Zanticus swayed in his saddle, the armour spiderwebbed with cracks from where the thrown spear had struck home. But the iron had held. There was blood upon the grass, and it was not his. For as Lucius turned his mount around, Kai could see the flank of the horse laid open, the quiver of muscle and meat in the open air.
A little sigh from the crowd, as Zanticus moved his horse slowly, carefully, finding the place for the next charge, the last one there would be. There was no urgency – Lucius had no spear, and a dying horse beneath him. It would be a careful, patient killing.
Then the Roman slipped from the saddle, stepped lightly upon the ground. He backed away quickly, for his horse knew of its wound now, and was apt to kick and kill any who came close. When Lucius was clear of it, he stood in a swordsman’s even stance. The Roman cavalry sword in his hand, levelled in challenge for a moment, before it dipped back down again.
Zanticus cocked his head to the side, at a loss. A Sarmatian would choose to keep even a wounded horse under him, to be spared the shame of dying on the ground. But then, a smile upon his lips. Doomed men did mad things – no doubt he thought it no more than that.
The last charge. The long spear levelled, blood dancing from the iron head with every strike of the horse’s hooves. And Lucius standing still, sword low to the ground, waiting.
Afterwards, long afterwards, the Sarmatians would tell stories of that sword he held in his hand. Mutterings of witchcraft and magic, a blade that made a man invincible and brought miracles with it. But it was the man and not the blade that brought a miracle that day.
For there was a scream from Zanticus’s horse – it was rearing, stumbling, forelegs painted in thick black mud, the treacherous ground giving way beneath it. Lucius rushing forward, the sword lifting high, and the mere sight of the light upon the blade was enough to send the horse twisting and rolling, to set the Sarmatian tumbling from the saddle and beneath the hooves of his own horse.
A stumbling pursuit then, Lucius running and tripping across bad ground, clumsy and desperate, no time for honour or grace. Only the desperate race to be there first, before Zanticus rose from the earth. Kai alone willing him on, screaming his name, while the rest of the Sarmatians called for their king to stand and fight.
But Zanticus made no move to rise – lying on his side, one hand cast across his face as though in shame at what had happened to him. When Lucius reached the king he rolled him over, lifted the sword high. The point trembled for a moment at the apex, and then slowly lowered once more. For the king’s head lolled impossibly to the side, neck broken from the fall, sunlight glittering upon the dull iron crown.
Little sound from the Sarmatians who watched then. Only a whispering, passing like a wave from the front to the back of the crowd, giving the word to those who could not see. And Lucius looked about himself, a dreamer waking. The sword fell from nerveless fingers, and he was on his knees, bowing his head until he almost laid it upon Zanticus’s chest, weeping and shaking as though he had killed a man that he loved. And even when Kai ran to him, lifted Lucius to his feet and spoke the words of victory, still he seemed weak as a child. He clung to Kai, for it seemed that Lucius had spent all his courage there upon the field. A lifetime’s worth, perhaps.
They walked slowly together, and all about them the silence held, no one else moved. Perhaps the Sarmatians, too, were learning to wait – perhaps it was that Lucius could teach them the art of patience. Kai had the sense that if they could just get to their horses before the spell was broken, they might be safe.
But a figure stepped forward from the crowd before they could get there – the sun at his back, and Kai could not see his face. At first Kai thought it some son of Zanticus’s coming forward for revenge, or another chieftain wishing to claim the kingship for himself. But there was no weapon in the man’s hand, and a smile upon his face – Gaevani, come to greet them, the one to break the silence.
‘You knew the ground was weak there?’ Gaevani said to Lucius. ‘Too soft for the horse?’
‘I did,’ Lucius answered.
‘That was done well.’
Lucius hesitated. ‘What will happen now?’
‘That depends. Will you really give them a war?’
Something like laughter from the Roman. ‘After all this, they will still want war?’
‘They will want it more than slavery.’ Gaevani swept his hand in a circle. ‘Tell them, if you can.’
For others were gathering about them – strangely shy and hesitant, chieftains and children alike. Kai saw a shadow cross Lucius’s face, for perhaps he knew that it was not enough, all that he had given in courage. He felt the man leaning against the crook of his neck, the shallow breaths growing heavy. Then Lucius stepped away, standing tall, and spoke once more.
He had not the strength to shout – perhaps it would have done him no good. The words came soft and rasping, like a man speaking a secret. ‘Fight for Rome,’ he said to the gathering crowd. ‘We have more enemies than can be counted. If it is war you desire, you shall have it. Iron, and gold. And if it is your homes you long for, know this. We do not keep our warriors in the warband for ever. Twenty-five years, and you will be free. Twenty-five years, and you go home.’
Silence answered him.
‘You have shown you are not afraid to fight,’ he continued. ‘Not afraid to die. Are you afraid of twenty-five years?’
It was almost enough. But still the Sarmatians made no answer – a sense of something missing, as when the storyteller finishes his tale too soon, and those at the fireside call for more, call for the true ending. Kai knew then what he must do, and he slid the sword from its sheath.
‘Will you swear it?’ said Kai.
‘Swear it?’
Kai offered the point of the sword to him – a Roman sword, but still the iron would make it sacred. ‘An oath upon the sword,’ he said. ‘That we shall have our war. That we will come back after those years, as you say.’
A shadow on the Roman’s face. A hesitance that Kai could not understand. Then Lucius’s hand was at the tip of the sword, and he said: ‘I swear it.’
No cheers answered the Roman, no calling of his name. Someone nearby clapped their hands once, the way that seers sometimes ended a ritual, and it was done. The crowd breaking, drifting, beginning to reform in a different way. All about them Kai could hear word passing from one Sarmatian to the next – not spoken with joy or anger, but with a quiet acceptance. A trial to be endured, like so many before. A pride, perhaps, in having the courage to endure it.
Lucius’s work was still not done. Kai watched the Roman speaking with each chieftain in turn – low, quiet, urgent. For the peace they held together was a fragile thing. It might not last the day.
Beside him, Gaevani said: ‘A blow struck by the gods, they shall call it. It will be sung of for a long time. Brave Zanticus, who made even the gods envious. Lucius and his spelltouched sword. Though perhaps they will make a Sarmatian of him, when the tale has been told enough times.’ He chuckled. ‘I begin to see why you look on him the way that you do.’
‘He is a captain to follow,’ Kai answered.
‘He is a captain that will have you, I think you mean.’
‘That too.’ Kai turned, sword still in his hand. ‘And what of us?’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You promised to kill me when I returned. We may settle it now, if you wish.’
Gaevani said nothing for a time. Then: ‘That time shall come. But not now.’
‘Why not?’
‘You entertain me, Kai. I never quite know what you shall do or say. I thought that there was little left in the world that surprises me. I shall have to kill you one day, for the injury you have done me. But I am not tired of you yet.’