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  Fortress of Spears

  ( Empire - 3 )

  Anthony Riches

  Fortress of Spears

  Anthony Riches

  Prologue

  Rome, August, AD 182

  The first of the young senator’s bodyguards died slowly, choking to death on the cobbles with his sword only half drawn from its scabbard. He stared up at his killer with bulging eyes while the assassin turned away from him and drew his gladius, facing the younger of the two men with a grim smile. He had stepped out of a side alley in a street whose sudden quiet should have been enough of a warning to an experienced man, punching a half-fist into the veteran soldier’s throat before the bodyguard had the time to realise that he was under attack. The senator and his remaining protector fell back a few paces, both men staring in amazement at their companion as he writhed and kicked in the throes of his death spasm.

  Another man stepped from the alley’s shadows in the killer’s wake, and leaned against the wall of a shop in the late afternoon’s warmth, his face set in an expression of boredom. Where the bodyguard’s murderer was heavyset, with arms that rippled with hard muscle, the man that accompanied him was tall and thin. His voice, when he spoke, was agreeable, and almost soothing in the softness of its tone.

  ‘Greeting, Tiberius Sulpicius Quirinius. Forgive me, but I can’t help thinking that you’ve made something of a blunder in your choice of protection today. Hiring retired soldiers is all very well, but they do tend to know more about throwing spears at barbarians than the dangers of the streets, as your man here is so noisily demonstrating. And the savings to be had from hiring a boy to do a man’s work are so often outweighed by the resulting costs. Wouldn’t you agree, Senator Quirinius, given that you chose to chance a district as rough as the Subura with only these two innocents for protection?’

  The prostrate bodyguard shuddered in one last desperate effort to breathe through his ruptured throat, and then sagged back to lie still on the stones. Quirinius drew himself up, staring at the taller of the two men with an air of confidence that he was a long way from feeling.

  ‘What in Hades do you think you’re doing? Who are you, to challenge an unarmed senator of Rome in the open street?’

  The thin man smiled widely, spreading his hands in greeting.

  ‘Who am I, Senator? I’m Tiberius Varius Excingus, and I’m one of the Emperor’s corn officers. This is my colleague, Quintus Sestius Rapax. He’s a praetorian officer, believe it or not, but he’s never lost the taste for killing even after his richly deserved promotion to centurion. As to what we’re doing? Well, you might be a senator, but you’re clearly still wet behind the ears, or you might have been a little more careful in the last few hours.’

  The praetorian’s eyes were alive with calculation as he stepped in to face the remaining bodyguard. He nodded to the boy, barely fifteen from the look of it, then pointed back with his sword at the uniformed men who were guarding the far end of the street from prying eyes, his voice harsh from years of bellowing orders across parade grounds.

  ‘You’re staying to fight, then, eh, boy? You can still save yourself, if you run now. My men will let you leave, if you drop the sword and walk away.’ He waited, watching the conflicting emotions play out on the boy’s face. ‘No?’ The bodyguard shook his head, wide eyed and clearly terrified, but either unwilling or simply unable to turn and run, and the praetorian laughed softly. ‘Just as well. They’d probably have killed you, if only for fun – or just because you’ve seen my face. And you, Senator, will you not be joining the fight? You’ve got no weapon, I suppose. Only a fool would have walked into a trap like this without a blade of some nature, but I suppose it’s a little too late for you to reflect on that…’

  He stamped forward, smashing aside the boy’s raised sword with his own and putting a bunched fist into his face, hard enough to break his nose, then thrust the blade up into his defenceless victim’s chest before he could recover from the blow, dumping him on his back in a fast-spreading puddle of blood. The senator looked about him, seeking a means of escape, but the shops that lined the street were closed, and the killer’s walk towards him was more saunter than stalk. The taller of the two men spoke again, strolling across the street’s cobbles until he was close enough for the senator to see the thin scar that lined the left side of his face.

