Thunder of the Gods (51 page)

As they laid into the Tungrian front rank, forcing the spear-wielding soldiers to retreat before their flashing swords, more of them followed, their strength growing as the defenders to either side were pushed back until there were more than a dozen of them facing off to the defending soldiers. The cohort’s line was bowed around them, none of the men facing them eager to fight the armoured monsters who had hacked their way through their comrades, and with a sickening jolt of realisation, Varus saw that he was the only officer who could influence the rapidly worsening situation.

He looked around at the marines behind them, realising that Ravilla’s men were in no condition to fight. Fully half the cohort was dead or wounded, the prefect lying on his back with a pair of arrows protruding from his body in front of their ruined line. The remaining troops were effectively leaderless, it seemed, many of their officers seemingly caught in the barrage of arrows that had torn the heart out of their cohort. Making an abrupt decision, the young tribune turned away from the fight, ignoring Dubnus’s amazed stare.

Striding down the ramp he felt the eyes on him, knowing that Scaurus would be watching him from the wall above, and briefly wondered what the man would make of his apparent retreat from the fight that was developing at the makeshift wall. He stopped in front of the marines and raised his voice to a parade-ground bellow of the sort he’d heard the centurions using, but never expected to employ himself.

‘Marines!’

A few eyes lifted from the dead and dying men around them.

‘Marines!’

More men looked up at him, their faces hard with grief and anger.

‘Your comrades lie around you, killed without warning! Your officers are dead, and you do not know what to do! Those Parthian animals have pulled your world apart! And mine, marines, and
mine!
I have sworn an oath of vengeance to Mithras, that I will take my revenge or die in the act, and now is the time I intend to deliver on that oath! Are you with me?’

They stared at him in bemusement for a moment.

‘Are you with me? Will you stand here and cry over dead men or come with me and take bloody revenge on the bastards that killed them?’

A single marine stepped forward, drawing his sword and pulling the leather cord that held the cheek pieces of his helmet together to tighten their fit, ready to fight.

‘I’m with you, Tribune! I’ll have some of that …’

Another man joined him, and then, as if a collective decision had been made, with a low growl of anger that raised the hairs on the back of his neck, a flood of blue-tunicked soldiers stepped forward, until the only men not with him were either wounded or broken in spirit.

‘Arm yourselves! Swords only, this is going to be a close-quarters fight! Those men are too well armoured to fight fairly, so we’re going to kill them with weight of numbers! Get a man down, then find a gap in his armour and kill him, move on and do it again! My vow will be fulfilled when every one of those
fuckers
is either dead or on the other side of the wall! So if you’re with me …’

Varus turned back to face the Parthians and ran towards the fight, his last command a hoarse scream of fury.

‘Follow me!’

The gate opened, and Artapanes’ guard shepherded the comrades through it into the biggest garden Marcus had ever seen. Walled on all four sides, the brickwork high enough to obstruct any view from the adjacent palace, it stretched away before them, groves of trees, beds of riotously coloured flowers and stone terraces artfully arranged to provide a vista that was at once restful and stunningly beautiful. The priest gestured to the path before them, stepping forward to lead the three men into the garden.

‘This way.’

He led them into the garden’s grandeur, along a footpath formed of different-coloured paving stones and into a copse of trees, emerging onto a smoothly clipped lawn of lush grass around which stood four heavily armed and armoured palace guards. Beyond the two closest sentries was the familiar figure of Arsaces, deep in conversation with a man Marcus assumed was responsible for the garden’s maintenance, while a fifth guard waited close by with a short roll of golden cloth in his hands. Behind the king a pair of slaves were diligently working on a nearby flower bed, seeking out the first growths of weed and removing them with iron hand-trowels. Another stood close to the path, carefully raking away twigs and leaves that had fallen from the trees in the night, collecting them into neat piles before scooping up the debris with both hands and dropping it into a wooden barrow. Artapanes held up a hand.

‘The barbarians will wait here. Roman, you will come with me.’

