Anthony Riches - Thunder of the Gods

His gaze switched to Marcus.

‘Whereas you, Roman, brought here by such divine providence …’

The eyes that were all either man could see of his face, narrowed with vicious amusement.

‘Your death will be a little more …’

He searched for the right Greek word.

‘… protracted .’

Tensing his body to attack, he faltered as a tumult broke out behind him, stepping back and sweeping the sword forward to deter any attack as he turned to see what was happening.

Martos had stormed out of the trees, launching himself headlong at the nearer of the two archers who still waited with arrows nocked to their bows. The Parthian loosed, but in his panic the arrow flew wide, and the Briton caught him in the mid-section, driving the breath from his body in an explosive exhalation. Rising onto his knees and knotting his fingers together, the Briton drew them back over his head, ready to club the reeling archer into insensibility, but the blow never fell. The second archer coolly raised his bow and put the waiting arrow into his chest, reaching into his quiver for a replacement as Martos tottered for a moment and then fell backwards. The fallen archer nodded his thanks to his comrade, getting slowly to his feet and reaching down to retrieve his bow.

With an ear-splitting bellow Lugos stepped out of the trees’ concealment, taking the hapless man by the neck and pulling him upright, the archer’s struggles helpless against his monstrous strength, then put a hand in the square of his back and threw him bodily at the second bowman just as he loosed. Struck hard by the flying body of his comrade, the archer staggered back, dazed by the crunching impact of their heads, but the arrow he had loosed flew straight, whipping across the short distance between bow and target to embed in the huge Briton’s thick calf. Bellowing again, pain and rage combined as he took one pace forward on the wounded leg, then another, barely able to walk, Lugos staggered towards the felled bowmen, tottering with every step as his intended victims slowly struggled back to their feet. Fumbling for an arrow, the man who had wounded the Briton nocked it to his bow with shaking fingers, failing at the first attempt before feeling the bow’s resistance as the missile’s grooved tail found the string.

Raising the weapon he sighted down the arrow, drawing it back to his ear and raising the bow, ready to shoot at the oncoming Briton, then died as Lugos swung a heavy wooden barrow that he had grabbed by one handle, smashing the hapless archer’s skull with a sweep of the improvised club. Fresh pain shot through Lugos’s body as the other archer sank a dagger into his foot, and he lifted the barrow over his head with an incoherent scream of fury, sweeping it down onto his wide-eyed victim’s face. Battered into the ground, the semi-conscious bowman raised an arm in supplication, staring up glassy-eyed as the giant looming over him lifted the barrow again, then died as the second blow smashed his windpipe flat and severed his spine. Staggering backwards, Lugos fell full length, unable to move for the pain in his leg and foot.

The stocky assassin turned back to Marcus with a chuckle.

‘How conven-’

The Roman was armed, his own eagle-pommelled gladius in his left hand and a guardsman’s longer sword in the right. The Parthian shrugged.

‘As I was saying, how convenient. Your barbarians and my archers have neatly dealt with the problem of witnesses. I’ll deal with your giant once this is done with.’

The second man walked slowly forward to join his co-conspirator, drawing his sword and ranging it alongside the shorter man’s.

‘And now there are two of us. Two of the best-trained warriors in the empire against a Roman aristocrat with only one arm. Give it up now, Roman, and go to meet your ancestors with dignity. I’ll make it clean.’

Marcus crabbed forward, raising the swords with their points aligned.

‘Who said I only had one arm? You’re not the only man who knows the value of seeming to be somewhat less than he really is. Get behind me, Majesty.’

‘Really? You think you can hold us off for long enough that help will come? Help isn’t coming, Roman. By now my brother is already dead, and as far as the rest of the palace is concerned, the King of Kings is already in a place of safety. By the time the priests realise what’s happening I’ll have had long enough to gut you and watch you bleed to death, as you try to push your own intestines back into your gaping belly.’

Marcus danced forward, his blades flickering out to clash with the assassins’ raised swords, forcing them to defend themselves as he stepped around to his left, threatening the taller of the two.

‘You’re the weak point, aren’t you? This one will give me a proper fight, but you, Your Highness …’

He flashed the long sword out in a lightning-swift attack. The taller man stepped back, and his comrade stormed into the attack, charging forward with a shout and swinging his sword in short, chopping arcs that forced Marcus back half a dozen paces as he crabbed around to his right, retreating further from the king with every step. His assailant’s eyes narrowed in fresh amusement as he readied himself to renew the onslaught.

‘See? You can’t back away for ever.’

Marcus grinned back at his attacker.

‘I don’t need to. Here will do nicely.’

He nodded, and with a jerk his assailant staggered forward, staring down numbly at the point of an armour-piercing arrow protruding from his chest. Dropping to his knees, the stricken man’s sword fell from his numb fingers, and Marcus stepped forward to stare at him through the chain mail mask that disguised his identity.

‘Go and meet your ancestors. Whether they’ll consider death at the hands of a crippled barbarian worthy of that hunar you all make so much of will be between you and them.’

He swung the mortally wounded man around to show him the bow in Lugos’s hands, another arrow nocked to the string and menacing the second assassin, then pushed him forward to fall face down on the immaculate turf. Stepping towards the taller man with a slow, catlike tread, the Roman raised his swords menacingly.

‘That’s enough, Lugos. The other one has to live, I’m afraid. See what you can do for Martos.’

The taller of the two would-be killers stepped back.

‘No … I …’

‘Thought it would be quick and easy? That it was for the betterment of the empire? Perhaps. And now you think you can talk your way out of this? Stand still !’

Quivering, the faceless would-be assassin froze where he stood, and Marcus stepped forward a slow, sliding pace.

‘Like your father, I suspect, I find myself more disappointed than surprised by this turn of events. You sought to kill the king, and take the throne for yourself, confident that the army and priesthood would unite under your leadership. And what now, now that you’ve failed? Perhaps you think you can make it right by grovelling at your father’s feet? Perhaps you can. Even if only because it’s the pragmatic thing to do, to maintain a united facade for the world to see, you’ll be expecting him to forgive you.’

He slid the other foot forward, his gaze intent on the other man’s eyes.

‘Yes, you know he’ll punish you, but it’ll be a gilded cage, won’t it? You’ll keep your rank, and he’ll send you away from the court to lick your wounds, and remove your malevolent presence from his side. Where any other man would be roasted alive, your punishment will be to keep your crown.’

He took the final step, gently resting the point of the longer blade on his opponent’s sword.

‘But when you put an arrow in my friend, you made an enemy of me. And unlike the king, forgiveness isn’t a word whose taste I find it easy to stomach when it comes to those who are close to me.’