Nick Brown - The Imperial Banner

With the club in his right hand, Indavara sprinted towards the stern.

Bolt was closer to the side rail. Spike moved away from him. They raised their clubs.

Indavara drifted left. He was five feet away when Bolt came out to meet him, club poised.

Indavara feinted right then leapt nimbly up on to the side rail. It was no more than six inches wide, but he danced along it and was already past Bolt when the warrior launched a clumsy swing. He hit nothing but air.

Indavara swiped one-handed into the back of his head: not a strong blow, but enough to send him tottering forward. As Indavara jumped down on to the deck, Spike attacked.

Towering over his foe and unleashing a bestial roar, the mercenary swung the club down from over his head, giving Indavara time to spring aside and watch as the weapon smashed into the side rail. One of the spikes sank two inches into the seasoned timber. Incredibly, Spike kept his hands on the club, trying to pull it out.

Indavara was more concerned with speed than power but his downward blow snapped the warrior’s right arm just below the elbow. A jagged shard of bone tore out of the skin. Spike was still screaming when Indavara’s second swing connected with his mouth. The bottom half of the mercenary’s face shattered in a pink cloud of teeth, flesh and blood.

Indavara was moving forward before he fell to the deck. The older man was charging towards him.

Bolt was still dazed, facing the water, club hanging from one hand. He looked to his leader and cried out; but the breath was driven from his lungs by the blow that struck him between the shoulders. He flew over the side rail, crashed through an oar and plunged into the water.

The leader slowed, staring past Indavara at what was left of Spike.

Indavara didn’t turn round, but he could hear the uneven, bubbling breaths of a man close to death. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something stuck to his cheek. He plucked it off with his spare hand: a perfectly preserved — and remarkably white — tooth. He threw it over the side.

The mercenary spoke to him in Latin. ‘This is how you will die.’

Cassius was just inches from the stern of the ship. He got ready to dive into the river. The bank wasn’t far away. If he could keep his head above water, he reckoned he could make it.

Scaurus closed in, knife up — and Cassius wondered why he hadn’t struck out at him yet. And then he realised. Scaurus was scared. He had a knife, but his opponent was younger, bigger and stronger than him. He daren’t risk getting too close. He was a vicious bastard, but he was no soldier.

Cassius realised something else. He hated this man. He wanted to see him beaten and hurt.

Even so, he wasn’t entirely sure he would stand and fight until he spied the object on a rack attached to the stern: a boathook.

Alikar used his club like a sword.

Indavara saw that it was longer than the others and — without the metal additions — lighter.

The mercenary held the weapon in both hands, out in front of him, thrusting it towards Indavara, who could do little more than block and evade. His club was shorter and heavier, and he was no master of it.

Considering his age, Alikar’s footwork was immaculate. He stood in a fighting hunch: constantly on the move, constantly changing the point of attack.

He swiped at Indavara’s head, then pushed at his face. The club slid off Indavara’s weapon and smacked into his nose. It didn’t break, but he tasted blood on his lips. He felt strangely weary — the club was so heavy, so unwieldy.

A flurry of thrusts and sweeps. Alikar struck at his flank.

Indavara couldn’t get his weapon down in time. The club slammed into his side and the rings of the mail-shirt bit into his skin. Winded, he stumbled backwards, staring into the pale, raging eyes of the man before him.

If he didn’t do something soon, the mercenary would wear him down, then look for an opportunity to finish him off. He lifted the club again. It was so heavy, so difficult to defend with.

He had to attack.

Scaurus hadn’t taken another step forward once Cassius snatched the boathook from the rack. It was a six-foot length of wood topped by a bronze head. Even with his hands bound, he could wield it well enough.

Scaurus looked around for help. On the southern bank, a few of the sailors looked on.

‘You men, get back here. I command you!’

But the men did nothing. Though not shackled like the Africans below, Cassius wondered if they too were slaves. They certainly didn’t seem overly concerned about returning to help. In fact, most had already run away.

Scaurus retreated past the side of the deckhouse towards the main hatch. Behind him, Indavara and Alikar circled each other. The mercenary seemed to have the upper hand.

Cassius swung the boathook into Scaurus’s shoulder — a thumping blow sufficient to make him drop the knife and reach for his arm.

‘I’ll have you torn limb from limb for this,’ he hissed, spittle dripping down his chin.

‘I don’t think so, Scaurus.’

Cassius altered his grip and smashed the boathook into his foe’s right thigh.

‘That’s for Major, you murdering bastard.’

‘I swear by all the gods, I’ll have you torn apart!’ Scaurus yelled, his face scarlet.

Cassius’s third blow caught Scaurus just above the ear, sending him tottering backward towards the hatch. He tried desperately to keep his balance but slipped on the top step. He seemed to freeze in mid-air for a moment before falling head first through the hatch, his body thumping against the wood all the way down.

Cassius came forward and looked into the gloom. Scaurus lay motionless next to the table. Seventeen pairs of eyes stared out from the darkness at their fallen master.

‘And that’s for Gregorius.’

Cassius looked up.

Indavara was just feet away, between the hatch and the side rail.

Alikar lunged at him.

Indavara didn’t dare let him get close again. He took two swift steps back to give himself space, then launched a wide sweep at the mercenary.

Alikar parried solidly; and the impact sent convulsive tremors up Indavara’s arm. He barely kept hold of the weapon, but saw for the first time a flash of doubt in the older man’s eyes. He lashed out again, this time aiming low.

Alikar saw it coming and leapt backwards. Indavara missed him completely — and almost lost his balance — but he pressed on, raising the club over his shoulder once more. He took a deep breath, planted his front foot on the deck and twisted into a full-blooded swing at his foe’s head. Alikar had no choice but to block.

The clubs met with a shuddering crack. Both men lost their grip: Indavara’s weapon flew from his hands and smashed into the deck, Alikar’s wheeled into the air.

Before it had even hit the ground, Indavara reached for his dagger.

Alikar went for his own blade.

Indavara’s fingers closed on the handle. He plucked the blade from the sheath.

Alikar was fumbling. He looked down.

Indavara plunged the dagger straight into his foe’s heart, sinking the blade in deep.

Alikar’s hand was still on the handle of his knife.

Indavara forced the blade in another inch.

The mercenary’s entire body quivered and he let out a gasping sigh. His hands came up around Indavara’s neck. Indavara tried to push him away but Alikar pulled him in close and locked him into a bear hug. He staggered backwards, dragging Indavara with him.

Cassius dropped the boathook, picked up Scaurus’s knife, and rushed towards them.

Two more stumbling steps and they were at the side rail. Indavara’s arms were pinned. He tried to get a knee into the Palestinian’s groin but they were too close.

He smashed his head into Alikar’s nose just as the mercenary gave a final heave.