Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer (6 page)

Swords clashed upon each other. The barbarian
roared wildly, but there was still method in his madness. He was agile for his
size and his power made up for any deficiencies in technique. The centurion
tried to get inside but the large sword and shield kept him at bay.
Oppius
believed that he could perhaps ultimately defeat his
opponent if he kept chipping away at him and picked his moments – but as he
caught the agent escaping out of the corner of his eye he
realised
that time was of the essence in nullifying the bodyguard.

Oppius
soon formed a plan. He tried to keep his distance from the
pict
, parrying any attack, and
used his footwork to circle his enemy. The barbarian smirked, sensing that he
had the beating of his now defensive minded opponent. He grinned at his
ambusher – but one of the last sights the barbarian would see was that of his
enemy smiling back at him, as an arrow from
Teucer
struck him in the spine. The
pict
arched his back in pain, his arms were spread-eagled.
Oppius
wasted little time in stepping in and slashing his
gladius
across his opponent’s unprotected chest. Lightning can strike twice in the same
place.

As much as
Oppius
would grant a portion of respect to his opponent for his skill and courage as a
fighter, he stood over his defeated enemy not – but rather set off in pursuit
of the agent immediately. Confusion and fear had driven the Roman to head off
in the opposite direction to the settlement. His fear and confusion increased
when his pursuer caught up with him, zigzagging between the trees, and called
out to halt, in his native language. Where words slowed the agent not,
Oppius
’ knife did – as he threw the blade into the back of
his prey’s thigh during a clearing in the woods.

Both men panted as they attempted to catch
their breath, whilst the agent winced in pain upon the ground too.

“Who are you working for?” the agent
scornfully exclaimed, offering his enemy a look that was as sharp as the dagger
in his leg.

“It’s customary for the captor to ask the
questions. Now, who are
you
working
for? Tell me, or I’ll cut everything out of you, except your tongue,” the
centurion replied, drawing his sword and smiling sadistically. Should somehow
he be unable to bring the agent back to Caesar for interrogation,
Oppius
thought it prudent to try and extract some
information now.

“I refuse to talk to you,” the agent spat back
with disdain. “You’re just a soldier, a dog. You’re no better than my barbarian
bodyguards.”

“I’d rather be a dog than a snake in the
grass. And if I’m no better than your bodyguard, at least I can say that I’ve
got more life in me than them. Now tell me who you’re working for.”

“Never.
I am armed with my philosophy. My stoicism will act as a shield
against any of your bribes or threats,” the agent announced, his intended
boldness not quite being mirrored in his reedy, quivering voice.

“Your shield didn’t perform too well
deflecting my dagger. It’s doubtful it’ll be able to blunt the point of my
sword. Everybody talks – and sooner rather than later,”
Oppius
replied, slightly distracted by the appearance of
Teucer
.

“I see you caught up with the bastard. Has he
talked yet? I’d be happy to loosen his tongue, in either language.”

“He’ll talk. Caesar will make him scream more
than any woman he’s been with. But how are things out there?”

“We’ve started to cause a stir. A few people
have just seen the bodies. We should leave, now.”

“I will take my leave of you too. My death is
the final duty I owe to my master. A plague
be
on the
tyrant, Caesar,” the agent exclaimed as he clutched his dagger and, though his
features were twisted in fear and hesitation, he closed his eyes and rammed the
point of the knife into his neck.
Oppius
was too far
away to prevent the agent’s sudden and dramatic action. Blood gushed from the
mortal wound and his face quickly became ashen.

“At least we won’t have to now carry the
bastard back with us and listen to his yammering,”
Teucer
remarked, after a pause.

“Let’s return to the camp. I’ve seen enough of
the garden of Britain not to want to see any more of it,” the centurion
replied, disappointed that he would not be able now to bring the agent before
Caesar and unmask the traitor in Rome.
    

17.

Evening.

The canopy of the trees sheltered the two
soldiers from the rain as they sat close to their small fire and finished
sucking the bones dry of the two wood pigeons that the archer had brought down.

“Some argue that the channel provides your
greatest, natural
defence
against invasion. Instead I
think it’s your weather. No one will want to conquer a land in which it rains
so much,”
Oppius
remarked, whilst tossing another
piece of wood onto the fire.

“Never mind the rain. Which way do you think
the wind will blow, in regards to what Caesar will do next? Did he give you any
indication at your dinner?”

“Caesar wishes to re-draw the maps and
frontiers of the world, but ultimately Rome is his home. Also securing peace in
Gaul is more important than making war in Britain. I warrant that we’ll be
sailing back soon.”

“Do you consider Rome to be your home too? Do
you have anyone waiting for you? Who wants to see you?”

“My mother still lives in a village outside of
Rome. There’s also my ex-wife. Whether she wants to see me or not the channel
and climate will thankfully help keep her at bay,” the centurion remarked,
breaking off another leg of his wood pigeon as he did so.

“Did you not love her once? Is there still a
spark?”

“It was lust more than love, attraction more
than affection,”
Oppius
replied, looking wistful for
once.

“What happened?”

“The usual.
Life gets in the way of love. I didn’t spend enough time with her –
and she spent too much of my money. What about you? Is there a particular
flower in the garden of Britain that you pine for?”

“There used to be too many – I was the
chieftain’s son after all – which is why there was never just one. Sometimes I
feel I missed out. I’m not sure how much of our love lives could serve as an inspiration
for
Fabius
’ poetry.”

