Anthony Riches - Fortress of Spears

He tipped his head to the two riders set to watch his approach to the Tungrians, who had left the shade of the trees, and were cantering their horses towards the three horsemen.

‘And so that, Centurion, is why your friend Felix is accompanying us back to our camp. And now, I suggest, you might want to keep your complaints about the injustice that you’re about to suffer to yourself for a while. I like to pride myself on having a good deal more understanding of the contradictions inherent in the role that my kind and I play than my companions, but I think you’ll find these particular gentlemen a little less informed than me. That, and a lot more willing to take out their frustrations on an unarmed prisoner. So, unless you really want your woman to suffer at their hands as a means of teaching you to keep your mouth shut…?’

He raised an eyebrow, waiting until Marcus had wearily conceded the point with a dispirited nod before looking away, speaking out into the empty landscape as if talking to himself.

‘Good lad. I knew you’d see the sense of it.’

‘They’re here, Centurion, Excingus has them both!’

Rapax nodded at the man he’d set to watch for his colleague’s return, getting up from the fallen tree on which he’d been sitting.

‘Good. Once this Felix tells us who witnessed the death of Perennis’s son we’ll be able to finish the job and get out of this shithole of a province and back to some sunshine. Come along, my lovely, let’s you and I get ourselves out of sight before your boyfriend gets here. You two, come with me. The rest of you can provide the centurion with a suitably warm welcome once I’ve got his woman squawking.’

He pulled Felicia into the trees, retreating far enough into their cover that he could see out into the clearing without being visible. The remaining soldiers spread out in a half-circle to receive the riders, who rode into their midst and stopped at the corn officer’s command, the two praetorians who had escorted them in peeling away to either side. Rapax dragged Felicia deeper into the forest’s cover, his hand clamped over her mouth to prevent her from calling out to Marcus.

‘All in good time, he’ll hear you screaming for me to stop soon enough, but let’s not spoil the surprise, eh?’ He turned to the guardsmen following him. ‘You two, stop gawking and stand guard. I don’t want anyone creeping up on me while I’m otherwise occupied. Now then, Doctor, let’s get down to…’

In the moment of his distraction Felicia, knowing that she could wait no longer, reached under her skirts and pulled the razor-sharp blade free from its scabbard. As Rapax turned back to her, and before the watching soldiers could shout a warning, she struck with all the speed and strength she had, plunging the knife up into the soft skin beneath his jaw until only the bone handle protruded. The praetorian staggered backwards, his eyes flickering as the weapon, stabbed up through his tongue and palate, ran with blood that streamed down the bone handle and on to his boots. He reeled back another step with his eyes rolling up to show only their whites and then straightened, gripping the knife and tearing it free from his jaw with a terrible groan.

Slack jawed at the sight of their officer’s wound, the guardsmen failed to notice that their prisoner had turned and run deeper into the trees, wrenching their attention back to the fleeing woman only when the stricken centurion pointed after her.

‘Ged ’er!’

Turning away from their officer as he swayed and staggered, blood running down the front of his armour in rivulets, the praetorians did as they were bidden, Rapax’s plight quickly forgotten as they chased the running woman into the forest with the smiles of men who intended to fully enjoy the fruits of their hunt when they ran her to ground.

Marcus looked about him at the praetorians gathered in a half-circle around the three horsemen, shaking his head wearily.

‘Eight of you? To kill one tired soldier?’

Excingus shrugged, gesturing for his prisoner to dismount.

‘My colleague Rapax is a thorough man, and your reputation with a sword goes before you. Now do get down and meet your fate with a little composure. The decurion and I will provide an audience for your commendable stoicism.’

Marcus frowned and spread his empty hands before him.

‘If I had a sword I could understand your colleague’s caution. But then if I had a sword you’d already be face down with your guts hanging out, and this scum would be in the fight of their lives, rather than putting an unarmed man to death.’

One of the praetorians stepped forward, resheathing his gladius with a slow metallic scrape.

‘Well then, sonny, why don’t you come down here and show us how tough you are without a weapon in your hand. But keep your ears pricked for the sound of your woman squealing her lovely little lungs out, our centurion should be putting it to her any time now. Beating you to death with our bare hands will give you more time to appreciate the thought that we’ll all be taking a turn at her once he’s done.’

Marcus climbed slowly down from his horse and turned to face the men gathered in a loose half-circle around him, his face white with anger both at the guardsman’s words and the look of satisfaction on his face. Taking up a loose stance with his hands hanging by his side, he looked the praetorian up and down, shaking his head slowly and sighing loudly.

‘Very well, then, come and put me out of my misery!’

He watched through eyes slitted in concentration as the guardsman turned to his mates with a confident smile.

‘Hold off, boys, I’ll take first turn at him. It isn’t every day that I get the chance to knock an officer about.’

He stalked towards his would-be victim, clenching his impressive fists in readiness to fight.

‘You see, Centurion, the advantage I’ve got over you is that I fought my way up from the gutter to where I am today. I’ve beaten hundreds of men into the dirt in my time and you’re going to be just the same as all of them once you’re on your back seeing stars. I’m going to…’

He leaped forward in mid-sentence, clearly intending for his words to have distracted Marcus sufficiently for the sudden attack to take him by surprise, throwing a fast punch at the Roman’s face with the intention of putting his opponent on the defensive. Swaying back to evade the blow by the width of a finger, Marcus hooked the guardsman’s forward leg with a swinging boot and dumped him on to his back, the breath audibly knocked from the praetorian’s body as he hit the ground. Reaching into the neck of his tunic, following the thin leather cord that ran down across his chest, he grasped the handle of the hunting knife that Martos had slipped over his head during the act of removing his armour and ripped it from its hiding place. Then, dropping to one knee, he thrust the knife’s blade up under the praetorian’s jaw and ripped his jugular open in a spray of blood, pulling the dying man’s sword from his scabbard and jumping back to his feet. The remaining guardsmen gaped for a moment before one of them drew his sword, prompting the others to reach for their own weapons. His knife-hand red with blood, Marcus turned to face them, speaking to the wide-eyed corn officer without turning to face him.

‘If I were you, reptile, I’d run while you still can…’

Excingus backed his horse away from the knot of men, shaking his head in amazement as his erstwhile prisoner stepped forward to meet the armed soldiers, raising the bloody knife for them all to see and nodding at the dead guardsman’s corpse.

‘You can all either run now, and save yourselves, or you can add your blood to his.’

One of the soldiers shook his head, raising his sword to fight.