Altar of Blood: Empire IX (21 page)

Gunda bowed to him.

‘It seems your people have this story too, perhaps written in those books you love so much. The two legions agreed to surrender, leaving all of their weapons and gold behind, in return for safe passage away from the fortress. And so they marched out, trusting to their captors’ good nature, which, as every man of my tribe knows, is a foolish choice to make when dealing with the tribes to our north.’

He shook his head at the folly of the decision.

‘Better for them to have taken their own lives. They were attacked a short distance from the fortress, and slaughtered, their officers enslaved and given to the priestess who had predicted their defeat to be her servants.’

Scaurus stood, stretching his back.

‘All of which is known, and true, but the legions’ eagles were safely removed from the fortress when it was relieved for a short time. They—’

He fell silent under the guide’s stare.

‘Was this a time of great disasters, Roman? A time when the loss of not one but two of your eagles would have been a grievous insult to the dignity of a new emperor?’

‘Yes. I cannot deny it.’

‘And did the Batavi leader perish, when his tribe was finally defeated, silencing him forever?’

Scaurus nodded.

‘That does seem to have been the case.’

Gunda spread his arms.

‘Even I can see how that worked, and I’m just a simple tribesman. The eagles were captured, one of them falling to the Bructeri, and your rulers decided to quietly ignore the fact as it was simply …’

He looked up, fishing for the right word.

‘Inconvenient?’

The German turned to Marcus.

‘Indeed, Centurion. Inconvenient. And so, Romans, whether you believe me or not, it is my belief that it is quite possible for my tribe to be in possession of one of your beloved eagles. I cannot claim to have seen it, for I left the tribe as a young man, too young to have participated in the ceremonies where it would be shown to the warriors as a valued prize, and perhaps used to torment our captives. But I have heard tales of its existence, and that it is kept hidden in the king’s treasury for the most part and only brought out for such special occasions.’

Scaurus gestured to Marcus.

‘Thank you for your frankness, Gunda. Walk with me, Centurion.’

He led the younger man away from the detachment until they were out of earshot.

‘You’re sure about this?’

Marcus thought for a moment, his face etched with the stress bearing down on him.

‘Completely sure? How can I be? I saw nothing more than burn marks on a man’s legs, and I was somewhat preoccupied at the time. But do I think they were put there by an eagle that had been heated over a fire? Yes Tribune, I do.’

The older man looked up at the trees for a moment before speaking again, his voice tense with frustration.

‘We could be back in that grove in minutes, put the priest to the sword, perhaps even find this eagle, and vanish into the forest to the east as if we were never here. But …’

‘That’s not the task we were given.’

‘No. And worse than that, if that German’s story is right we won’t even be thanked for returning it to Rome. After all, the empire had its revenge on the Batavians once they’d been beaten on the battlefield, and you heard what the governor’s secretary told us about the way Rome encouraged neighbouring tribes to push the Bructeri off their land, and almost destroy the tribe. I don’t think we’re going to be thanked for throwing away the job we’ve been given to do to recapture an eagle that’s never actually been acknowledged as having been lost.’

The younger man nodded.

‘And yet …’

‘Exactly. Every time that eagle’s used as part of some filthy sacrifice it demeans every man in the army, whether they know it or not. And worse than that, they’re abducting soldiers to torture and murder, and presumably using the eagle as part of the ceremony. If we took it back, perhaps it would stop them.’

Scaurus looked down the path again, then back in the direction of the sacred grove.

‘No. There’s nothing I’d like more, but we can’t do it. Or at least not yet.’

He turned away, signalling to Dubnus to get the detachment moving again.

‘Consider it unfinished business, if you like. I will.’

‘Gods below, but he’s a big bastard!’

Cotta craned his neck to see over the crowd that had gathered on the slopes of the city’s fighting pit, a shallow arena dug into a small hill overlooking the Bructeri capital. He stared down at the man Sanga had pointed out to him, an unnaturally tall and massively muscled tribesman with the hard eyes of a professional fighter beneath a thick head of red hair which was tied in a plait that reached the small of his back. Big enough to rival their friend Lugos in size, and clad in a simple belted tunic, he dominated the space about him with his size and sheer presence. The white-haired man who was evidently either his trainer or owner moved around him with the innate caution of a wild beast trainer, taking ostentatious care to approach him from the front, fussing with his champion’s belt and offering him a drink of water.

