‘Still no one on the walls,’ Antonius noted. ‘If it weren’t for the background noise and the smoke I’d say the place was deserted.
Priscus nodded, his own curiosity piqued.
Slowly and purposefully, in time with the blasts of the cornicen, the officers’ horses rapped across the heavy timbers of the bridge. Still, the gates stood open. Finally, when they were perhaps two thirds of the way across the bridge, a figure stepped out from behind the walls and into the centre of the gate.
‘Go!’ it commanded in an old, reedy voice, the Latin heavily thickened with Gallic harshness.
‘Could this be the leader of the town?’ Antonius asked Priscus incredulously.
The two men looked at the warrior. He was not a young man — clearly more than a decade older than Antonius, but his arm rings denoted a martial past of some merit. As they watched, two younger, though less decorated, warriors stepped out to flank him.
‘The Senones,’ Antonius announced loudly and with the booming depth of a skilled orator, ‘have not sent a deputation to the Gaulish assembly called by Caesar. At this time, the Proconsul’s courier, who carried the summons, has also not returned, and nor has his escort.’
‘Go!’ repeated the old man. Though he stood with his sword still sheathed, the younger men to his sides pulled out their blades and hefted them.
‘Why was no deputation sent?’ Antonius demanded.
‘Go!’
‘Or you and your two trained apes will fight off twenty thousand soldiers? Do not make me laugh, old man. Answer my question.’
The old man reached out to one of his companions, who handed him something. With a contemptuous flick, the man cast the object forwards and it hit the wooden surface of the bridge and bounced to rest near the front hooves of Antonius’ horse. It was a roll of parchment in a bronze ring, sealed with red wax. The beige parchment was dotted with other crimson marks that clearly were not wax. Though no one could see the seal from this distance, there could be no doubt that this was the document borne by the courier sent to the Senones.
‘Your answer is duly noted,’ Antonius growled.
‘Send in a century of men and secure the gate,’ Priscus barked to the nearest tribune — he wasn’t sure what legion the young man was from, but he looked excited.
‘Hold that command,’ Antonius raised his hand. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
Lifting himself over the horns of the saddle, the officer slid from the horse’s back and down to the bridge, where he stooped to collect the scroll. The blood was long dried. Turning it to confirm Caesar’s Taurus seal, he walked steadily forward towards the three men in the gateway.
‘What the hell is he doing?’ muttered Priscus, mostly to himself, and then leaned back to Trebonius. ‘Have a century of men brought forward ready anyway. Just in case.’
Trebonius nodded and relayed the order as they watched the scene before them. Antonius stopped half a dozen paces from the old man. The Gaul’s two companions, hefting their swords menacingly, stepped slightly forward as the commander raised the scroll and held it forth.
‘In the name of the Proconsul of Gaul and the ongoing Pax Romana, I offer you once again Caesar’s summons, that you send your emissary to the assembly.’
The old man spat, missing the scroll by several feet, but conveying his meaning well nonetheless.
Slowly and with deliberate menace, Antonius drew his sword, the rasp as it left the scabbard cutting through the background noise with a bone-chilling sound. The two younger men stepped forward again.
‘Go!’ shouted the older one.
Antonius took another step forward, and the two younger warriors moved to intercept. His arm low and the blade down by his side, the Roman commander looked casual, as though he were moving in for an informal chat.
The warrior to his left was the first to make his move. His long, Gallic blade came up to his shoulder, where he now grasped the hilt with both hands, and then he swung, the sword coming down in an unstoppable arc towards Antonius’ shoulder.
The Roman officer took an extra, nimble, half-step to the left — dropping the scroll — and, as the sword fell past his shoulder, he lashed out like an uncoiling cobra, smashing the point of his expensive, decorative gladius into the man’s throat-apple, slamming it in hard enough that it completely severed the spine and the man’s neck gave way with a loud crack, the head lolling and flopping to the side. The sudden lack of bone support aided Antonius in retrieving his blade, which he ripped out in a single movement, swiping it round just in time to block the second attacker’s sword, the blades meeting with a clang and then scraping and rasping along one another in an attempt to break the lock in which they found themselves.
Priscus watched in surprise. He’d seen many sides of Antonius in the short time the man had been serving with the army in Gaul, but he’d never for a moment expected a natural-born killer, too.
The second warrior was concentrating on the blade and on gaining control of the struggle, but Antonius had different ideas: keeping the struggle deadlocked with his right arm, he reached up with his left and with simple, violent economy of movement, put out the Gaul’s eye with his finger.
The warrior screamed. The sudden agony and blindness and shock devoured him and the struggle for the blades was forgotten. Not by Antonius, though. As the man’s strength went from the blade, Antonius turned slightly and allowed the big Gallic sword to slide past, flicking his gladius up and across and opening up a second mouth below the young warrior’s chin.
It had all taken maybe five heartbeats.
One young Gaul lay on the timber, his head at the most astoundingly odd angle, a spreading pool of blood beneath him, dripping between the timbers and into the river below. The other sank to his knees, the arterial spray coating the bridge before him as he collapsed dead onto his face.
The old man, shocked into sudden action, reached down to the hilt of his sword and grasped it.
‘Uh, uh,’ Antonius denied him, raising the tip of his gleaming red blade and resting the sharp point on the man’s neck where his collar bones met. ‘Leave the sword.’
‘No kill!’ shouted a female from somewhere behind. Keeping the sword exactly where it was, Antonius looked up over the old man’s shoulder. Three women had scurried into the gateway. One was white as a sheet, another blubbering uncontrollably. The third — the older one — was watching with hopeless dismay. She spoke again. ‘No kill!’
‘Where are the warriors of Melodunon? Why have you not attended the summons to assembly?’
The old man tried to motion the old woman to silence, but Antonius applied a little pressure and the blade broke skin, stopping him.
‘Men go Agedincum. Go for chief.’
Antonius nodded. ‘Good.’ He turned his head. ‘Hear that, Priscus? Agedincum. The chief’s gathered the warriors.’
Priscus nodded. ‘Might have a fight after all, then.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ Antonius kicked the old man in the knee and the ‘protector of Melodunon’ fell back with a hiss of pain as the Roman sheathed his blade. ‘Look after him, old woman. He’s got balls of iron, this one.’
With a carefree laugh, Antonius turned and walked back across the bridge towards the army, pausing only to pick up the scroll he had discarded during the fight. He tucked it away into the large pouch at his belt and produced — Priscus couldn’t even imagine from where — a small wineskin, which he lifted and began to pour into his mouth as he walked.
The man was one constant surprise.
* * * * *
Agedincum was something of a different prospect.
The ramparts of the oppidum were more impressive than those of Melodunon, but its positioning less so. Instead of a commanding island position mid-stream, Agedincum sat on a low mound in an area of damp marshy ground, apparently constantly affected by the river and which would present a horrible danger to attacking troops. Its walls were as packed with warriors as Melodunon’s had been empty, and the very prospect of taking the oppidum soured the soul of every Roman present.