Читать книгу The Emperor Series Books 1-5 - Conn Iggulden - Страница 39

Before night fell, Peritas had the bodies of the legionaries locked in an empty basement store. The dead horses proved a more difficult problem. All weapons had been stripped from the fort and there wasn’t an axe to be found anywhere. The slippery carcasses could be lifted by five or six of the men working at once, but not carried up the stone steps to be put over the ramparts. In the end, Peritas had stacked the heavy, limp bodies against the gate to slow down attackers. It was the best they could hope for. No one expected to make it through the night and fear and resignation hung heavily on all of them. Up on the walls, Marcus watched the campfires with narrowed eyes.

‘What I don’t understand,’ he muttered to Peppis, ‘is why we were allowed back into the fort. They have taken it once and they must have lost some lives, so why not cut us down on the trail?’

Peppis shrugged. ‘They’re savages, sir. Perhaps they enjoy a challenge, or humiliating us.’ He carried on with his task of sharpening blades on a worn concave whetstone. ‘Peritas says we will be missed when we don’t get back by morning and they’ll send out a strike force by tomorrow evening, perhaps even earlier. We don’t have to hold out for long, but I don’t think the blueskins will give us that kind of time.’ He continued wiping the stone along a silver blade.

‘I think we could hold this place for a day or so. They have the numbers, granted, but that’s all they have. Mind you, they did take it once.’

Marcus paused as a chant began in the near darkness. If he strained his eyes, he could see dancing figures silhouetted against the flames of the fires.

‘Someone is having a good time tonight,’ he muttered. His mouth watered. The fort well had been poisoned with rotting flesh and everything else edible had been removed. Truth to tell, if the reinforcements didn’t get to them in a day or two, thirst would do the blueskins’ job for them. Perhaps they intended the Romans to die with dry throats in the burning sun. That would match the cruel tales he had heard about them, given a fresh airing amongst the nervous soldiers as night fell on the fort.

Peppis peered over the wall into the gloom and snorted.

‘There’s one of them peeing against the wall down there,’ he said, his voice caught between outrage and amusement.

‘Watch yourself, don’t lean out or put your head up too high,’ Marcus replied as he pressed his own head closer to the rough stone, trying to peer over the edge whilst exposing as little of himself as possible.

Astonishingly close and directly below them was a swaying blueskin holding his parts and spraying the fort with dark urine in short sweeping arcs. The grinning figure caught sight of the movement above and jumped, recovering quickly. He waved a hand at the pair who watched him and waggled his privates in their direction.

‘He’s had a little too much to drink, I’d say,’ Marcus murmured, grinning despite himself. He watched the man pull a bloated wineskin around his body and suck on the mouth of it, spilling more than he took in. Blearily, the blueskin shoved in the stopper on his third attempt and gestured up again, calling out something in his slushy tongue.

Tiring of their lack of response, he took two steps and fell flat on his face.

Marcus and Peppis watched him. He was still.

‘Not dead, I can see his chest moving. Dead drunk maybe,’ Peppis whispered. ‘It’s bound to be a trap. Devious, the blueskins are, everyone says.’

‘Maybe, but I can only see one of them and I can take one. We could do with that wine. I know I could, anyway,’ Marcus replied. ‘I’m going down there. Fetch me a rope. I can drop over the wall and climb back up before there’s any real danger.’

Peppis scurried off on his errand and Marcus focused on the prone figure and the surrounding ground. He weighed the risks and then smiled sardonically. They were all going to die in the night or at dawn, so what did the risks matter? The problem receded and he felt his tension relax. There was something about almost certain death that was quite calming in its way. At least he would have a drink. That wine sack had looked full enough to give nearly all of them a cupful.

Peppis tied up his end of the rope and sent the rest uncoiling silently down the twenty-foot drop. Marcus made sure his gladius was secure and ruffled the hair of the lad.

‘See you soon,’ he whispered, putting one leg over the parapet and disappearing into the gloom below. The dark was so complete that Peppis could barely make him out as he crept towards the still figure, the gladius drawn and ready in his hand.

Marcus felt the itch again and clenched his jaw. Something was wrong with the scene and it was too late to avoid the trap. He reached out a foot to stir the drunken blueskin and wasn’t surprised when the man suddenly sprang up. Marcus took his throat out before the expression of triumph could fully form. Then two more blue men rose out of the dirt. It was their presence he’d sensed, hidden in shallow graves and lying perfectly still for hours with almost inhuman discipline. They had probably dug themselves in to wait before the Roman caravan even appeared, Marcus realised as he attacked. They were not wild savages, but warriors.