Sanga spoke quietly in the veteran centurion’s ear as they watched the giant’s unhurried preparations.

‘I might not speak their language, but it’s not that hard to figure out having watched a couple of bouts. The man who puts him on his back and keeps him there long enough gets paid a decent purse, but he has to pay a bronze for the chance to win it, which is how they make their money. That and the gambling, obviously.’

The soldiers watched in silence as a fresh challenger was brought forward, stepping into the ring already stripped to his loin cloth, his limbs glistening with freshly applied oil. A well-muscled specimen, with the lithe grace of a boxer, he danced easily from foot to foot as the giant got to his feet with an air of bored disinterest, shaking his hands and then clenching them into fists.

‘This one looks handy enough. Perhaps he’ll be able to tire the big man out with all that fancy footwork?’

Saratos snorted mirthlessly.

‘Same as last one we see. He dance for twenty heartbeats, then he carry out asleep.’

Sanga nodded, not taking his eyes off the circling fighters, the challenger moving nimbly around his opponent as the giant stepped stolidly forward. Clenching his fists he looked up at the sky and let out a roar of challenge that the crowd answered by baying at the two men, clearly recognising it for the sign that the fight was on. With a sudden rush the smaller man stepped in close, hammering a powerful fist into the redhead’s stomach and then moving back quickly to avoid his retaliation, although the punch’s impact seemed negligible as his opponent stepped ponderously towards him in a display of blank-faced menace that sent shivers up Cotta’s spine. His opponent repeated the move, darting in to land another punch, only to be met by a devastating counter-punch to his face that momentarily staggered him, leaving him wide open to the looping hook that followed. Spun a full circle by the blow’s force, he tottered for an instant and then slumped headlong to the dirt floor, his eyes rolling upwards as he lost consciousness. A pair of men stepped into the ring and dragged the defeated challenger away while the crowd shouted and hooted abuse at him, those among them who had been foolish enough to put money on him shaking their heads in disgust as the big man’s owner dropped their money into his leather purse. He shouted above the crowd’s hubbub, and Arminius translated his words for them.

‘Are there no more challengers for the Beast? No man who believes he can be the hero of the day, and win a handful of Roman silver?’

He looked about him in apparent disgust.

‘No? Very well, I can see we’re going to have to raise the stakes! Not five silver coins for the successful challenger! Not ten silver coins! The man who can put the champion down and keep him down will win a Roman gold aureus!’

He raised a hand to display the coin, provoking a flurry of excitement in the watching crowd, looking around at them in simulated frustration.

‘Is
nobody
else here tempted to try their luck?’

Sanga looked at Cotta with an expression the older man knew from experience.

‘So, that big lump wanders up to whoever’s stupid enough to face him inside the circle, takes a punch or two, which he barely notices, then puts the poor unfortunate to sleep with a slap or two? Or at least that’s all that’s happened so far.’

‘You’re not thinking …?’

Sanga grinned.

‘’Course I am. How else are we going to get under this lot’s skin, eh? The man who puts him on his back and wins the gold is going to be famous for the rest of the night, and therefore the object of admiration and quite possibly lust. Some of which may rub off on his mates.’

‘And you think that you—’

The Briton barked a cynical laugh.

‘Me?
Fuck no!
I’m
not that stupid! But I know a man who is …’

They looked around at Saratos, who shrugged and looked over at the brawler with an untroubled expression.

‘He a big man. Fall hard, slow to get up.’

Cotta looked at the Beast, then back at Saratos with a sceptical expression.

‘You’re
sure
you want to fight him?’

The Dacian nodded, turning to Morban.

‘You give me price of entry. I win fight, I keep gold—’

He raised a hand to pre-empt the avaricious standard bearer’s protest.

‘You want gold,
you
fight. I win, I keep gold. You gamble, like you always is, make good money.’

He paused to allow Cotta the time to work it out. The older man grimaced at him disbelievingly.

