Conn Iggulden - The Gates Of Rome

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's 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 draft 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's 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's 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's 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 toward 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 traveled 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 skillful?" 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 well, but the Krajka train when they stand, yes, as young children? We will take back all your ugly forts this way, yes? Stone from stone and ashes scattered? We will do this."

"How many… Krajka are there?" Marcus asked.

The old man smiled, showing only three teeth in black gums. "Not enough. We practice on those came with you today. Other warriors need to see how you people fight, yes?"

Marcus looked at him in disbelief. The future was clearly bleak for those left in the fort. They had been allowed to make the safety of the walls just so the young blueskins could blood themselves against reduced defenders. It was chilling. The legion believed the blueskins to be close to animals in intelligence. Any captured prisoners went berserk, biting through ropes and killing themselves on anything sharp if they couldn't escape. This evidence of careful planning-and one who spoke a civilized language-would wake them up to a threat they didn't treat seriously enough.

"Why didn't the men kill me?" Marcus asked. He fought to remain calm as the old man leaned closer to his face and sour breath washed over him.

"They very impressed. Three men you kill with short sword. Kill like man, not with bow or spear throwing. They bring you to show to me, as a strange thing, yes?"

A curiosity, a Roman good at killing. He guessed what had to come next before the old man spoke.

"Not good to have young warriors admire Roman. You fight Krajka, yes? If win, you go back to fort. If Krajka kill you, then all men see and know hope for future days, yes?"

Marcus agreed. There was nothing else to do. He looked into the flames and wondered if they would let him use his gladius.

Blueskins had come over from all the other campfires, leaving them barely defended. Marcus realized the men in the fort could not be aware of the opportunity. They would still see the spots of light in the mountain darkness and not know the bulk of them had trotted over to see the contest.

Marcus was allowed to stand and a circle was marked out with daggers stuck into the soil. The blueskins gathered outside the line, some balancing friends on their shoulders so they could see. Whichever way Marcus turned, he could see a heaving wall of blue flesh and grinning yellow teeth. He noticed how many of the eyes were pink-rimmed and decided it must be something in the dye that irritated the skin. The older, potbellied blueskin stepped into the circle and gravely handed Marcus his gladius, stepping back warily. Marcus ignored him. You didn't need the scouts eye to sense the hostility here. Lose and be cut to pieces to show their superiority, win and be torn apart by the mob. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what Gaius would do and had to smile at the thought. Gaius would have killed the leader as soon as he handed over the sword. It couldn't get any worse, after all.