There seemed to be just the three of them, young men out for status or a first kill. They had risen with swords in their hands and his first backhand blow was blocked with a loud ring of metal that made Marcus wince. There would be more of them coming. He had to get clear before the whole blueskin army arrived.

Marcus’ blade slid along the dust-covered warrior’s and clashed against a crude bronze guard. The man leered and Marcus punched him in the stomach with his other fist, ripping the blade back and through him as he doubled over in pained surprise. He collapsed as his neck veins parted and hit the ground wretchedly.

The third was not as skilled as his companion, but Marcus could hear shouts and knew time was running out. His haste made him careless and he ducked late on a wild slash that nicked his ear and scored a line in his scalp.

He slid to his left and punched the blade into the man’s heart through the blue-stained ribs from the side. As the warrior fell with a gurgling cry, Marcus could hear the slap of running feet he remembered so vividly from the afternoon scramble into the fort. It was too late to run for the rope, so he turned and detached the wineskin from the first body, pulling out the stopper and taking a deep draught as the night around him filled with swords and blue shadows.

They formed a circle around him, swords ready, eyes bright even in the darkness. Marcus eased the wine bag to his feet and held his gladius high. They made no move and he saw eyes roam over the bodies. Long seconds stretched in silence, then one of them stepped forward, large, bald and blue, and carrying a long, curved blade.

The warrior pointed off into the distance and gestured at Marcus. Marcus shook his head and pointed back at the fort. Someone jeered, but a curt hand signal from the man cut their noise off. The warrior stepped forward fearlessly, his sword pointed at Marcus’ throat. With his other arm he pointed again at the campfires and then at the young Roman. The circle tightened silently and Marcus could feel the closeness of the men behind him.

‘Tortured to death over the fire it is, then,’ he said, pointing to the campfires himself.

The big blue warrior nodded, his eyes never leaving Marcus. He spoke a few words of command and another warrior placed his hand on Marcus’ sword blade, gently removing it from his grip.

‘Oh, unarmed and tortured to death, I didn’t understand at first,’ Marcus continued, forcing his voice to pleasant tones and knowing they didn’t understand. He smiled and they smiled back at him.

They left the fort behind in the darkness and it was probably just his imagination that he caught a glimpse of Peppis’ face outlined against the sky for a moment when he looked back.

They walked with strutting confidence into the blueskin camp with their prisoner. Marcus could see they were readying themselves for war. Weapons were stacked in bundles and the warriors danced and howled at the fires, spitting what must have been raw alcohol, judging by the blue flames that burst and flickered as the streams of liquid hit them. They whooped and wrestled and more than one sat slathering a pale mud onto his arms and face – the source, Marcus guessed, of the blue dye.

He barely had time to take all this in before he was shoved to his knees at the side of the bonfire and a crude clay cup of clear spirit was pressed into his hands. His eyes watered as he caught the evaporating fumes, but he swallowed it all and then fought not to choke. It was powerful liquor and he waved away the offer of another cup, wanting to keep a clear head. His guards settled on the ground all around him and seemed to be commenting on his clothes and manners to each other. Certainly it involved much pointing and laughing. Marcus ignored them, wondering if there would be a chance to run. He eyed the swords of the warriors nearest him, noting how they were removed from belts and laid on the scrub grass near to hand. He might be able to grab one …

Horns blew and interrupted his concentration. As everyone looked towards the source of the sound, Marcus stole one more look at the closest blade and saw the warrior’s hand was resting on it. As his gaze travelled upward, he met the man’s eyes and chuckled wryly as the burly warrior shook his head and smiled, revealing brown and rotting teeth.

The horn was held by the first old blueskin Marcus had seen. He must have been fifty and, unlike the hard muscular bodies of the young fighters, he had a heavy belly that bowed out his robe and jiggled as he moved skinny arms. He must have been a leader, as the warriors reacted to his shouted commands with speed. Three handy-looking types unsheathed their long swords and nodded to friends in the circle. Small drums were produced and a fast rhythm sounded. The three men stood relaxed as the rhythm filled the night and then they moved, faster than Marcus would have believed possible. The swords were like bars of dawn light and the moves were fluid, flowing into one another, so unlike the Roman sequences that Marcus had learned.

