The Krajka gave out a strangled groan of pain and spun, leaping into the air like a spirit, as Marcus had seen the others do before. It was a move from the dance and the bronze sword whirled with him, coming out of the spin unseen and slicing Marcus’ skin across the chest. The crowd roared and, as the man landed, Marcus reached up and caught the bronze blade with his bare left hand.
The Krajka looked in astonishment into Marcus’ eyes and found for the first time in the whole battle that they were looking back at him, cold and black. He froze under that gaze and the hesitation killed him. He felt the iron gladius enter his throat from the front and the pouring wetness of blood that stole his strength. He would have liked to pull his blade back, cutting the fingers away like over-ripe stalks, but there was no strength left and he dropped into a boneless sprawl at Marcus’ feet.
Marcus breathed slowly and picked up the bronze sword, noting the twisted and buckled edge where he had caught it. He could feel blood trickle over his knuckles from the cut on his palm, but was able to move the fingers stiffly. He waited then for the crowd to rush in and kill him.
They were silent for some time and in that silence the old blueskin’s voice called out harsh-sounding commands. Marcus kept his eyes on the ground and the swords loose in his hands. He was aware of footsteps and turned as the old blueskin took his arm. The man’s eyes were dark with astonishment and something else.
‘Come. I keep my word. You go back to friends. We come for you all in morning.’
Marcus nodded, scarcely daring to believe it was true. He looked for something to say.
‘He was a fine fighter, the Krajka. I have never fought better.’
‘Of course. He was my son.’ The man seemed older as he spoke, as if years were settling on his shoulders and weighing him down. He led Marcus outside the circle and into the open and pointed into the night.
‘Walk home now.’
He stayed silent as Marcus handed him the bronze blade and walked away into the dark.
The fort wall was black in the darkness as Marcus approached. While he was still some distance away, he whistled a tune so that the soldiers would hear him and not put a crossbow bolt into his chest as he drew close.
‘I’m alone! Peppis, throw that rope back down,’ he called into the silence.
There was scrambling inside as the others moved to peer over the edge.
A head appeared above him in the gloom and Marcus recognised the sour features of Peritas.
‘Marcus? Peppis said the ’skins had you.’
‘They did, but they let me go. Are you going to throw a rope down to me or not?’ Marcus snapped. It was colder away from the fires and he held his damaged hand in his armpit to keep the stiff fingers warm. He could hear whispered conversations above and cursed Peritas for his cautious ways. Why would the tribesmen set a trap when they could just wait for them all to die of thirst?
Finally, a rope came slithering over the wall and he pulled himself up it, his arms burning with tiredness. At the top, there were hands to help pull him onto the inner wall ledge and then he was almost knocked from his feet by Peppis, who threw his arms around him.
‘I thought they was going to eat you,’ the boy said. His dirty face was streaked where he had been crying and Marcus felt a pang of sorrow that he had brought the boy to this dismal place for his last night.
He reached out a hand and ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘No, lad. They said I was too stringy. They like them young and tender.’
Peppis gasped in horror and Peritas chuckled. ‘You have all night to tell us what happened. I don’t think anyone will sleep. Are there many of them out there?’
Marcus looked at the older man and understood what couldn’t be said openly in front of the boy.
‘There’s enough,’ he replied, his voice low.
Peritas looked away and nodded to himself.
As dawn broke, Marcus and the others waited grimly for the assault, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. Every man of them stood on the walls, swinging their heads nervously at the slightest movement of a bird or hare down on the scrubland. The silence was frightening, but when a sword falling over interrupted it more than a few swore at the soldier who’d let it slip.
Then, in the distance, they heard the brassy horns of a Roman legion, echoing in the hills. Peritas jogged along the narrow walkway inside the walls and cheered as they watched three centuries of men come out of the mountain trails at a double-speed march.
It was only a few minutes before a voice sounded, ‘Approaching the fort,’ and the gates were thrown open.
The legion commanders had not been slow in sending out a strike force when the caravan was late returning. After the recent attacks, they wanted a show of strength and had marched through the dark hours over rough terrain, making twenty miles in the night.
‘Did you see any sign of the blueskins?’ Peritas asked, frowning. ‘There were hundreds around the fort when we arrived. We were expecting an attack.’
A centurion shook his head and pursed his lips. ‘We saw signs of them, smouldering campfires and rubbish. It looks like they all moved out in the night. There is no accounting for the way savages think, you know. One of their magic men probably saw an unlucky bird or some kind of omen.’
He looked around at the fort and caught the stench of the bodies.
‘Looks like we have work to do here. Orders are to man this place until relieved. I’ll send a Fifty back with you to permanent camp. No one moves without a heavy armed force from now on. This is hostile territory, you know.’
Marcus opened his mouth to reply and Peritas turned him deftly around with an arm on his shoulder, sending him off with a gentle push.
‘We know,’ he said, before turning away to ready his men for the march home.
The street gang was already draped in expensive bolts of cloth, stolen from a shop or seamstress. They carried clay vessels that sloshed red wine onto the stone street as they wove and staggered along.
Alexandria peered out of the locked gates of Marius’ town house, frowning.
‘The filth of Rome,’ she muttered to herself. With all the soldiers in the city engaged in battle, it had not taken long for those who enjoyed chaos to come out onto the streets. As always, it was the poor who suffered the most. Without guards of any kind, houses were broken into and everything of value carried away by yelling, jeering looters.
Alexandria could see one of the bolts of cloth was splashed with blood and her fingers itched for a bow to send a shaft into the man’s drunken mouth.
She ducked back behind the gatepost as they went past, wincing as a burly hand reached out to rattle the gate, testing for weakness. She gripped the hammer she had taken from Bant’s workshop. If they tried to climb the gates, she was ready to crack someone’s head. Her heart thudded as they paused and she could hear every slurred word between them.
‘There’s a whorehouse on Via Tantius, lads. We could get a little free trade,’ came a rough voice.
‘They’ll have guards, Brac. I wouldn’t leave a post like that, would you? I’d make sure I got paid for my service as well. Those whores would be glad to have a strong man protecting them. What we want is another nice little wife with a couple of young daughters. We’ll offer to look after them while the husband’s away.’
‘I’m first, though. I didn’t