The centurion shook his head, hefting the sword ready to fight.
‘Send your men at me, then, and let’s see how many I can put down before they stop me.’ He spat on the cooling corpse at his feet in an attempt to goad the masked man to a rash move. ‘I’ll cost you more than your boyfriend here before you kill me.’
The masked man shook his head in return, then drew a long sword from the scabbard at his waist in response. The blade’s surface seemed to ripple in the torchlight, its intricate pattern of dark and light bands giving it an unearthly quality.
‘I do believe you’re right, Centurion, and I’ll not waste good men when there’s no need. I’ll take you down myself.’
He bent to pick up a discarded shield before stepping forward to face the centurion, lifting the patterned sword to show his opponent the weapon’s point. They faced each other for a moment in silence before the soldier shrugged and took the offensive, stamping forward and hammering his sword into the masked man’s shield. Once, twice, the gladius rose and fell, and for a brief moment the centurion believed that he was gaining the upper hand as the other man stepped back from each blow, using his shield to absorb its force. Raising his sword again he stepped in closer, swinging the blade with all his strength. Halting his retreat, the masked man met the descending gladius with his own weapon. The two blades met with a rending screech, and in a brief shower of sparks the patterned sword sliced cleanly through the iron gladius’s blade and dropped two-thirds of its length to the ground in a flickering tumble. The centurion stared wide-eyed at the emasculated stump of blade attached to his ruined weapon’s hilt. Allowing no time for the shocked soldier to get his wits back, the masked man attacked with a pitiless ferocity. He hacked horizontally at his enemy with the seemingly irresistible sword, carving cleanly through the centurion’s shield. The layered wood and linen fell apart like a rotten barrel lid, leaving the soldier clutching the lopsided section of board in one hand and his sword’s useless remnant in the other. He threw the sword’s hilt at his opponent, clenching his fists in frustration as it bounced off the polished faceplate with a metallic clang, then hurled what was left of the shield after it, only to watch as the other man sliced the flying remains cleanly in two with a diagonal cut. Taking another step forward, the masked man dropped his shield and raised the patterned blade in a two-handed grip.
‘And now, Centurion, you can pay that price I mentioned.’
Looking at his reflection in the helmet’s polished facemask the centurion saw defeat in his own face and, enraged by the very possibility, he gathered himself to jump at his enemy with a snarl of hatred. Attacking with a speed and purpose that matched the soldier’s berserk leap, the masked swordsman swung his sword in a short arc to slice into the centurion’s abdomen, pulling the blow rather than cutting him cleanly in two, and grinding the weapon’s ferocious edge across the centurion’s spine as he ripped it free. The eviscerated soldier dropped to the ground in a gout of blood and intestines, his eyes flickering as his brain absorbed the sheer scale of the destruction wrought on his body. Bending as if to speak to the dying officer, the swordsman cleaned his blade on a fold in the other man’s tunic, then slipped the sword into its scabbard. He lifted the helmet’s faceplate to allow the cold night air to cool his sweating face. Looking down at the dying soldier he smiled bleakly, nodding his respect.
‘Well done, friend. You died like a man. And now you are on your way to meet your gods, once we give you the coin with which to pay for your crossing. In reality, of course, given where you are, you will only be meeting Arduenna. And trust me, Centurion, she is a spiteful, vindictive bitch.’
He turned away, only to find his leg held in a firm grip. The dying centurion was using the last of his strength to clamp a trembling hand around his ankle.
‘ You…? ’
He stared down into the fading light of the dying man’s eyes.
‘Yes. Me. It does come as a bit of a shock, doesn’t it?’ He pulled his leg free and watched blank-faced as the last vestige of life left the centurion’s body, then closed the faceplate over his features. ‘Bring his corpse over to the gate. I want as many of them as possible to join our cause and encourage their comrades in the city to do the same, and having him laid out for inspection ought to be all the encouragement they need.’
1
Germania Inferior, March, AD 183
‘It might be your homeland, Julius, but I think it’s a shithole.’ The heavily built young centurion pulled his thick woollen cloak tighter about him, grimacing at the cold mist surrounding them on all sides. The fog, which muffled his voice and reduced visibility to barely fifty paces, gave the impression that the small party was being enveloped by thick grey walls. ‘The weather’s no better than in Britannia, the food’s worse than in Britannia, and the beer’s just piss.’
One of the other two officers marching alongside him flicked water out of his heavy black beard and snorted, wincing as the movement allowed a trickle of water to run down his back.
‘The last time I saw this place, Dubnus, was when I was fifteen. My memories of Tungrorum are so bloody dim that I doubt I’ll even recognise it when we get there. If we ever find it in this bloody murk.’
One of the three barbarians walking behind them snorted his own particular disgust.
‘Some fool told me that we were headed for Germania. All the time I was puking my guts up crossing the sea, and then when we were shivering in those freezing, louse-infested barracks through the winter, I consoled myself that I would soon be close to the land of my people, the land of the Quadi. A land of forests and rivers, teeming with game and watched over by my father’s gods. Instead of which — ’ he lifted his hands to encompass the gently rolling land to either side of the road’s arrow-straight course — ‘I find myself trudging across interminable farmland populated only by gangs of listless slaves and wreathed in vapour. This is not Germania; this bloody province is just one big field.’
The centurion marching on Dubnus’s left turned round to face the barbarian and walked backwards, an amused smile on his angular, hawkish face.
‘As it happens, Arminius, you’ve hit the nail squarely on the head. This part of Germania Inferior is just like Gallia Belgica to the south; it’s almost entirely turned over to farming for corn. Good soil, or so my old tutor told me. If it wasn’t for this province, and the farmland to the south, there’d be no legions based on the River Rhenus to keep the German tribes in check, because there’d be no corn to feed them with.’
The barbarian shook his head in disbelief.
‘Only you, Marcus Valerius Aquila, only you could take a complaint and turn it into a lesson on the workings of the empire.’
Julius kept marching, but his tone when he spoke was peremptory.
‘Just stick to the name he’s using now, Arminius, that or call him “Two Knives” like the soldiers do. Let his past sleep where it lies, because if you prod it hard enough it’ll only wake up in a bad temper and give us all more grief. Our brother in arms is Marcus Tribulus Corvus, and we’ll use that name whether we might be overheard or not. You know as well as I do what the penalty would be, were we found to be harbouring an imperial fugitive, in Britannia, in Germany or in any other part of the empire you’d like to mention.’
Another of the barbarian trio chuckled darkly, his one good eye winking at the subject of their discussion. With the wound that had ruined the other eye now healed he had dispensed with any attempt to hide the fresh, angry pink scar that cut the heavy brow into two separate parts. The eye socket itself was empty, a permanent reminder of a blood-fuelled night of revenge on his tribe’s oppressors.