Читать книгу The Emperor Series Books 1-5 - Conn Iggulden - Страница 38

Marcus looked over the parapet, straining his eyes at the distant campfires of the enemy. It was a beautiful land, but there was nothing soft in it. The winters killed the old and weak and even the scrub bushes had a wilted, defeated look as they clung to the steep crags of the mountain passes. After more than a year as a hill scout, his skin was a dark brown and his body was corded with wiry muscle. He had begun to develop what the older soldiers called the ‘itch’, the ability to smell out an ambush, to spot a tracker and move unseen over rocks in the dark. All the experienced trackers had the itch and those who hadn’t acquired it after a year never would – and would never be first-rate, they claimed.

Marcus had first been promoted to command eight men after he successfully spotted an ambush by blueskin tribesmen, directing his scouts around and behind the waiting enemy. His men had cut them to pieces and only afterwards did anyone remark that they had followed his lead without argument. It had been the first time he had seen the wild nomads up close and the sight of their blue-dyed faces still slid into his dreams after bad food or cheap wine.

The policy of the legion was to control and pacify the area, which in practice meant a blanket permission to kill as many of the savages as they could. Atrocities were common. Roman guards were lost and found staked out, their entrails exposed to the brutal sun. Mercy and kindness were quickly burned away in the heat, dust and flies. Most of the actions were minor – there could be none of the set-piece battles so beloved of the Roman legionaries on such broken and hostile terrain. The patrols went out and came back with a couple of heads or a few men short. It seemed to be a stalemate, with neither side having the strength for extermination.

After twelve months of this, the raids on the supply caravans suddenly became more frequent and more brutal. Along with a number of other units, Marcus’ men had been added to the supply guards, to make sure the water barrels and salted provisions reached their most isolated outposts.

It had always been clear that these buildings were barbs under the skin of the tribespeople and attacks on the small stone forts in the hills were common. The legion rotated the men stationed there at regular intervals and many came back to the permanent camp with grisly stories of heads thrown over the parapets, or words of blood found on the walls when the sun rose.

At first the duties of caravan guard had not been onerous for Marcus. Five of his eight men were experienced, cool hands and completed their duties without fuss or complaint. Of the other three, Japek complained constantly, seeming not to care that he was disliked by the others, Rupis was close to retirement and had been broken back to the ranks after some failure of command and the third was Peppis. Each presented different problems and Renius had only shaken his head when asked for advice.

‘They’re your men, you sort it out,’ had been his only word on the subject.

Marcus had made Rupis his second, in charge of four of the men, in the hope that this would restore a little of his pride. Instead, he seemed to take some obscure insult from this and practically sneered whenever Marcus gave him an order. After a little thought, Marcus had ordered Japek to write down every one of his complaints as they occurred to him, forming a catalogue that he would allow Japek to present to their centurion back at the permanent camp. The man was famous for not suffering fools and Marcus was glad to note that not a single complaint had gone down on the parchment he had provided from the legion stores. A small triumph, perhaps, but Marcus was struggling to learn the skills of dealing with people or, as Renius put it, making them do what you want without being so annoyed they do it badly. When he thought about it, it made Marcus smile that the only teacher he’d ever had for diplomacy was Renius.

Peppis was the kind of problem that couldn’t be resolved with a few words or a blow. He had made a promising start at the permanent barracks, growing quickly in size and bulk with good food and exercise. Unfortunately, he had a tendency to steal from the stores, often bringing the items to Marcus, which had caused him a great deal of embarrassment. Even being forced to return everything he took and a brief but solid lashing had failed to cure Peppis of the habit and eventually the Bronze Fist centurion, Leonides, had sent the boy to Marcus with a note that read: ‘Your responsibility. Your back.’

The guard duty had started well, with the kind of efficiency Marcus had begun to take for granted but which he guessed was not the standard all over the empire. They had set off one hour before dawn, trailing along the paths into the dark granite hills. Four flat ox carts had been loaded with tightly lashed barrels and thirty-two soldiers detailed for guard duty. They were under the command of an old scout named Peritas, who had twenty years of experience under his belt and was no one’s fool. Altogether, they were a formidable force to be trundling through the winding hill paths and although Marcus had felt hidden eyes on them almost from the beginning, that was a feeling you quickly became used to. His unit had been given the task of scouting ahead and Marcus was leading two of his men up a steep bank of loose stone and dried moss when they came face to face with about fifty painted, blue-skinned figures, fully armed for war.

For a few seconds, both groups merely gaped at each other and then Marcus had turned and scrambled back down the slope, his two companions only slightly slower. Behind them a great yell went up, making unnecessary the need to call any warning to the caravan. The blueskins poured over the lip of the hidden ledge and fell on the caravan guards with their long swords held high and wild screams rending the mountain air.

The legionaries had not paused to gape. As the blueskins charged, arrows were fitted to bowstrings and a humming wave of death passed over the heads of Marcus and his men, giving them time to reach the path and turn to face the enemy. Marcus remembered having drawn his gladius and killing a warrior who had screamed at him right up to the moment when Marcus chopped his blade into the creature’s throat.