  ‘The bad news, Senator, is that you’re not the only person you’ve doomed with your loose talk, and I’m afraid that the damage can’t be limited to these two poor individuals. I’m told you have a young wife and an infant son, and so, regrettably, our next call will have to be on the pair of them. You have sisters too, I believe? Believe me, Senator, when the throne decides to remove a threat it does so in a particularly thorough way, to ensure that nobody stays alive who might later seek their revenge.’

  Quirinius spread his hands, his voice wavering in desperation.

  ‘Couldn’t I…’

  ‘Pay us off? You don’t have enough money, Senator. Call on our better nature? I’m really not sure whether I’ve got one, but I can assure you that my colleague Rapax here most certainly does not. He enjoys these little diversions far too much to have any underlying decency. No, Senator, the time to be having second thoughts about all this was before you walked into Praetorian Prefect Perennis’s office and told him your story regarding the death of his son, and exactly who it was that killed him. You blurted out that the fugitive Marcus Valerius Aquila was the murderer, and is hiding with an auxiliary cohort of Tungrians in northern Britannia under the name of Marcus Tribulus Corvus far too easily, I’m afraid.’

  Rapax stepped closer to the young noble, smiling easily into the other man’s eyes, then looked down at the stream of urine puddling around his feet. He shook his head, his voice a hoarse growl tinged with the barest hint of irritation. ‘Take a moment to compose yourself, boy. A man should go to meet his gods with dignity.’

  The senator stared helplessly back at the assassin’s stone-hard face, his knees shivering with the imminence of his death. The praetorian raised his sword and expertly stabbed the point into the conjunction of shoulder and neck, watching dispassionately as Quirinius slumped slowly to the cobbles. The life faded from his eyes, blood gushing down his toga and staining the white linen crimson as it poured from the artery Rapax had opened. Excingus shook his head sadly.

  ‘It’s amazing how many people one man can condemn to death with just a few loose words. I hope you’ve plenty of energy left in you, colleague, for I fear we have a long evening ahead of us.’

  1

  Britannia, September, AD 182

  The barbarian scouts shivered in the cold pre-dawn air, staring out into the forest’s black emptiness and waiting for the dawn that would release them from their task of watching the silent trees for any sign of a Roman attack. The youngest of them yawned loudly, stretching his arms out in front of him to dispel the stiffness that was afflicting all three of them before whispering to the small group’s leader.

  ‘There’s nothing out there, nothing for miles. The Romans are camped out on the plain behind a wall of earth, not crawling round the forest like wild pigs. It’s time we were back inside the camp…’

  The oldest of the three nodded almost unseen in the darkness, keen to be warming his feet and hands at the fire rather than crouching in the shadow of a fallen tree and waiting in the cold for nothing to happen. He shook his head stubbornly, raising a finger in admonishment to both men.

  ‘We’ve been trusted to watch this side of the camp, to sound the warning if we hear as much as a badger stirring the leaves, and that’s what we’ll do, until the sun’s over the horizon and eyes are stronger than ears. If either of you don’t like that, you can fuck off back into the cam
p and discuss it with…’

  He started at a sudden sound, thinking for a moment that someone was wielding an axe at the palisade a hundred paces to their rear before he realised that the younger of the two men facing him had been punched sideways to the ground with something protruding from his ear. The stink of blood was suddenly heavy in the air. The older warrior slumped away from the log a split second later with an agonised, bubbling grunt. His eyes rolled upwards as the arrow buried deep in his chest took his life. Their leader ripped the hunting horn from his belt, grabbing a deep breath and putting it to his lips, only to shudder with the bone-crunching impact of an arrow into his own ribs. The horn fell from his nerveless fingers to the fallen leaves with a soft thud, and he stared stupidly for a moment at the short length of its feathered wooden shaft jutting from his chest, feeling his blood spraying from the terrible wound chopped deep into his body by its iron-tipped head. His vision narrowing, he sank slowly to his knees, caught for a moment between life and death as a noiseless figure ghosted across the forest floor towards him.