‘And you really reckon you can win?’

‘Give coin. We soon find out.’

The veteran nodded, turning to the man beside him.

‘Right Morban, this is what you do best. Go down there and skin that white-haired old bastard alive.’

Stripping to the waist to reveal a sinewy, hard-muscled frame that was the product of years of soldiering since his capture by the Tungrians, the Dacian stretched and warmed his muscles in the company of Sanga, nodding as his friend talked incessantly at him, encouraging and cajoling him and plying him with advice as to how he could best fight the massive German. After a few minutes he declared himself ready and made his way down to the fighting ring with Morban walking behind him in imperious fashion, attended by Arminius as his translator, ignoring the muttered comments and dirty looks that he was getting. The giant’s trainer spat a stream of German at them, then nodded as Arminius told him what it was that the Dacian intended.

‘He says that Roman money is as welcome as any other, although for you the price will be higher. Two denarii.’

‘Two
denarii
? The greedy bastard’s only been charging these hairy-arsed fuckers a bronze apiece and he wants two silvers out of me!’

The German shrugged at him, understanding the Tungrian’s outrage despite lacking any apparent ability with Latin, and then grinned as Arminius translated his response.

‘He says you’ll understand that he’s likely to be taxed harder by the tribe’s chief for allowing a Roman to fight in the pit. And he wonders if you really think this streak of piss and gristle will provide any more sport for the crowd than his oldest daughter could?’

Saratos stayed stony-faced, staring at the far wall with the look of a man whose mind was elsewhere, and Morban nodded slowly.

‘Tell him that I’m open to a side bet if he feels so sure of his man.’

The German grinned hugely, having got the reaction his insult was intended to draw, nodding vigorously without waiting for Arminius to translate. Morban fished into his purse, making a show of poking around in it before pulling out a gold aureus. Arminius translated the startled trainer’s response with the ghost of a smile.

‘He says you must be fucking mad, or that’s the closest I can get to what he actually said. He’ll cover you at two for one, given the size of your stake, which he will hold for you until the result is clear.’

Morban winked at the trainer and flicked the coin towards him, nodding as the other man took it out of the air with expert fingers.

‘Tell him he just accepted the worst bet of his life.’

He turned away, calling back to Arminius over the crowd’s renewed baying as Saratos stepped into the ring, his face still vacant and apparently lacking any interest in the coming bout.

‘And stay close to him, I don’t want him trying to do a runner with my money when the big man goes down.’

He turned back to look at the expression on the German’s face.

‘You
might
not speak Latin, but you understood that well enough, didn’t you, you wrinkled old fart?’

The trainer scowled at him, spitting a string of instructions and warnings at his fighter as the giant stepped into the ring to face the waiting Dacian, instructions that were clearly being ignored as the massive redhead clenched his fists and inflated his chest to issue his usual roared challenge, throwing back his head and bellowing defiance at the sky above. At the instant he looked up, Saratos moved, sprinting forward with the urgency of a man who knew that this was his best and quite probably his only opportunity to take control of the fight, covering the five paces between them before his opponent’s bellow had exhausted itself.

The German’s gaze snapped down onto him as he belatedly realised what was happening, but before he had time to react his opponent was upon him. Rather than strike what would almost certainly have been an ineffectual blow at the big man’s stomach or face, Saratos lunged feet first into a sliding tackle that entangled his legs with the giant’s, then twisted his body violently to topple the ponderous German. Hitting the ground hard, his opponent grunted with the unexpected impact, flailing his arms in an attempt to push himself upright, but the Dacian was swifter to react. Thrusting his body into the air, he slammed a braced elbow down into the momentarily helpless German’s sternum with his full weight behind it and then, as the breath left the big man’s lungs in an explosive rush, swung the same arm’s fist down in a hammer blow to his crotch with the speed and skill of a seasoned street fighter. Rolling away he readied himself to strike again, waited for his groaning opponent to get halfway to his feet and then turned swiftly through a full circle to deliver a back-fisted blow to a spot just behind his left ear. His eyes rolling up as he lost consciousness, the German slumped back onto the dirt floor in a boneless flop that betrayed his sudden and complete loss of consciousness.