For a moment, the legionaries were overwhelmed. Their strength was in units, but on the ragged path it was every man for himself and little chance to link shields with anyone else. Nonetheless, Marcus saw that each of the Romans was standing and cutting, their faces grim and unyielding before the blue horror of the tribe. More men fell on both sides and Marcus found himself with his back to a cart, ducking under a sword cut to bury his shorter blade in a heaving blue stomach and ripping it out to the side. The intestines seemed bright yellow against the blue dye, some part of him noted as he defended against two more. He took one hand off at the wrist and sliced another warrior in the groin as he tried to leap onto the cart. The snarling tribesman fell back into the choking dust and Marcus stamped down on him blindly while slicing the bicep of the next. It seemed to last a long time and, when they finally broke and raced away up the banks into cover, Marcus was surprised to see the sun where it had been when they attacked. Only a few minutes had passed at most. He looked round for his unit and was relieved to see faces he knew well, panting and splashed with blood, but alive.

Many had not been so lucky. Rupis would never sneer again. He lay with his legs sprawled against one of the carts, a wide red smile opened in his throat. Twelve others had been butchered in the attack and around them lay almost thirty of the still blue bodies, dribbling blood onto their land. It was a grim sight and the flies were already arriving in droves for the feast.

As Marcus had called for Peppis to bring him a flask of water, Peritas had begun setting the guards again and called the commanders to him for a quick report. Marcus had taken the flask from Peppis and trotted to the head of the column.

Peritas looked as if the heat and dust had baked all moisture out of him over the years, leaving only a sort of hard wood and eyes that peered out at the world with amused indifference. Of the whole group, he was the only one who was mounted. He nodded as Marcus saluted.

‘We could turn back, but my guess is we’ve seen the worst they have to offer at the moment. I think if we took the bodies back, that would be a little victory for the savages, so we go on. Strap the dead to the carts and change the guards over. I want the freshest men on lookout, just in case of more trouble. Well done those men who surprised the enemy and made them show themselves early. Probably saved a few Roman lives. It’s only thirty miles to the hill fort, so we had better press on. Questions?’

Marcus looked at the horizon. There was nothing to ask. Men died and were cremated and sent back to Rome. That was army life. Those who survived received promotions. He hadn’t realised there was as much luck involved as there seemed to be, but Renius had nodded when asked and pointed out that, although the gods may well have heroic favourites, an arrow doesn’t care who it kills.

The real trouble started when the depleted company reached the last few miles of the journey. They had begun to see blueskins watching them from the undergrowth, a flash of colour here and there. They hadn’t the numbers to send a unit to attack and the blueskins had never used missile weapons, so the legionaries just ignored the tribesmen and kept a good grip on their swords.

The closer they came to the fort, the more of the enemy they could see. At least twenty of them were keeping pace on a higher level than the path, using the trees and undergrowth for cover, but occasionally coming out into the open to hoot and jeer at the grim soldiers of Rome. Peritas frowned as his horse trotted on and kept his hand on his sword hilt.

Marcus kept expecting a spear to be thrown. He imagined one of the blue warriors sighting on him and could practically feel the spot between his shoulder blades where the point would land. They certainly carried spears, but seemed to avoid throwing them, or at least had in the past. It didn’t stop the spot itching, though. He began willing the fort to be close and at the same time dreading what they might find. More than one tribe must be gathered; certainly none of the men had ever seen so many blueskins in one place before. If any of them lived to report back to the rest of the legion, someone would have to warn them that the tribes had grown in confidence and numbers.

At last they rounded a turn in the track and saw the last segment of the journey, half a mile of steeply rising path up to a small fortress on a grey hill. Roaming the flat lands around the outcropping were more of the blue men. Some were even camped in sight of the fortress and watched the caravan with slitted eyes. Footfalls on rock could be heard behind them, and rocks dislodged by scrambling bare feet spattered and bounced against the ground. With every man on edge, they had begun the slow climb to the fort, the ox-drivers waving and cracking their whips nervously.

Marcus could see no lookouts and began to feel a sense of dull fear. They wouldn’t make it – and what would they find when they did?

The slow march continued until they were close enough to see the details of the fort. Still there was no one on the ramparts and Marcus knew with a sinking heart that no one could be alive inside. He had his sword drawn and was swinging it nervously as he walked.

Suddenly a great howl went up from every blueskin around. Marcus had risked a glance back down the path and saw what must have been a hundred of the warriors charging at them.

Peritas rode down the line of legionaries.

‘Abandon the wagons! Make for the fort. Go!’ he shouted and suddenly they were running. The howls increased in savage joy behind them as the drivers leapt off and sprinted the last hundred feet. Marcus held his sword away from his body and ran, not daring to look back again. He could hear the slap of hard bare feet and the high screaming of a blueskin attack too close for comfort. He saw the gate come up and was through it with a knot of shoving, heaving soldiers, turning immediately to yell encouragement to the slower men.

Most made it. Only two men, either too tired or too scared to make the sprint, were run down, turning in the last moment like trapped animals and spitted with many blades. Wet red metal was raised in defiance as the survivors shut and barred the gate and Peritas was off his horse and shouting to search and secure the fort. Who could understand the sick reasoning of the savages? Perhaps they had more men waiting inside, just for the pleasure of picking them off when they thought they had reached safety.

The fort was empty, however, except for the bodies. A Fifty manned each fort, with twenty horses. Man and beast lay where they had been killed and then mutilated. Even the horses had their stinking guts spread over the stone floor and clouds of blue-black flies buzzed into the air as they were disturbed. Two men vomited as the smell hit them and Marcus’ heart sank even more. They were trapped, with only disease and death in the future. Outside, the blueskins chanted and whooped.