Martos shrugged and gestured to Lugos, leading him away to the nearby copse, both men settling comfortably in the shadow of a fully grown cedar. Marcus followed the priest forward, past the closest two guards who turned to watch the two men as they passed, their eyes watchful despite the cleric’s trusted presence.

Prostrating himself, while Marcus bowed as deeply as he did at the first formal audience, Artapanes waited until the king turned from his conversation before speaking.

‘Majesty, I have delivered the Roman as you ordered.’

Arsaces gestured for him to rise, smiling at Marcus.

‘So, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, the time has come for you to leave us. As I promised, my oldest son Vologases will escort you to Nisibis in the company of a detachment of my Immortals. You are honoured. No Roman has ever ridden with them before, and I doubt the experience will be granted to any other. And here is your father’s sword.’

He held a hand out to the guard, who went on one knee to offer him the cloth-wrapped object.

‘I promised to return it to you. You would be wise not to draw it now, but I assure you that it is as it was when you surrendered it to my guards. Although I did suggest they sharpen it.’

Marcus reached out with his good arm and took the sword back, bowing again.

‘I think you, King of Kings. It will never be said in my presence that you fail to keep your word.’

Arsaces inclined his head fractionally.

‘And it will never be said in mine that all Romans lack
hunar
. I thank you once more for—’

Both men turned in surprise as the man who had handed the king Marcus’s sword grunted in surprise, staggering away from them with an arrow’s fletching sprouting from his chest. Spinning, Marcus saw the two guards closest to the trees slump, their armour inadequate to protect them against the deadly pointed arrows at such close range, then flinched as another pair of missiles zipped past to either side, felling the two men behind the king. Stepping in front of Arsaces, he tensed his body as the pair of archers who had stepped from the trees nocked arrows to their bows and raised them, ready to shoot, but the bowmen simply drew their strings halfway, ready to loose. A stocky armoured figure emerged from the copse behind them, stalking forward with the bow-legged gait of a man born in the saddle, and a moment later a slimmer, taller figure emerged from the foliage behind him. The shorter of the two paced forward slowly with one hand on his sword’s hilt, his words muffled by the silver chainmail across his mouth and nose.

‘Well now, here’s a scene I never thought to witness. The King of Kings hiding behind a Roman!’

Arsaces stepped forward.

‘My guards will—’

‘Your guards will do nothing at all other than take the blame for your death.’

The assassin stepped onto the grass, sliding the long sword from his scabbard. The polished steel sent reflections flickering across the trees behind him, and Marcus realised that the two Britons had sunk back into the cover of their branches.

‘Even the most fanatical of your priests knows that once blood is spilled it cannot be put back into a lifeless corpse, especially when the army falls in line behind your killer. They will quickly decide to overlook the probability of your son’s involvement in your murder, Majesty, and that of his brother, just as they will have no choice but to forget this!’

He struck with the speed and precision of a warrior trained from infancy, the sword stroke rising and falling in an instant. Artapanes staggered, cleaved from collarbone to navel, then collapsed backwards as the assassin twisted his blade and took a step backwards, ripping it from his body. He flicked the blade, sending a rain of blood droplets across Marcus and the king’s clothing, then dropped back into the fighting stance with the sword held out to one side, ready to strike again.

‘The priest’s close relationship with Ahura Mazda seems to have availed him little. A new cleric will be appointed after your death, Majesty, a more malleable man, although not entirely trustworthy, as Artapanes would have done well to have realised. It was his junior cleric Atardates who informed us that his master and the chief priest had colluded to bring the Roman to you, Majesty, a meeting that can only be presumed was the first step in a further treaty with Rome. Who knows what else you might have ceded to them in your weakness? Clearly it was the duty of the nobility to prevent such an error of judgement, and to remove a man who has become so fallible from the throne. So now, my king, regretfully, your time has come. I will honour your long reign with a swift and merciful death.’

His gaze switched to Marcus.

‘Whereas you, Roman, brought here by such divine providence …’

The eyes that were all either man could see of his face, narrowed with vicious amusement.

‘Your death will be a little more …’

He searched for the right Greek word.

‘…
protracted
.’

Tensing his body to attack, he faltered as a tumult broke out behind him, stepping back and sweeping the sword forward to deter any attack as he turned to see what was happening.