He could see the fight was staged, more a dance than a contest of violence. The men spun and leapt and their swords hummed as they cut the hot night air.

Marcus watched entranced to the end as the men once again resumed their relaxed positions and the drumming ceased. The warriors whooped and Marcus joined them without embarrassment, tensing as the old man walked over to him.

‘Do you like? They are skilful?’ the man said in a heavy accent.

Marcus covered his confusion and agreed, his expression carefully blank.

‘These men took your little fort. They are the Krajka, the best of us, yes?’

Marcus nodded.

‘Your men fought well, but the Krajka train when they stand, yes, as young children? We will take back all your ugly forts this way, yes? Stone from stone and ashes scattered? We will do this.’

‘How many … Krajka are there?’ Marcus asked.

The old man smiled, showing only three teeth in black gums.

‘Not enough. We practise on those came with you today. Other warriors need to see how you people fight, yes?’

Marcus looked at him in disbelief. The future was clearly bleak for those left in the fort. They had been allowed to make the safety of the walls just so the young blueskins could blood themselves against reduced defenders. It was chilling. The legion believed the blueskins to be close to animals in intelligence. Any captured prisoners went berserk, biting through ropes and killing themselves on anything sharp if they couldn’t escape. This evidence of careful planning – and one who spoke a civilised language – would wake them up to a threat they didn’t treat seriously enough.

‘Why didn’t the men kill me?’ Marcus asked. He fought to remain calm as the old man leaned closer to his face and sour breath washed over him.

‘They very impressed. Three men you kill with short sword. Kill like man, not with bow or spear throwing. They bring you to show to me, as a strange thing, yes?’

A curiosity, a Roman good at killing. He guessed what had to come next before the old man spoke.

‘Not good to have young warriors admire Roman. You fight Krajka, yes? If win, you go back to fort. If Krajka kill you, then all men see and know hope for future days, yes?’

Marcus agreed. There was nothing else to do. He looked into the flames and wondered if they would let him use his gladius.

Blueskins had come over from all the other campfires, leaving them barely defended. Marcus realised the men in the fort could not be aware of the opportunity. They would still see the spots of light in the mountain darkness and not know the bulk of them had trotted over to see the contest.

Marcus was allowed to stand and a circle was marked out with daggers stuck into the soil. The blueskins gathered outside the line, some balancing friends on their shoulders so they could see. Whichever way Marcus turned, he could see a heaving wall of blue flesh and grinning yellow teeth. He noticed how many of the eyes were pink-rimmed and decided it must be something in the dye that irritated the skin. The older, potbellied blueskin stepped into the circle and gravely handed Marcus his gladius, stepping back warily. Marcus ignored him. You didn’t need the scout’s eye to sense the hostility here. Lose and be cut to pieces to show their superiority, win and be torn apart by the mob. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what Gaius would do and had to smile at the thought. Gaius would have killed the leader as soon as he handed over the sword. It couldn’t get any worse, after all.

The leader was still visible, his belly sticking into the circle space, but somehow it didn’t seem right to run over and stick the old devil. Perhaps they would let him go. He looked around at the faces again and shrugged. Not very likely.

A low cheer built as one of the Krajka came through the circle, with the warriors parting briefly and then shoving their way back into position to get a good view. Marcus looked him up and down. He was much taller than the average blueskin and had a good three inches on Marcus, even after the growth he’d put on since leaving Rome. He was bare-chested and muscles shifted easily under the painted skin. Marcus guessed they were probably about equal in reach. His own arms were long, with powerful wrists from hours of sword practice. He knew he had a chance, no matter how good the man was. Renius still worked with him every day and Marcus was running out of opponents to give him a challenge in the practices.

He watched the way the tall man moved and walked. He looked into his eyes and found no give. The man didn’t smile and wouldn’t understand insults anyway. He walked around the edge of the circle, always staying out of reach in case Marcus tried a wild attack. Marcus turned on the spot, watching him all the time until he took up his position on the opposite side, twenty feet away. Tactics, tactics. Renius said never to stop thinking. The point was to win, not to be fair. Marcus winced as the man drew a long sword that reached from his hip to the ground, a shining length of polished bronze. There was the edge. He hadn’t really noticed before, but the blueskins were using bronze weapons and a hard iron gladius would soon take the edge off it, if he could survive the first few blows. His thoughts raced. Bronze blunted. It was softer than iron.

