Conn Iggulden - The Gates Of Rome

At last they rounded a turn in the track and saw the last segment of the journey, half a mile of steeply rising path up to a small fortress on a gray hill. Roaming the flat lands around the outcropping were more of the blue men. Some were even camped in sight of the fortress and watched the caravan with slitted eyes. Footfalls on rock could be heard behind them, and rocks dislodged by scrambling bare feet spattered and bounced against the ground. With every man on edge, they had begun the slow climb to the fort, the ox drivers waving and cracking their whips nervously.

Marcus could see no lookouts and began to feel a sense of dull fear. They wouldn't make it-and what would they find if they did?

The slow march continued until they were close enough to see the details of the fort. Still there was no one on the ramparts, and Marcus knew with a sinking heart that no one could be alive inside. He had his sword drawn and was swinging it nervously as he walked.

Suddenly a great howl went up from every blueskin around. Marcus risked a glance back down the path and saw what must have been a hundred of the warriors charging at them.

Peritas rode down the line of legionaries.

"Abandon the wagons! Make for the fort. Go!" he shouted, and suddenly they were running. The howls increased in savage joy behind them as the drivers leapt off and sprinted the last hundred feet. Marcus held his sword away from his body and ran, not daring to look back again. He could hear the slap of hard bare feet and the high screaming of a blueskin attack too close for comfort. He saw the gate come up and was through it with a knot of shoving, heaving soldiers, turning immediately to yell encouragement to the slower men.

Most made it. Only two men, either too tired or too scared to make the sprint, were run down, turning in the last moment like trapped animals and spitted with many blades. Wet red metal was raised in defiance as the survivors shut and barred the gate, and Peritas was off his horse and shouting to search and secure the fort. Who could understand the sick reasoning of the savages? Perhaps they had more men waiting inside, just for the pleasure of picking them off when they thought they had reached safety.

The fort was empty, however, except for the bodies. A Fifty manned each fort, with twenty horses. Man and beast lay where they had been killed and then mutilated. Even the horses had their stinking guts spread over the stone floor, and clouds of blue-black flies buzzed into the air as they were disturbed. Two men vomited as the smell hit them, and Marcus's heart sank even more. They were trapped, with only disease and death in the future. Outside, the blueskins chanted and whooped.

Before night fell, Peritas had the bodies of the legionaries locked in an empty basement store. The dead horses proved a more difficult problem. All weapons had been stripped from the fort, and there wasn't an axe to be found anywhere. The slippery carcasses could be lifted by five or six of the men working at once, but not carried up the stone steps to be put over the ramparts. In the end, Peritas had stacked the heavy, limp bodies against the gate to slow down attackers. It was the best they could hope for. No one expected to make it through the night, and fear and resignation hung heavily on all of them. Up on the walls, Marcus watched the campfires with narrowed eyes.

"What I don't understand," he muttered to Peppis, "is why we were allowed back into the fort. They have taken it once and they must have lost some lives, so why not cut us down on the trail?"

Peppis shrugged. "They're savages, sir. Perhaps they enjoy a challenge, or humiliating us." He carried on with his task of sharpening blades on a worn concave whetstone. "Peritas says we will be missed when we don't get back by morning and they'll send out a strike force by tomorrow evening, perhaps even earlier. We don't have to hold out for long, but I don't think the blueskins will give us that kind of time." He continued wiping the stone along a silver blade.

"I think we could hold this place for a day or so. They have the numbers, granted, but that's all they have. Mind you, they did take it once."

Marcus paused as a chant began in the near darkness. If he strained his eyes, he could see dancing figures silhouetted against the flames of the fires.

"Someone is having a good time tonight," he muttered. His mouth watered. The fort well had been poisoned with rotting flesh, and everything else edible had been removed. Truth to tell, if the reinforcements didn't get to them in a day or two, thirst would do the blueskins' job for them. Perhaps they intended the Romans to die with dry throats in the burning sun. That would match the cruel tales he had heard about them, given a fresh airing amongst the nervous soldiers as night fell on the fort.

Peppis peered over the wall into the gloom and snorted. "There's one of them peeing against the wall down there," he said, his voice caught between outrage and amusement.

"Watch yourself, don't lean out or put your head up too high," Marcus replied as he pressed his own head closer to the rough stone, trying to peer over the edge while exposing as little of himself as possible.

Astonishingly close and directly below them was a swaying blueskin holding his parts and spraying the fort with dark urine in short sweeping arcs. The grinning figure caught sight of the movement above and jumped, recovering quickly. He waved a hand at the pair who watched him and waggled his privates in their direction.

"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 toward 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 realized as he attacked. They were not wild savages, but warriors.