Fronto, shocked beyond action, simply let go of the dying fugitive and turned in confusion.
‘But why?’
‘Oh, Fronto. Can you not guess? Have you understood nothing about this great war of yours?’
A horrible realisation sank into Fronto as he stood and stepped forward.
‘My war?’
‘I am Remi, and my tribe serve the general. But I am also Belgae, and the general exterminates us. Do you not realise your army is riddled with auxiliaries who hate you? Who hate what you have done? Tribes that call you friend over a peace table plot your death with a dagger beneath it for your extermination of our people. But at last we have a chance. At last our lands can be freed of your menace. Not by that piece of filth over there who barely has the right to call himself Belgae, but by a Gaul, of all people. And I will not see all our hope flicker and die at the hasty confession of a petty king like Ambiorix.’
‘You? This was you?’
‘You’re so short-sighted, you Romans. And so trusting. A little misdirection here and a little nudge there and you do exactly as you’re told.’
‘Vercingetorix.’ Fronto said the name flatly, as if trying to commit it into his memory like carved stone.
‘Never heard of him,’ Magurix shrugged.
‘You’re a bad liar, Magurix. Despite all the times you’ve pulled the wool over our eyes, I saw that flicker in your eyes. You know who he is. He’s your Gaul, isn’t he? He’s your one hope for a Roman-free future? I’d be willing to place a hefty wager that he and this Esus we’ve heard tales of for two years now are one and the same?’ Fronto paused with a frown. ‘I’d also be willing to bet he’s an Arvernian prince. A tall one.’
Again, a flicker of surprised recognition in Magurix’s eyes.
Palmatus, grunting, stepped forward. ‘I am going to knock your bloody head off, sonny.’
‘No you’re not,’ Fronto growled. ‘He’s mine. And I want him alive to answer a few questions!’
* * * * *
Magurix stepped back into the open ground in front of the hut, backing out into the sunshine, as the singulares in the hut followed him out, tensely, their hands on the grips of their weapons. Even Aurelius seemed to have been jolted from his violence and stood with them, slick with blood from head to foot.
Celer and Iuvenalis, standing at guard positions around the other ruined building shells, turned in surprise as the group fanned out around the big Remi traitor.
‘What happened?’ Iuvenalis shouted over.
‘We found the traitor,’ snarled Palmatus, ‘but not before he did for bloody Ambiorix!’
‘I’ve got a name,’ Fronto said, his voice dark with impending violence. ‘But I think this bastard knows more yet.’
‘What if he just takes his own life?’ hissed Palmatus to his side.
‘I don’t think so. He may be a traitor and a murderer, but he’s also a Remi warrior. He prides himself on that, don’t you, Magurix?’
The Belgic warrior shrugged as he drew his long blade and hefted the weight.
‘And I don’t think he’ll just off himself when he has a good opportunity to kill me first.’
Again: a shrug.
‘So how about it, Magurix? Think you can take me?’
The warrior simply gave his sword a few test swings and set himself in a fighting stance. Fronto drew his own beautiful blade, the orichalcum hilt glittering in the sunlight, the images of Gods watching events unfold.
‘See, Aurelius?’ Fronto said, taking a few steps forward. ‘Arduenna has always been with us. It’s this twisted turd that’s been cursing us all the way. Your Goddess and her bats had nothing to do with it.’
Magurix swung his long sword in a slow figure eight, the blade thrumming through the air, the huge muscles in his arms moving around each other like cats lost in a sack.
‘Come on,’ Fronto sighed. ‘You’re boring me.’
The big Remi stepped a couple of paces forward and lunged, at maximum distance, the tip close to Fronto, enticing him to step into range. Fronto simply knocked the tip aside with his gladius. ‘Better. Now try and hurt me.’
Magurix back-stepped a single pace, and turned slowly. Fronto smiled as the big man kept turning, changing the move into a huge swing, allowing the weight of the sword to carry him two steps forward with the swipe as it came back full circle on Fronto.
But Fronto wasn’t there. As the big man’s back had turned, he’d taken three big steps forward, and was inside the swing. With almost subconscious precision, he delivered quick jabs with his gladius to the spinning, surprised Remi, one in the belly and the other in the shoulder. Neither penetrated deep enough to ensnare the blade but, as Magurix staggered in shock and Fronto danced back out of reach, the sword arm dropped to his side weakly and a small coil of intestine poked out of the wide hole in his belly.
‘See, the problem, Magurix, is that you think of me as an average Roman. I’m not an average Roman.’
Magurix frowned as he tried to lift the sword and, realising his arm was useless, changed hand with the blade.
‘In fact, I was trained by the best,’ Fronto went on conversationally. ‘By Masgava over there. And I know a few things about where to hit a man to cause him real trouble.’
Magurix snarled, but stayed safely out of reach.
‘Also,’ Fronto smiled wickedly, ‘I have spent years fending off one bastard or another. Rogue tribunes, assassins, murderers, traitors and big Germans. And I’m a little bit sick of always being on the receiving end. When I came back to the army, I decided it wouldn’t happen again.’
Without warning, he kicked up dust from the yard with the toe of his boot. The cloud of grit and dust engulfed the Remi warrior’s head, and he bent, choking and trying to clear his gaze. Even as the big Belgian attempted to straighten again, blinking away the dust, Fronto was on him like a cat. His left arm went around the big Gaul’s neck, while his right brought the tip of his gladius to rest on Magurix’s throat-apple.
‘The slightest wrong move now, Magurix, and it’s going to be agonising. Now I’m going to ask you a few pointed questions. If you answer them to my satisfaction, I will give you the benefit of a good, clean, quick warrior’s death. If not, I will cause you intense pain and then you will be bound and gagged for the journey back to Caesar, where you will be handed over to the tender ministrations of some extremely skilled men and their collection of hot knives. Do we have an understanding?’
Magurix strained and gave a hoarse rasp.
‘Don’t nod’ Fronto added with a wicked smile.
The Remi’s eyes changed for a moment. Fronto frowned at the shift in expression, wondering what he was up to and realised only too late what it was: resignation. Acceptance!
He tried desperately to pull back his blade, but Magurix had let go of his own sword and grasped Fronto’s right hand in his huge, enveloping meaty grip. With a single jerk, the Remi traitor pushed Fronto’s hand, driving the glittering gladius through his own throat and deep into his spine, where it crunched.
Magurix went limp with a defiant, unpleasant smile.
Fronto ground his teeth as he let go of the big warrior and the body collapsed to the dust. As he did so, the collar of Magurix’s mail shirt shifted, and something caught Fronto’s eye. Crouching over the gurgling, dying traitor, he reached beneath the collar and pulled out the leather thong that hung around his neck, gripping the thing that had caught his attention. He peered at the small silver figure. A cloak clasp in the form of a naked girl… Drusus’ most prized possession.
What he found came as no surprise as he worked along the thong: an iron-work sigil in the shape of some Gallic spirit — a trophy of Brannogenos, a man sacrificed to be play scapegoat for Magurix’s traitorous activity. A beautiful, decorative, copper-and-gold arm ring that had belonged to Galatos, who lay dead in some alleyway back in Divonanto. A surgical hook taken from Damionis’ medical satchel. A Medusa-image ring that had lived on Valgus’ finger. It was a catalogue of murder. Trophy evidence of Magurix’s deeds.