‘He’s had a little too much to drink, I’d say,’ Marcus murmured, grinning despite himself. He watched the man pull a bloated wineskin around his body and suck on the mouth of it, spilling more than he took in. Blearily, the blueskin shoved in the stopper on his third attempt and gestured up again, calling out something in his slushy tongue.
Tiring of their lack of response, he took two steps and fell flat on his face.
Marcus and Peppis watched him. He was still.
‘Not dead, I can see his chest moving. Dead drunk maybe,’ Peppis whispered. ‘It’s bound to be a trap. Devious, the blueskins are, everyone says.’
‘Maybe, but I can only see one of them and I can take one. We could do with that wine. I know I could, anyway,’ Marcus replied. ‘I’m going down there. Fetch me a rope. I can drop over the wall and climb back up before there’s any real danger.’
Peppis scurried off on his errand and Marcus focused on the prone figure and the surrounding ground. He weighed the risks and then smiled sardonically. They were all going to die in the night or at dawn, so what did the risks matter? The problem receded and he felt his tension relax. There was something about almost certain death that was quite calming in its way. At least he would have a drink. That wine sack had looked full enough to give nearly all of them a cupful.
Peppis tied up his end of the rope and sent the rest uncoiling silently down the twenty-foot drop. Marcus made sure his gladius was secure and ruffled the hair of the lad.
‘See you soon,’ he whispered, putting one leg over the parapet and disappearing into the gloom below. The dark was so complete that Peppis could barely make him out as he crept towards the still figure, the gladius drawn and ready in his hand.
Marcus felt the itch again and clenched his jaw. Something was wrong with the scene and it was too late to avoid the trap. He reached out a foot to stir the drunken blueskin and wasn’t surprised when the man suddenly sprang up. Marcus took his throat out before the expression of triumph could fully form. Then two more blue men rose out of the dirt. It was their presence he’d sensed, hidden in shallow graves and lying perfectly still for hours with almost inhuman discipline. They had probably dug themselves in to wait before the Roman caravan even appeared, Marcus realised as he attacked. They were not wild savages, but warriors.
There seemed to be just the three of them, young men out for status or a first kill. They had risen with swords in their hands and his first backhand blow was blocked with a loud ring of metal that made Marcus wince. There would be more of them coming. He had to get clear before the whole blueskin army arrived.
Marcus’ blade slid along the dust-covered warrior’s and clashed against a crude bronze guard. The man leered and Marcus punched him in the stomach with his other fist, ripping the blade back and through him as he doubled over in pained surprise. He collapsed as his neck veins parted and hit the ground wretchedly.
The third was not as skilled as his companion, but Marcus could hear shouts and knew time was running out. His haste made him careless and he ducked late on a wild slash that nicked his ear and scored a line in his scalp.
He slid to his left and punched the blade into the man’s heart through the blue-stained ribs from the side. As the warrior fell with a gurgling cry, Marcus could hear the slap of running feet he remembered so vividly from the afternoon scramble into the fort. It was too late to run for the rope, so he turned and detached the wineskin from the first body, pulling out the stopper and taking a deep draught as the night around him filled with swords and blue shadows.
They formed a circle around him, swords ready, eyes bright even in the darkness. Marcus eased the wine bag to his feet and held his gladius high. They made no move and he saw eyes roam over the bodies. Long seconds stretched in silence, then one of them stepped forward, large, bald and blue, and carrying a long, curved blade.
The warrior pointed off into the distance and gestured at Marcus. Marcus shook his head and pointed back at the fort. Someone jeered, but a curt hand signal from the man cut their noise off. The warrior stepped forward fearlessly, his sword pointed at Marcus’ throat. With his other arm he pointed again at the campfires and then at the young Roman. The circle tightened silently and Marcus could feel the closeness of the men behind him.
‘Tortured to death over the fire it is, then,’ he said, pointing to the campfires himself.
The big blue warrior nodded, his eyes never leaving Marcus. He spoke a few words of command and another warrior placed his hand on Marcus’ sword blade, gently removing it from his grip.
‘Oh, unarmed and tortured to death, I didn’t understand at first,’ Marcus continued, forcing his voice to pleasant tones and knowing they didn’t understand. He smiled and they smiled back at him.
They left the fort behind in the darkness and it was probably just his imagination that he caught a glimpse of Peppis’ face outlined against the sky for a moment when he looked back.
They walked with strutting confidence into the blueskin camp with their prisoner. Marcus could see they were readying themselves for war. Weapons were stacked in bundles and the warriors danced and howled at the fires, spitting what must have been raw alcohol, judging by the blue flames that burst and flickered as the streams of liquid hit them. They whooped and wrestled and more than one sat slathering a pale mud onto his arms and face – the source, Marcus guessed, of the blue dye.
He barely had time to take all this in before he was shoved to his knees at the side of the bonfire and a crude clay cup of clear spirit was pressed into his hands. His eyes watered as he caught the evaporating fumes, but he swallowed it all and then fought not to choke. It was powerful liquor and he waved away the offer of another cup, wanting to keep a clear head. His guards settled on the ground all around him and seemed to be commenting on his clothes and manners to each other. Certainly it involved much pointing and laughing. Marcus ignored them, wondering if there would be a chance to run. He eyed the swords of the warriors nearest him, noting how they were removed from belts and laid on the scrub grass near to hand. He might be able to grab one …
Horns blew and interrupted his concentration. As everyone looked towards the source of the sound, Marcus stole one more look at the closest blade and saw the warrior’s hand was resting on it. As his gaze travelled upward, he met the man’s eyes and chuckled wryly as the burly warrior shook his head and smiled, revealing brown and rotting teeth.
The horn was held by the first old blueskin Marcus had seen. He must have been fifty and, unlike the hard muscular bodies of the young fighters, he had a heavy belly that bowed out his robe and jiggled as he moved skinny arms. He must have been a leader, as the warriors reacted to his shouted commands with speed. Three handy-looking types unsheathed their long swords and nodded to friends in the circle. Small drums were produced and a fast rhythm sounded. The three men stood relaxed as the rhythm filled the night and then they moved, faster than Marcus would have believed possible. The swords were like bars of dawn light and the moves were fluid, flowing into one another, so unlike the Roman sequences that Marcus had learned.
He could see the fight was staged, more a dance than a contest of violence. The men spun and leapt and their swords hummed as they cut the hot night air.
Marcus watched entranced to the end as the men once again resumed their relaxed positions and the drumming ceased. The warriors whooped and Marcus joined them without embarrassment, tensing as the old man walked over to him.
‘Do you like? They are skilful?’ the man said in a heavy accent.
Marcus covered his confusion and agreed, his expression carefully blank.
‘These men took your little fort. They are the Krajka, the best of us, yes?’
Marcus nodded.
‘Your men fought