  Without any sound that the dying barbarian could make out, the shadowy figure was abruptly beside him, a tall, lean man dressed in a grey cloak and with a Roman gladius gleaming palely in his right hand, his face painted with stripes of dark mud beneath a cross-crested helmet to match the forest’s dappled moonlit floor. He grabbed at the tottering warrior’s hair to steady him and lifted his sword to strike, angling the blade for the killing thrust. He looked into the dying man’s eyes for a moment, then ran the gladius’s razor-sharp blade through the helpless tribesman’s throat and eased him down to lie glassy eyed in the leaves. Putting a hand inside the tunic beneath his mail armour, he touched a pendant hanging around his neck and muttered a quiet prayer.

  ‘Unconquered almighty Mithras grant you safe passage to your god.’

  He dropped into the fallen tree’s shelter, staring intently at the palisade for any sign that the scouts’ deaths had not gone unnoticed by the warband camped behind its protective wall. His brown eyes were pools of darkness in the night as he stared fiercely into the gloom, his fingers white with their grip on the sword’s hilt. After a long moment of complete silence, other than for the rustle of leaves in the night’s gentle breeze, he turned and whistled softly. A dozen men rose from the cover of the undergrowth fifty paces from the camp’s palisade and crossed the space between the forest edge and the fallen tree with swift caution, weaving noiselessly around the stumps of trees felled to build the camp’s wall. They dropped into the fallen tree’s cover and were instantly still, each one of them aware that any unexpected sound might waken the barbarians sleeping beyond the palisade. Half of the small group were, at first glance, declared enemies of the other half dozen, their shaggy hair and long swords in stark contrast to the soldiers’ close-cropped heads and short infantry blades. After a moment one of the barbarians bent close to the cloaked swordsman, speaking softly into his ear.

  ‘I told you this was the place, Two Knives. They wouldn’t have put men to watch the forest here without a quick route to safety back through their wall.’

  The Roman nodded, whispering his reply.

  ‘And since Qadir put the watchers down silently, we still have the advantage of surprise.’ Behind the barbarian one of the soldiers, his helmet crested front to back to denote his status as a chosen man and the centurion’s deputy, nodded recognition of his officer’s quiet compliment. He finished slinging his bow across his muscular shoulders, and pulled his gladius from its sheath while the centurion pointed to the wooden wall looming over the stump-studded clearing. ‘And the palisade breach is to the left of the hidden doorway?’

  The barbarian nodded confidently.

  ‘Yes, as we discussed. A twenty pace section of the wall from the hidden opening is ready to fall if the retaining bars are removed. And now, with your permission…?’

  He drew a long hunting knife from his belt and reversed its grip so that the silver line of its blade was concealed behind his arm. The Roman officer nodded decisively.

  ‘Quickly and quietly now, Martos. There’ll be plenty of noise soon enough.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Centurion Corvus, for the chance to twist my knife in Calgus’s guts I would go silent for the rest of my days.’

  The barbarian turned to his men, as the shaggy-haired warriors clustered around him.

  ‘There were three of them, one young, one old and one about my age. You, and you, you’re the closest we have to them. With me, and quietly. Any man that makes a noise will have me to reckon with.’

  The three men slipped away, quickly merging with the looming bulk of the timber palisade that had been thrown up around the barbarian camp.

  Calgus, king of the Selgovae people and self-styled ‘Lord of the Northern Tribes’, knew the argument, if it could be deemed worthy of the name, was getting away from him too quickly for there to be any chance of his regaining control of the situation. For a fleeting moment he considered taking his sword to the Venicone chieftain who was so blatantly defying him in his own camp, but the half-dozen hard-faced killers arrayed behind the man, and the heavy war hammer carried over his shoulder, killed the thought before it had time to muster any conviction. He might have been standing inside his own tent, in the middle of thousands of his own people, but these flint-eyed maniacs would tear through his bodyguard and kill him before any of his men were sufficiently awake to react. Drust shook his head vehemently, flicking his hand in a violently dismissive gesture.