The man walked closer and loosened his bare shoulders. He was wearing only leggings over bare feet and looked supremely athletic, moving like a great cat.

Marcus called to the leader, ‘If I kill him, I walk free, yes?’

A great jeer went up from the crowd, making him wonder how many understood the language. The old blueskin nodded, smiling, and signalled with his hand to begin.

Marcus jumped as drums sounded over the chatter of the crowd. His opponent relaxed visibly as the rhythms were pounded out. Marcus watched him lower into a fighter’s stance, the sword held out unwavering. The extra inches on the blade would give him the advantage in reach, Marcus thought, rolling his shoulders. He held up his hand and took a step back to remove his tunic. It was a relief to be free of it in the stifling heat, made worse by the nearby fire and the sweating crowd. The drumming intensified and Marcus focused his gaze on the man’s throat. It unnerved some opponents. He became utterly still while the other swayed gently. Two different styles.

The Krajka barely seemed to move, but Marcus felt the attack and shifted aside, making the bronze blade miss him. He didn’t engage the gladius with the blade, trying to judge the man’s speed.

A second cut, a smooth continuation of the first, came at his face and Marcus brought his gladius up desperately with a ring of metal. The blades slid together and he felt fresh sweat prickle on his hairline. The man was fast and fluid, with killing strikes that seemed only flicks and feints. Marcus blocked another low cut into his stomach and stepped and punched forward into the blue body.

It was not there and he went sprawling on the hard ground. He got up quickly, noting the fact that the Krajka stood well back to let him. This was not to be a quick kill then. Marcus nodded to him, his jaw clenched. Feel no anger, he told himself, nor shame. He remembered Renius’ words. It does not matter what happens in battle as long as the enemy lies at your feet at the end of it.

The Krajka skipped lightly forward to meet him. At the last second, the bronze sword flicked out and Marcus was forced to duck under it. This time he didn’t follow through with a lunge under the blow and saw the man’s readiness to reverse his sword into a downwards slash. He had fought Romans before! The thought flashed into Marcus’ head. This man knew their style of fighting, perhaps he had even learned it with a few of the legionaries who had disappeared over previous months before killing them.

It was galling. Everything he had been taught came from Renius, a Roman-trained soldier and gladiator. He had no other style to fall back on. The Krajka was clearly a master of his art.

The bronze sword licked out and Marcus blocked it. He focused on the lightly pulsing blue throat and could still see the shifting arms and sinuous moves of the body. He let one blow slide by him and stepped away from another, judging the distance perfectly. In the space, he struck like a snake and scored a thin line of red in the Krajka’s side.

The crowd fell suddenly silent, shocked. The Krajka looked puzzled and took two sliding steps away from Marcus. He frowned and Marcus saw he had not felt the scratch. He pressed his hand to the red line and looked at it, his face blank. Then he shrugged and danced in again, his bronze sword a blur in the light and shadows.

Marcus felt the rhythm of the movements and began working against the flowing style, breaking the smoothness, causing the Krajka to jump back from a sword held out rigidly and again when Marcus’ hard sandals cracked against his toes.

Marcus advanced, knowing his opponent’s confidence was wavering. Each step was accompanied by a blow that became another, a flowing pattern that mimicked the style the Krajka employed against him. The gladius became an extension of his arm, a thorn in his hand that required just a touch to kill. The Krajka let a throat cut pass a hair’s-breadth from his skin, and Marcus could feel the hot gaze above his own. The man was angry that he had not won easily. Another blow was blocked and once again the bare feet were crunched under hard Roman sandals.

The Krajka gave out a strangled groan of pain and spun, leaping into the air like a spirit, as Marcus had seen the others do before. It was a move from the dance and the bronze sword whirled with him, coming out of the spin unseen and slicing Marcus’ skin across the chest. The crowd roared and, as the man landed, Marcus reached up and caught the bronze blade with his bare left hand.

The Krajka looked in astonishment into Marcus’ eyes and found for the first time in the whole battle that they were looking back at him, cold and black. He froze under that gaze and the hesitation killed him. He felt the iron gladius enter his throat from the front and the pouring wetness of blood that stole his strength. He would have liked to pull his blade back, cutting the fingers away like over-ripe stalks, but there was no strength left and he dropped into a boneless sprawl at Marcus’ feet.