Martos had stormed out of the trees, launching himself headlong at the nearer of the two archers who still waited with arrows nocked to their bows. The Parthian loosed, but in his panic the arrow flew wide, and the Briton caught him in the mid-section, driving the breath from his body in an explosive exhalation. Rising onto his knees and knotting his fingers together, the Briton drew them back over his head, ready to club the reeling archer into insensibility, but the blow never fell. The second archer coolly raised his bow and put the waiting arrow into his chest, reaching into his quiver for a replacement as Martos tottered for a moment and then fell backwards. The fallen archer nodded his thanks to his comrade, getting slowly to his feet and reaching down to retrieve his bow.

With an ear-splitting bellow Lugos stepped out of the trees’ concealment, taking the hapless man by the neck and pulling him upright, the archer’s struggles helpless against his monstrous strength, then put a hand in the square of his back and threw him bodily at the second bowman just as he loosed. Struck hard by the flying body of his comrade, the archer staggered back, dazed by the crunching impact of their heads, but the arrow he had loosed flew straight, whipping across the short distance between bow and target to embed in the huge Briton’s thick calf. Bellowing again, pain and rage combined as he took one pace forward on the wounded leg, then another, barely able to walk, Lugos staggered towards the felled bowmen, tottering with every step as his intended victims slowly struggled back to their feet. Fumbling for an arrow, the man who had wounded the Briton nocked it to his bow with shaking fingers, failing at the first attempt before feeling the bow’s resistance as the missile’s grooved tail found the string.

Raising the weapon he sighted down the arrow, drawing it back to his ear and raising the bow, ready to shoot at the oncoming Briton, then died as Lugos swung a heavy wooden barrow that he had grabbed by one handle, smashing the hapless archer’s skull with a sweep of the improvised club. Fresh pain shot through Lugos’s body as the other archer sank a dagger into his foot, and he lifted the barrow over his head with an incoherent scream of fury, sweeping it down onto his wide-eyed victim’s face. Battered into the ground, the semi-conscious bowman raised an arm in supplication, staring up glassy-eyed as the giant looming over him lifted the barrow again, then died as the second blow smashed his windpipe flat and severed his spine. Staggering backwards, Lugos fell full length, unable to move for the pain in his leg and foot.

The stocky assassin turned back to Marcus with a chuckle.

‘How conven—’

The Roman was armed, his own eagle-pommelled gladius in his left hand and a guardsman’s longer sword in the right. The Parthian shrugged.

‘As I was saying, how convenient. Your barbarians and my archers have neatly dealt with the problem of witnesses. I’ll deal with your giant once this is done with.’

The second man walked slowly forward to join his co-conspirator, drawing his sword and ranging it alongside the shorter man’s.

‘And now there are two of us. Two of the best-trained warriors in the empire against a Roman aristocrat with only one arm. Give it up now, Roman, and go to meet your ancestors with dignity. I’ll make it clean.’

Marcus crabbed forward, raising the swords with their points aligned.

‘Who said I only had one arm? You’re not the only man who knows the value of seeming to be somewhat less than he really is. Get behind me, Majesty.’

‘Really? You think you can hold us off for long enough that help will come? Help isn’t coming, Roman. By now my brother is already dead, and as far as the rest of the palace is concerned, the King of Kings is already in a place of safety. By the time the priests realise what’s happening I’ll have had long enough to gut you and watch you bleed to death, as you try to push your own intestines back into your gaping belly.’

Marcus danced forward, his blades flickering out to clash with the assassins’ raised swords, forcing them to defend themselves as he stepped around to his left, threatening the taller of the two.

‘You’re the weak point, aren’t you? This one will give me a proper fight, but you, Your Highness …’

He flashed the long sword out in a lightning-swift attack. The taller man stepped back, and his comrade stormed into the attack, charging forward with a shout and swinging his sword in short, chopping arcs that forced Marcus back half a dozen paces as he crabbed around to his right, retreating further from the king with every step. His assailant’s eyes narrowed in fresh amusement as he readied himself to renew the onslaught.