‘Don’t worry about him.’ The voice of Vindex came from close behind. ‘I’ll sort him. You deal with the big bastard.’
‘What about the women?’
‘Oh, I tipped them in the bog.’
The big German was closer, his spear raised. ‘The queen,’ he bellowed, ‘or I kill you both.’
‘What?’ Ferox glanced back, saw the Brigantian’s cadaverous face broken by a toothy grin, and beyond him the blonde slave girl helping her mistress jump across the bridge of stones. They were almost at the wood.
‘Look out!’ Vindex yelled.
Ferox turned, saw the spear coming at him, the head glinting as it spun, and just had time to raise the shield and catch it on the boss. The blow dented the iron, rocking him back and jarring his arm. He ducked to avoid the deflected spear.
The German drew his sword, one of the long, slim spatha-swords issued to Roman cavalrymen.
‘Come on, you eunuch, or do I have to sew your balls back on!’ Ferox yelled at him in Latin.
There was no sign of understanding, and the big warrior came on. Ferox could see that this one knew what he was doing and in spite of his size was light-footed. The way the man moved reminded him of the big cats he had seen in the arena, those great lions and tigers which moved with such poise.
‘Last chance,’ the man said, his gaze never leaving the centurion. He jumped from the first to the second stone, water spurting up as his weight landed on it.
The bald warrior was struggling through the mud, but he had to trust Vindex to deal with the man. Ferox hefted the unfamiliar shield, keeping his sword low. He wondered whether he should have taken off the helmet, for speed might well be the key to this fight. It was too late now, with the big warrior only a couple of yards away. The man bounded forward again, and used the motion to lunge with his spatha. The blade was nearly three feet long, adding to the man’s great length of arm as the point jabbed at him, faster than he expected. Ferox braced the shield, and saw the iron tip of the warrior’s sword burst through the single layer of wood. He tried to keep it stuck in the wood, twisting the shield away in the hope of pulling the sword out of the warrior’s hand, but the German was too quick for him. The big-bearded face broke into a smile.
Ferox jabbed low, saw the red shield blocking and pulled back, whipping the blade high for a thrust at the man’s neck. The German swayed back and stopped grinning, but Ferox knew that he was in trouble. His opponent had a longer reach, and with the mud it would be hard for him to close the distance and get past his guard. The big German also looked fresh, whereas he was tired. He had one chance, and hoped that his memory was accurate. There was the sound of grunting and effort over to his left, which must be Vindex and the bald warrior trying their best to hew each other down as they struggled through the mud.
The German had his spatha held up, arm bent, ready to stab forward at eye level. Ferox watched, saw the slightest betraying flicker in the man’s bright blue eyes and jumped back. His left foot landed on the next stone, the right boot squelching in mud, as the warrior jabbed at air. The centurion wrenched his foot out, feeling the leather uppers break apart as he left his boot in the clinging mud, and had his soaking sock on the stone. It was one of the larger rocks, wide and deep enough for him to stand, left foot forward and right behind, waiting. Better still, it was just a little nearer to the stone he had left than the one the German was on.
With a bellow of rage the warrior jumped, this time scything his blade in a great downward sweep. Ferox raised his shield, felt the wood cracking under the blow, and thrust, down low again, hit the edge of the red shield, went past and he felt it jar as it struck the mail rings. At least one had broken, and the long triangular tip speared through cloth and flesh. He pulled back quickly as the man slashed down again, going for his right hand.
Ferox had struck a blow, but doubted that it was enough, for there was only a little blood on his sword and he knew that the wound was not deep. The German swung again and he took the blow on the boss of his shield, feeling it dent in and the round piece of metal shudder. His own stab aimed higher than the last, only to meet his opponent’s shield cleanly and be blocked.
The centurion was already tired, his breath coming in pants, while the German looked as if he was only warming up. Another downward hack and half the little shield fell away. Ferox made another attack on the same spot and it was blocked again. The sword swept down and more of the wooden board crumbled. There was little more than the boss left now. His own blade had scored the red shield, but not weakened its defence.
So this was death, the beckoning of the Otherworld. There was little for him here, but he still feared the journey to the land of shadows. He wondered whether his grandfather would speak to him or turn away in disgust. Would she be there? She had not believed in such things, but what did that matter?
Someone screamed in pain and either Vindex or his opponent must be down. The beardless youth was calling to the big warrior in a tongue he did not understand. It sounded urgent.
The German cut again and Ferox jumped to the side, slashing low as he dived into the mud and rolled. It took the warrior by surprise, and he felt his sword strike and cut the man’s shin.
The boy leading the horse was shouting again. The warrior glanced down, decided not to jump into the clinging mud and finish his opponent and instead turned and bounded away from stone to stone. Ferox saw dark blood on the man’s trouser leg, but knew that he would have died if the German had not run off. The warrior and the boy rode away eastwards. There were horsemen in the distance to the west, but he could not tell who they were.
‘Some help would be nice,’ Vindex called. The Brigantian was knee deep in mud, mail torn near the shoulder and blood seeping through it. His opponent was motionless, face down in the mire. As Ferox splashed over to help him he saw that there were figures with the women at the treeline. They were dressed in breeches, tunics and cloaks and their short hair showed them as Romans.
‘Looks like we’re still alive,’ he said as he pulled Vindex free.
‘Never doubted it for a moment,’ the Brigantian said.
They made their way across the stones, covered in mud, their clothes ragged and torn.
To his surprise a tall, extremely handsome man with reddish hair was embracing the slave woman, while the little dark-haired girl stood meekly by her side, the unclasped necklace in her hands.
‘I believe I owe you profound thanks,’ the redhead said. He was dressed in hunting clothes, only a little stained by travel. His face was open, his hair perfectly in place and his teeth neat and very white. ‘You have saved my wife and I am forever in your debt.’
‘We owe you our gratitude,’ the slave added. ‘Although I do not know who you are – or even what you are?’ There was a trace of mischief in her tone, and perhaps she saw the bafflement in his face.
‘Titus Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, seconded from Legio II Augusta,’ he said, trying not to think too much about his harsh words – or the slap on her behind. ‘And this is Vindex, a noble warrior of the Carvetii and the leader of their scouts who serve with us.’
‘Then I am honoured to meet you,’ the man said, and shook their hands, even though they were filthy. ‘I am Cerialis, Prefect of the Ninth Batavians, and may I name my wife, Sulpicia Lepidina.’ She gave them a gracious smile.
Another man appeared, quite small and round-faced with thick hair that was a mottled grey even though he looked to be in his early twenties.