Marcus breathed slowly and picked up the bronze sword, noting the twisted and buckled edge where he had caught it. He could feel blood trickle over his knuckles from the cut on his palm, but was able to move the fingers stiffly. He waited then for the crowd to rush in and kill him.

They were silent for some time and in that silence the old blueskin’s voice called out harsh-sounding commands. Marcus kept his eyes on the ground and the swords loose in his hands. He was aware of footsteps and turned as the old blueskin took his arm. The man’s eyes were dark with astonishment and something else.

‘Come. I keep my word. You go back to friends. We come for you all in morning.’

Marcus nodded, scarcely daring to believe it was true. He looked for something to say.

‘He was a fine fighter, the Krajka. I have never fought better.’

‘Of course. He was my son.’ The man seemed older as he spoke, as if years were settling on his shoulders and weighing him down. He led Marcus outside the circle and into the open and pointed into the night.

‘Walk home now.’

He stayed silent as Marcus handed him the bronze blade and walked away into the dark.

The fort wall was black in the darkness as Marcus approached. While he was still some distance away, he whistled a tune so that the soldiers would hear him and not put a crossbow bolt into his chest as he drew close.

‘I’m alone! Peppis, throw that rope back down,’ he called into the silence.

There was scrambling inside as the others moved to peer over the edge.

A head appeared above him in the gloom and Marcus recognised the sour features of Peritas.

‘Marcus? Peppis said the ’skins had you.’

‘They did, but they let me go. Are you going to throw a rope down to me or not?’ Marcus snapped. It was colder away from the fires and he held his damaged hand in his armpit to keep the stiff fingers warm. He could hear whispered conversations above and cursed Peritas for his cautious ways. Why would the tribesmen set a trap when they could just wait for them all to die of thirst?

Finally, a rope came slithering over the wall and he pulled himself up it, his arms burning with tiredness. At the top, there were hands to help pull him onto the inner wall ledge and then he was almost knocked from his feet by Peppis, who threw his arms around him.

‘I thought they was going to eat you,’ the boy said. His dirty face was streaked where he had been crying and Marcus felt a pang of sorrow that he had brought the boy to this dismal place for his last night.

He reached out a hand and ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘No, lad. They said I was too stringy. They like them young and tender.’

Peppis gasped in horror and Peritas chuckled. ‘You have all night to tell us what happened. I don’t think anyone will sleep. Are there many of them out there?’

Marcus looked at the older man and understood what couldn’t be said openly in front of the boy.

‘There’s enough,’ he replied, his voice low.

Peritas looked away and nodded to himself.

As dawn broke, Marcus and the others waited grimly for the assault, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. Every man of them stood on the walls, swinging their heads nervously at the slightest movement of a bird or hare down on the scrubland. The silence was frightening, but when a sword falling over interrupted it more than a few swore at the soldier who’d let it slip.

Then, in the distance, they heard the brassy horns of a Roman legion, echoing in the hills. Peritas jogged along the narrow walkway inside the walls and cheered as they watched three centuries of men come out of the mountain trails at a double-speed march.

It was only a few minutes before a voice sounded, ‘Approaching the fort,’ and the gates were thrown open.

The legion commanders had not been slow in sending out a strike force when the caravan was late returning. After the recent attacks, they wanted a show of strength and had marched through the dark hours over rough terrain, making twenty miles in the night.

‘Did you see any sign of the blueskins?’ Peritas asked, frowning. ‘There were hundreds around the fort when we arrived. We were expecting an attack.’

A centurion shook his head and pursed his lips. ‘We saw signs of them, smouldering campfires and rubbish. It looks like they all moved out in the night. There is no accounting for the way savages think, you know. One of their magic men probably saw an unlucky bird or some kind of omen.’

He looked around at the fort and caught the stench of the bodies.

‘Looks like we have work to do here. Orders are to man this place until relieved. I’ll send a Fifty back with you to permanent camp. No one moves without a heavy armed force from now on. This is hostile territory, you know.’

Marcus opened his mouth to reply and Peritas turned him deftly around with an arm on his shoulder, sending him off with a gentle push.

‘We know,’ he said, before turning away to ready his men for the march home.