Simon Scarrow - Son of Spartacus

The centurion forced his way to Quintus’s side. ‘Sir, we cannot let the standard fall into the enemy’s hands.’

Quintus stared back, white-faced, and Marcus saw that his lips were trembling.

The veteran officer took a breath and spoke as calmly as he could. ‘We’ve lost the fight, sir. But we can save our honour. We must not let the standard be taken. If we reach the lake, we can throw it into the depths.’

Quintus blinked and nodded. ‘Yes. That’s what we must do.’ The veteran turned and called to the men surrounding him. ‘We will give ground towards the lake. I’ll call the pace. One!.. Two!..’

The small group backed away from the rebels. All the time Marcus could hear the pounding of weapons on their shields and see the men thrusting back with the short sword of the legions. Every so often an enemy weapon found its way between the shields and a legionary let out a cry as he was wounded. Some fought on, even as their blood flowed on to the disturbed snow at their feet. Others staggered back and collapsed, too wounded to stay in formation, and Marcus saw the look in their eyes as they drew their shields close to their bodies and gripped their swords. He admired their determination to go down fighting while their comrades were forced to leave them behind as they fought to reach the lake.

Marcus glanced round and saw there were no more than thirty or so men left to protect the standard. Suddenly there was a shout from nearby.

‘Let us through! Let us through!’

He recognized the voice well enough. A moment later Decimus and a handful of his men, breathing hard and holding bloodied swords, stumbled between the shields and stood panting beside Quintus, Marcus and the standard bearer. Behind them the soldiers quickly closed ranks as the rebels continued to harry them. It was impossible to break through the wall of shields and the vicious points of the legionaries’ swords, and most of the rebels moved on, looking for easier prey.

‘We’re almost at the edge of the lake,’ the centurion announced as he craned his neck to peer over the helmets of his comrades. ‘We’ll hold our ground there for as long as possible while I get rid of the standard.’

Decimus rounded on the officer. ‘And then what? Where do we go?’

‘Go?’ The centurion smiled grimly. ‘Straight to Hades, that’s where.’

‘That’s your plan?’ Decimus laughed. ‘Not me. I’m getting out of here. I’ll swim for it.’

‘In that water? You’d freeze before you reached the far side. You can drown like a rat or die like a man with a sword in your hand.’

Decimus shook his head as he looked round the small formation. ‘You’re mad.’

Then he saw Marcus for the first time and stared at him with a puzzled expression before his eyes widened. ‘I know you! You … You’re that brat son of Titus.’

For an instant Marcus forgot the battle raging around him. He forgot the imminence of his own death at the hands of the rebels. All he saw was the face of the man who had tormented him and his mother as they stood in a slave pen waiting to be auctioned off. With a feral snarl, he raised his sword and thrust it wildly at Decimus.

‘Watch it, lad!’ the centurion snapped as he thrust his shield between Marcus and Decimus. The blade cracked harmlessly against the edge of the armour. ‘He’s one of ours, you fool!’ he snapped. ‘Watch what you do with that blade!’

Marcus let out a cry of frustration as he saw Decimus move back, two of his men blocking Marcus’s way.

The centurion thrust Marcus towards Quintus. ‘Keep this hothead under control. He’s more danger to our side than theirs.’

But the moment had passed and now an aching despair filled Marcus’s heart. If he and Decimus were to fall here, then all was lost. He would die knowing that his mother was doomed to slavery, worked to death on Decimus’s farming estate in Greece. He’d also die without having avenged Titus and the others murdered by Decimus’s henchmen.

There was a loud crack and then an oath as one of the legionary’s boots went through the ice.

‘Hold your ground!’ ordered the centurion. ‘We make our stand here!’

As his men faced out, the centurion lowered his shield to the snow and reached for the standard. Gritting his teeth, he hacked at the staff with his sword, cutting away at the smooth wood until it was weak enough to snap over his knee. He cast the bottom of the standard aside and moved towards the knot of men clustered at the edge of the lake. With a grunt, the centurion hurled the standard out towards the water. The gold wreath and the red material flew through the air and thudded into the snow-covered ice, sliding a short distance before coming to rest a few paces from the edge of the water.

‘Damn it!’ the centurion growled. He clenched his fists in frustration, then suddenly rounded on Marcus. ‘You can do it! You’re small enough for the ice to bear your weight. Go out there. Push the standard into the water.’

Marcus glanced across the expanse of unbroken snow. It was impossible to know how thick the ice was.

‘There’s no time to think!’ The centurion grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘You must go now, before they cut us all down. Go!’

Marcus nodded. If he died then he would do it for a reason. If he could not save his mother, or honour his real father, he would do this in memory of the old soldier he had always loved. He would do it for Titus. He sheathed his sword and slipped through the men standing at the edge of the lake, stepping cautiously on to the ice. The standard was no more than twenty paces away and Marcus paced carefully towards it. On either side he was aware of the fight reaching its bloody conclusion. The Roman cohorts had been shattered by the rebels’ ferocious attack and only a few clusters of men remained, scattered along the shore of the lake as they sold their lives dearly.

Individuals had thrown aside their weapons and tried to surrender but the rebels butchered the Romans where they stood or knelt. A handful of legionaries were trying to escape on to the ice, but it had given way beneath them and they floundered in the icy water until their strength gave out.

There was a dull creak under his boots and Marcus stopped dead. The sound eased and after a pause Marcus took another few steps. There was another creak, louder this time, and then a crack. He stopped again, heart pounding, and slowly lowered himself to his hands and knees before continuing towards the standard, wincing as the ice seared his bare skin. He was no more than ten feet away from the standard when the ice began to crack again and Marcus caught his breath. He lowered himself on to his stomach and edged forward slowly. His fingers groped for the red cloth where the cohort’s number had been stitched in gold thread. As the ice creaked beneath him Marcus clenched his teeth, clasping the material in his fingers and drawing it back towards him. Taking it in both hands, he turned slowly on to his back and took a deep breath. He counted to three, then hurled it over his head with all his strength.

The sudden movement caused the ice to crack, and water seeped through his cloak and tunic as he heard the splash behind him. Dreading that the ice would break at any moment, Marcus wormed his way towards the edge of the lake until he was confident the ice was thick enough to climb to his feet. He looked back to make sure there was no sign of the standard, then hurried towards the survivors of the cohort banded together by the lake. The rebels massed round them, grim-faced and silent.

‘Well done, lad.’ The centurion clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That took guts. Now the cohort can die with its honour intact.’

‘Die?’ Quintus said.

‘What else?’ The centurion gestured towards the rebels. ‘They’ll charge any moment. It’ll all be over very quickly.’