“My job is to teach him how to kill rather
than kiss.”

“I’m sure
Fabius
prefers that scenario too.”

18.

Late morning.

Just as
Oppius
and
Teucer
came out upon a field from leaving the forest the
sun similarly came out from behind a flock of pink clouds. They were almost
home.

“It looks like that we may just make it back
alive. Things went more smoothly than I thought,” the Briton remarked, squinting
a little in the sunlight.

“Don’t tell Caesar that. It may encourage him
to send us out again behind enemy lines,” the centurion replied, half thinking
about how Caesar would react to his success, or lack of, in regards to the
mission.

“Aye, it’s a shame we don’t have any war
wounds to show him when we get back, to prove how much we’ve been to Hades and
back.”

No sooner had the Briton finished speaking
than he let out a cry, as an arrow slammed into his though, cutting through
skin, sinew and muscle. He fell to one knee and nearly passed out.
Oppius
looked up to see a brace of arrows flying towards
him. He quickly dove to his left to avoid the missiles, which thudded into the
ground just behind to where the centurion had been standing. When
Oppius
looked up he saw half a dozen barbarians, armed with
bows, rushing towards him from out of the trees. The ground shook beneath him
as another barbarian galloped towards
Teucer
upon a
horse.
Oppius
would be struck by at least three
arrows before he would have the time to draw his bow and unleash just one in
return.

“
Adminus
,
put the bow down. I meant to shoot you in the leg. I can
as easily arrange to shoot you in the head,”
Caradog
called out whilst riding towards his brother.

Blood seeped out from
Teucer’s
wound, as did any feelings of hope or revenge it seemed. He placed his bow on
the ground. He glanced at
Oppius
, who was being
surrounded by a trio of savage but skilled warriors, their bodies smeared with
sweat and
woad
.
Caradog
glanced at the centurion too – with a look of recognition, an expression
twisted in contempt.

“It’s you. Roman bastard,” the cruel-faced
Briton exclaimed – and then spat at the centurion. “Tell your foreign friend
that I missed him on the beach, but I won’t miss him again.”

It dawned upon
Oppius
who the barbarian was. He
recognised
the same
jewellery
.
The same hatred.
Although he could not understand what he was saying,
Oppius
sensed that he was not inviting him to share his lunch. When
Teucer
finished translating the centurion met the barbarian’s
vicious glare and replied.

“Tell your brother that I’ll only require one
shot. I won’t need a second.”

Before
Teucer
was
able to reply however
Caradog
spoke.

“Why did you come back?”

“I missed the weather.”

“You have a joke for everything brother, but
I’ll have the last laugh. Now, unless you know them yourself, ask your friend
what Caesar’s plans are?”

“He doesn’t know anything.”

“Burning him alive might help him cook up some
thoughts.”

Teucer
translated the question for
Oppius
,
although the centurion gazed off into the distance somewhat, seemingly
distracted. Perhaps he was collecting his final thoughts, or praying.
Oppius
thought about the question for a moment or two and
then replied.

“What are Caesar’s plans for Britain?
To encourage Britons to start dyeing their clothes instead of their
bodies.”

19.

The chieftain
manoeuvred
his horse over towards the foreigner and kicked him in the face, in reply to
his insolence.

“Your brother is as hospitable as the
climate,”
Oppius
remarked to
Teucer
.
He smiled, in defiance. The smile was also due to the fact that half of his
captors had now slung their bows back over their shoulders.

“The Roman will eventually reveal what he
knows of Caesar’s plans. Everybody talks. I’ll be more open and reveal my plans
to you. I’m going to take you both back to the village. I’ll take as much
pleasure in keeping him alive – and torturing him just for the fun of it – as
killing our unwanted visitor to these shores. And as for you brother, I’ll be
having you for dinner. You’ll be your own last meal,” the chieftain remarked
and laughed, inspiring mirth in his warriors too. As his brother grinned
Teucer
noticed his filed, sharpened, teeth. His brother was
a cannibal.

“And did you put poison in father’s last
meal?”

“This question has probably been eating away
at you for years little brother, no? I am nothing if not a merciful leader
though and I will put you out of your misery. I poisoned him. But you, through
your grab for power in trying to usurp me, killed him.”

Sadness and anger swelled up in his stomach
and
Teucer’s
fingers crept closer to the knife upon
his belt. Despite his wound he would attempt to stand and kill his brother.
Oppius
witnessed the look in
Teucer’s
eye and saw him slowly reaching for his dagger. The centurion knew however that
he would be cut down by an archer before he had a chance to attack his brother.
Oppius
decided that it was time.

“
Caradog
,” the Roman
exclaimed, attracting the attention of the chieftain.
Oppius
met his enemy’s baleful stare and then drew his finger across his throat as a
sign.

The chieftain looked somewhat confused and
amused, yet an expression of alarm soon clouded his face as he heard the sound
of two arrows thud into the backs of two his archers. As soon as the arrows
struck
Oppius
drew his knife and threw it into the
remaining warrior who had an arrow upon his bow.
Roscius
and another legionary, unknown to the centurion, appeared from out of the trees
and ran towards the enemy, roaring to distract the Britons from their
prisoners. Two of the barbarians drew out arrows from their sheaths. Yet just
as they both
nooked
their arrows they were both
struck in the chests by
pilums
, launched with deadly
accuracy and power by the advancing legionaries.