The Imperial Banner (58 page)

He looked despairingly down at the blade in his hand. The short sword was perhaps his favourite weapon but it would be virtually useless against the clubs. And as there was no chance of obtaining a long spear or a heavy shield in the next few moments, his options were limited.

The oldest of the club-men barked an order and they spread out across the width of the deck. Indavara stopped a few feet forward of the mast. Lying behind it was the yard – the forty foot length of timber from which the sail would hang. The sail itself was bundled up in a long, leather sack. The leader and two of his men were to the left of this obstacle, the other man to the right. This warrior was also fractionally ahead of the others.

Indavara didn’t like the idea of losing his main weapon but there was no time to hesitate. He took a couple of steps to the right, put both hands on the sword’s hilt, drew it back over his shoulder, and let fly.

Caught completely by surprise, the mercenary gazed down at the quivering sword now sticking out of his chest.

The other three were staring too; and not one of them had moved when Indavara sprang forward and plucked the club from the warrior’s hands. His face still frozen in shock, the mercenary pawed at the sword then toppled backwards. As he hit the deck, a glob of blood shot from his mouth and splattered his face.

Indavara left the sword where it was; fighting with a type of weapon he had handled perhaps only five times in his life was enough of a challenge.

The mercenaries still looked stunned. Then the older man gave a war-cry and they came around the mast at a run.

Indavara retreated past the fallen warrior. He couldn’t believe the weight of the weapon. Looking down at the head, he saw that a thick metal band had been affixed an inch below the top. He adjusted his grip on the sticky leather wrappings and raised the club.

The mercenaries slowed down.The first man was dead by the time they passed him. The younger two looked down at the body. The leader did not.

Indavara had already decided there was no point trying to take on the three of them at once. He withdrew as far as the end of the yard, then backed around it towards the other side of the ship.

With a word from the leader, the two younger warriors came after him. The older man retraced his steps and hurried around the mast so as to surround his prey.

With his back to the side rail, Indavara turned one way, then the other.

The mercenaries advanced.

Sunlight sparked off Scaurus’s blade. Cassius tried to shut out the noise of the slaves shouting down below and the sight of the sailors hauling themselves out of the river on the southern bank.

Scaurus darted forward, forcing Cassius back between the rear of the deckhouse and the stern. Though his hands were still tied, Cassius looked around for a weapon. To his left were the barrels that had been lashed to the deck but there was nothing else he could use.

Scaurus reached the corner of the deckhouse, cutting off the route along the right side of the ship.

Cassius was running out of space. He didn’t know how he would fare in a fast-flowing river with his hands bound, but – if it came to it – he’d have to go over the side.

Having split up the mercenaries, Indavara imagined they would expect him to go for the single man, but he could see how edgy the death of their comrade had made the younger warriors. Spike and Bolt – as he’d named them – were twenty feet away and spitting curses as they came closer, eyes bright with hate. Enraged men didn’t think. The leader’s movements were calm and measured. They had made the choice for him.

With the club in his right hand, Indavara sprinted towards the stern.

Bolt was closer to the side rail. Spike moved away from him. They raised their clubs.

Indavara drifted left. He was five feet away when Bolt came out to meet him, club poised.

Indavara feinted right then leapt nimbly up on to the side rail. It was no more than six inches wide, but he danced along it and was already past Bolt when the warrior launched a clumsy swing. He hit nothing but air.

Indavara swiped one-handed into the back of his head: not a strong blow, but enough to send him tottering forward. As Indavara jumped down on to the deck, Spike attacked.

Towering over his foe and unleashing a bestial roar, the mercenary swung the club down from over his head, giving Indavara time to spring aside and watch as the weapon smashed into the side rail. One of the spikes sank two inches into the seasoned timber. Incredibly, Spike kept his hands on the club, trying to pull it out.

Indavara was more concerned with speed than power but his downward blow snapped the warrior’s right arm just below the elbow. A jagged shard of bone tore out of the skin. Spike was still screaming when Indavara’s second swing connected with his mouth. The bottom half of the mercenary’s face shattered in a pink cloud of teeth, flesh and blood.