  ‘This war of yours is doomed to fail, Calgus, doomed by your own hand, and the Venicone tribe will not stand alongside you while the invaders grind us all into these hills.’ He flicked the hand again, the gesture inches from Calgus’s face. ‘Our part in this war is done. We will fall back to our own lands, and wait for the Romans to decide whether we’re worth the trouble of pursuit.’

  He turned to walk away, and Calgus reached out to take his arm.

  ‘I had thought the Venicone under King Drust had…’

  The Venicone leader spun back at the touch of Calgus’s hand on the sleeve of his rough woollen tunic, his braided red hair whipping about his face with the speed of his reaction. His men froze as he lifted a hand to still their instant response, their eyes burning with the urge to fight, and he leaned in close to his former ally, speaking softly despite his anger.

  ‘You thought there was more to us, perhaps? You wonder that I can walk away from a war not yet finished? There was a time not long distant when I would have agreed with you. I considered you a comrade, Calgus, a man I could stand alongside in the fight to evict the Romans from our soil, but hear me now when I warn you one last time. The next time you lay a finger on me, I will let these animals behind me loose on your bodyguard just to see who comes off best, and you and I will discover which of us is doomed to die at the other’s hand. You thought me stupid, eh, Calgus? You thought I would never hear the rumours of your betrayal of our Votadini brothers after they had triumphed in battle for you, and that you did this because their king disputed your plans one time too many? Perhaps even simply because you could? My men were a cunt-hair from victory in their fight with the Romans at the ford, with more than a thousand heads for the taking, until Martos of the Votadini, a man deliberately betrayed and left for the Romans to slaughter by you, led his warriors into battle against mine at the crucial moment, and turned our victory into bloody defeat in a hundred heartbeats! Apparently even the Romans know better than you how to treat an ally, and while I’ll have no truck with them, neither will I risk your friendship for an hour longer. You have poisoned our own people against us, you fool, and you will pay for that mistake with your own blood, and that of your tribe!’

  Sneering disdainfully, he turned away and ducked through the tent’s doorway, leaving Calgus staring after him. A soft voice spoke from behind him, although there was iron in the words.

  ‘You must stop him, my lord. If he takes his men north we will not have enough strength to defend this place again
st two legions should the Romans attack.’

  Calgus spun back to face the speaker, glaring with frustration into his seamed face before nodding at the old man resignedly. His adviser was a man of unerring instincts, even if some of his advice had resulted in more difficulty than had at first seemed apparent.

  ‘And what do you propose, Aed? That I should beg our comrade to stay? I’ll not make a fool of myself to no purpose.’

  The old man smiled gently, spreading his hands out.

  ‘No, my lord, I fully agree. Your authority must be maintained at all costs. I was simply about to suggest that you might have something to offer Drust in return for his continued support.’

  Calgus frowned.

  ‘What can I possibly offer the Venicone that would persuade them to stay and fight?’

  ‘Something, my lord, which, since you have possessed it for less than a month, you will never truly miss. Something which you can always take back later, once the Brigantes south of the Wall are freed from under the Roman boot and swell your army to an irresistible size.’

  Calgus nodded slowly as the realisation of Aed’s meaning took effect.

  ‘Yes…’

  He hurried from the tent in the wake of the Venicone chieftain.

  There was a long moment of silence before one of Martos’s men reappeared from the gloom, gesturing the remainder of the raiding party forward. Marcus led his men across the ground between the fallen tree and the wooden wall in a crouching run, finding the gap in the palisade just as Martos had described it to the legions’ senior officers the previous day. The two ends of the wooden wall were overlapped, making the thin gap between them almost invisible.

  ‘Give me ten front-rankers and I could defend that little gap against a fucking legion…’

  Marcus looked over his shoulder to find one of his men standing close behind him; the stark white line that marked his face from the point of his right eyebrow to his jawbone was still visible beneath the mud daubed across his features. While the soldier was hardly one of his more stealthy men, he had point blank refused to allow his centurion to accompany Martos’s warriors to the enemy walls without his being one of the soldiers alongside him. Marcus pulled off his helmet, handing it to the other man.