the savage act the sudden curtailing of the snorting and a brief thud and rumble as the animal thrashed.
And then, a moment later, Lucterius was in through the barrack door, one man at his heel while the others secured the perimeter and checked for more men outside the stockade.
His surprise only deepened as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior.
Eight beds in the form of four twin bunks filled the far end, all of which were bare and empty. The near end was some kind of communal kitchen, mess hall, living space and storeroom.
And one man — the only occupant — had managed to raise his shield and draw his sword. His head was bare, his helmet still hanging from his bedpost by the chin ties. The man’s expression was one of savage defiance and haughtiness — typical of the smug Romans.
Lucterius was on him in moments. His long sword, heavy and strong, came over in a wide sweep. To his credit, the Roman raised his shield well, but there was little he could do against the unstoppable weight of the blade. The Gallic sword slammed down into the shield, shredding the fine bronze edging into twisted strips and smashing through the layered wood and leather before sticking at the bulbous boss.
The shield was useless, though the Roman was quicker and smarter than Lucterius had given him credit for, using his grip on the heavy encumbrance to help him stab forward with his own sword. The Cadurci chief would forever thank his gods and count himself a lucky man that his own momentum carried him automatically aside, and the Roman blade scored along the side of his ribcage, tearing links from his mail shirt but leaving him otherwise unscathed.
With a roar of anger, the Roman discarded his useless shield, and Lucterius felt his trapped sword ripped from his hand by the action. For a moment, he realised that he was actually in real danger. The Roman was quick and decisive, and that wicked gladius was already back and coming in for another blow.
As the chief tried urgently to recoil from the attack, the Roman’s face suddenly exploded in a welter of blood, teeth and brains. Lucterius stared wide-eyed as the mangled soldier toppled backwards in a cloud of his own brain matter, falling awkwardly as the tip of the Roman spear that had passed through his head slammed into the ground.
The chieftain continued to stare, heaving in breaths, and finally turned to see one of his men in the doorway, his arm still raised from the throw.
As he began to recover with an exhale, Lucterius nodded his thanks.
‘What of the compound?’
‘Nothing. One horse. Nothing else.’
Lucterius frowned, shaking his head. ‘Three men? It cannot be.’ His gaze took in the barracks, and what he saw confirmed the truth of it. Eight beds — five unslept in and bare, three with rucked blankets. Only three marching poles in the corner. Just three men. All dead with no signal sent.
‘That’s it, then. The crossing is ours. And the mist will still fill the land for an hour or more. Send word to the army to begin moving into the valley. No more dallying now. We move straight on Narbo, and we’ll be at its gates before you can blink.’
The men cheered as they went over the bodies and kit of the Romans, searching for valuables or salvageable equipment. As Cunorix, his second, approached, drenched in the blood of the horse, Lucterius pursed his lips, a haunted look to his eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’
Lucterius turned his worried look on his companion. ‘It was so easy. And now the way is clear and Narbo lies waiting for us. But where were the others, Cunorix? Three men, not eight. And the other five have been here recently, for their pots sit in the corner unwashed. I wish we had taken one alive to interrogate. I do not like such surprises.’
‘Perhaps it was a gift from the gods?’
Lucterius nodded, though with little enthusiasm. ‘I hope you’re right, Cunorix, but I am starting to have a bad feeling about this.’