Indavara was moving forward before he fell to the deck. The older man was charging towards him.

Bolt was still dazed, facing the water, club hanging from one hand. He looked to his leader and cried out; but the breath was driven from his lungs by the blow that struck him between the shoulders. He flew over the side rail, crashed through an oar and plunged into the water.

The leader slowed, staring past Indavara at what was left of Spike.

Indavara didn’t turn round, but he could hear the uneven, bubbling breaths of a man close to death. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something stuck to his cheek. He plucked it off with his spare hand: a perfectly preserved – and remarkably white – tooth. He threw it over the side.

The mercenary spoke to him in Latin. ‘This is how you will die.’

Cassius was just inches from the stern of the ship. He got ready to dive into the river. The bank wasn’t far away. If he could keep his head above water, he reckoned he could make it.

Scaurus closed in, knife up – and Cassius wondered why he hadn’t struck out at him yet. And then he realised. Scaurus was scared. He had a knife, but his opponent was younger, bigger and stronger than him. He daren’t risk getting too close. He was a vicious bastard, but he was no soldier.

Cassius realised something else. He hated this man. He wanted to see him beaten and hurt.

Even so, he wasn’t entirely sure he would stand and fight until he spied the object on a rack attached to the stern: a boathook.

Alikar used his club like a sword.

Indavara saw that it was longer than the others and – without the metal additions – lighter.

The mercenary held the weapon in both hands, out in front of him, thrusting it towards Indavara, who could do little more than block and evade. His club was shorter and heavier, and he was no master of it.

Considering his age, Alikar’s footwork was immaculate. He stood in a fighting hunch: constantly on the move, constantly changing the point of attack.

He swiped at Indavara’s head, then pushed at his face. The club slid off Indavara’s weapon and smacked into his nose. It didn’t break, but he tasted blood on his lips. He felt strangely weary – the club was so heavy, so unwieldy.

A flurry of thrusts and sweeps. Alikar struck at his flank.

Indavara couldn’t get his weapon down in time. The club slammed into his side and the rings of the mail-shirt bit into his skin. Winded, he stumbled backwards, staring into the pale, raging eyes of the man before him.

If he didn’t do something soon, the mercenary would wear him down, then look for an opportunity to finish him off. He lifted the club again. It was so heavy, so difficult to defend with.

He had to attack.

Scaurus hadn’t taken another step forward once Cassius snatched the boathook from the rack. It was a six-foot length of wood topped by a bronze head. Even with his hands bound, he could wield it well enough.

Scaurus looked around for help. On the southern bank, a few of the sailors looked on.

‘You men, get back here. I command you!’

But the men did nothing. Though not shackled like the Africans below, Cassius wondered if they too were slaves. They certainly didn’t seem overly concerned about returning to help. In fact, most had already run away.

Scaurus retreated past the side of the deckhouse towards the main hatch. Behind him, Indavara and Alikar circled each other. The mercenary seemed to have the upper hand.

Cassius swung the boathook into Scaurus’s shoulder – a thumping blow sufficient to make him drop the knife and reach for his arm.

‘I’ll have you torn limb from limb for this,’ he hissed, spittle dripping down his chin.

‘I don’t think so, Scaurus.’

Cassius altered his grip and smashed the boathook into his foe’s right thigh.

‘That’s for Major, you murdering bastard.’

‘I swear by all the gods, I’ll have you torn apart!’ Scaurus yelled, his face scarlet.

Cassius’s third blow caught Scaurus just above the ear, sending him tottering backward towards the hatch. He tried desperately to keep his balance but slipped on the top step. He seemed to freeze in mid-air for a moment before falling head first through the hatch, his body thumping against the wood all the way down.

Cassius came forward and looked into the gloom. Scaurus lay motionless next to the table. Seventeen pairs of eyes stared out from the darkness at their fallen master.