Such was their stealthy approach down the stream bed and their proximity to the farm that they had covered more than half the intervening space before one of the watchers in the granary managed to get out a brief word in his dialect which was quickly muffled as Iuvenalis appeared immediately in front of him and ran a gladius through his neck, jerking it this way and that to make sure the man died as quickly and quietly as possible.
No other sounds arose from the granary, attesting the speed and success of the other two, and the five singulares reached the main hut without any obvious sign that an alarm had been raised. Masgava was there first. Despite everything. Despite the training regime that Fronto adhered to these days and the speed of the legionaries with them. Masgava was and always would be faster and stronger.
The big Numidian hit the door like a battering ram, sending the wooden portal inwards in several splintered pieces, a single plank remaining to one side, smashed back on the hinges.
Fronto was in behind him, immediately followed by Palmatus, Quietus and Aurelius.
The interior of the hut was dim, especially after being out in the summer sun-dappled woods, and even as they barrelled in, their eyes were adjusting to the shade. The windows were closed, shuttered against discovery, and the hut’s occupants seemingly relied on their outside pickets and guards. But all five or six of those guards were gone.
Sure enough, there were seven figures in the hut.
It had never occurred to Fronto until this point how he would identify Ambiorix. He’d never met the man, and the lack of any kind of strategy for this issue displayed the most horrendous lack of foresight. But there was no time to think. Fronto singled out three figures who sat at the far side and who even now were standing and drawing weapons. Ignoring anyone else, those three were the clear leaders. The druid he discounted, hoping that whoever dealt with him would have the presence of mind to take him alive. That left two men who could be Ambiorix. One was clearly a chieftain or king, his gold in plain evidence draped about his body and his mail shirt of extremely high quality Gallic manufacture.
But it wasn’t him, whoever he was. The last figure — Ambiorix — had betrayed his identity with the most blasé and obvious of symbols. The helmet he thrust upon his head as he stood was that of a Roman officer, for all the native crest that had been wedged on the tip. Fronto had seen that helmet before many times, with its embossed bronze scene of the battle of the Caudine Forks, on the head of Quintus Titurius Sabinus. Had shared a flask of wine with its owner. Had counted him friend.
Fronto’s blood surged. So many deaths and betrayals. So many friends lost, some of them unavenged. The image of poor young Crispus, run through with a Gallic spear flashed past as Fronto dived for Ambiorix, snarling imprecations as he leapt, sword out and ready.
Quietus, off to the left side of the hut, found himself immediately faced down by an Eburone warrior with lank flaxen hair and a short-handled, basic-but-sharp axe in each hand. The man immediately began to whirl them in a strangely hypnotic manner in an almost figure eight fashion. Quietus frowned, bringing his shield round to take any blow that might come from them, while he readied his gladius for that single moment he knew would come, when he would spot the gap in the man’s defence.
Aurelius, mirroring him, moved off to the right as he burst in, diving for the first man. His heart was pounding as though he’d run a hundred miles to get here, and his skin prickled cold. He could feel the wrath of the bitch Goddess as he entered, and knew without any need for visual confirmation, that the beamed roof of this dim hut was home to bats. He could almost feel them flitting about him, almost hear them squeaking in the back of his mind.
His preoccupation with the ceiling was almost his undoing as his eyes flicked upwards into the darkness at exactly the wrong moment. The Eburone warrior lurking at the hut’s periphery brought his spear around and lunged as Aurelius saw the flicker of disturbed wings in the rafters.
Aurelius was lucky beyond belief. Though Fronto had ordered the singulares to strip their kit of Roman accoutrements, Aurelius had had the foresight to bring along his shoulder-doubling in his pack and, once it had become clear that subterfuge was not required, he had reapplied the extra thickness of mail over his shoulders. Thus it was that the spear point, aiming for the gap between his collar bones, instead glanced off the iron hook that held his shoulder-doubling fastened and smashed into his shoulder, scattering rings as it drove in deep through muscle until it scraped the inside of the shoulder blade.
Aurelius reacted in a manner that surprised him. Despite the intense pain that ripped through his shoulder, despite the bats preparing to deluge him, and the tangible presence of the evil Goddess, something had protected him, turning aside a killing blow and merely wounding him in his shield arm.
Instead of pain-freeze or panic, what suddenly coursed through his veins was pure fury as he lunged forward again, the spear jerking out of the Eburone’s hands with the movement, still jutting from the Roman’s shoulder. The warrior barely had time to scream before Aurelius set about him with his gladius, taking out on the man every ounce of irritation that had built since he’d entered this damn forest. A second of the hut’s occupants stepped forward to try and halt the fury and instead fell in turn to Aurelius’ terrifying onslaught.
Catharsis!
Palmatus, beside Fronto, leapt for the decorative, golden chief, noting with satisfaction Masgava beside him, aiming for the druid. His blade held high and shield presented for protection, Palmatus lunged. The ‘king’ was no warrior, young and uncertain. Despite the quality of his arms and armour, the sword he raised was in defence only, prepared to block Palmatus’ own strike. He would be able to deal with this little prick easily enough.
Palmatus felt rather than saw the space opening up beside him as Masgava disappeared from the attack and, as he feinted and lunged beneath the raised defensive royal sword, the singulares’ commander was suddenly smashed to one side when the druid slammed the iron-shod heel of his staff at his chest. Staggering, Palmatus righted himself, realising that with Masgava gone he was now facing both king and druid alone. Neither would be a tough concern, but together they might have an edge.
Gritting his teeth he moved in for the fight.
Masgava blinked. He’d had the druid in his sights when his windpipe had suddenly closed and he’d been hauled to one side in a stranglehold. With regret, the result of an instant decision: he dropped both sword and shield, his left hand going up to the cord around his throat and fingers prising beneath it to give him air, while the other arm came forward and then back again, folded to present a sharp elbow behind.
There was an explosion of fetid breath by his ear as his blow stuck home, and the pressure on the cord loosened enough for Masgava to rip the thing free and turn.
The man facing him was a killer. Masgava recognised the type instantly. He’d fought a few in the arena over the years. Not a warrior. Nothing so honourable. And not a murderer. Nothing so base. A killer. An assassin perhaps? Certainly a man who knew his craft and was comfortable with it.
The barbarian let go of the cord and reached into his belt, ripping out two long knives which immediately came for Masgava’s face. The big Numidian leaned sharply to the side to avoid the first strike and almost into the path of the second, stepping back sharply to gain some room. The knives whirled in a confusing, blinding cartwheel of shining steel. The killer grinned as the blades flipped out and back in the blink of an eye, scoring two lines on Masgava’s arm, then two on his tunic, two on his other arm. Nothing debilitating, but stinging and angry. Not a blow intended to kill — from the whirling to the strike the man couldn’t possibly have built up the power to drive a killing blow home — but enough to enrage an opponent… to drive him to foolhardy action and doing something stupid.