Dubnus nodded, passing a spear to Horatius.
‘We’ve fought worse. Here’s your chance to show us whether you could really hit a cat’s arse at twenty paces.’
The legion man grinned back at him.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Citizens!’ The crowd fell quiet again, although this time they were still buzzing with chatter, speculation as to what might be about to happen before them. ‘We are watching a scene from the divine Emperor Trajan’s war against the Dacians, a piece of history well known to any man who fought in that bitterly fought campaign. We are watching the story of … “The Three Centurions!”’
‘What the fuck is the man prattling on about?’
Horatius raised an amused eyebrow at Dubnus.
‘I suspect we’re about to find out.’
‘The Emperor sent three centurions out with orders to find and kill the general commanding the Dacian forces facing his legions, three men who were the greatest champions in his entire army! Their names were Horatius, a man of Noricum …’
The crowd roared, and Horatius raised his shield and spears in salute, grimacing at the other two.
‘Dubnus, a barbarian from the far-off island of Britannia converted to the emperor’s service!’
Again the roar, and Dubnus pulled a wry face as he raised his arms.
‘Fuck me, a man could get used to this.’
‘And Corvus, a citizen of Rome skilled with every weapon and devoted to his emperor!’
Marcus shook his head at the unintentional irony, lifting his shield and spears to acknowledge the crowd’s roar of approval.
‘Together, these three brave men journeyed deep into the heart of the enemy’s territory, unaware that they were in their turn being hunted by the enemy!’
The announcer fell silent, and Horatius looked at the other two with a grim smile.
‘I suspect that it’s time to journey deep into the heart of the enemy’s territory. Heads up! And since the rules seem to have gone out of the window, I suggest we strike first!’
They stepped forward, pacing towards the arena’s centre with their shields raised, each with a single spear ready to throw and the spare held in their shield hands.
‘And then, without warning, the enemy struck!’
With the announcer’s last words, almost shrieked above the crowd’s rising growl of tension, a trapdoor in the sand before them flipped open. Men armed with swords and small round shields started to stream up the steps and out into the light, their bearded faces screwed up against the sunlight, long, dank hair tied back into braids in readiness for the fight. While they were still blinking at the sudden bright daylight, clustered around the trapdoor while more men mounted the steps behind them, Horatius stamped forward and slung his spear into their midst. He clenched his fist as the weapon’s iron head slammed through a man’s shield and gutted him, sending him staggering backwards, the ground beneath his feet dropping away as his third step found the door’s empty space. Chaos reigned in the barbarians’ ranks for a moment, the cries of the men still trying to ascend the steps as their comrade’s spitted body fell into their midst barely audible over the crowd’s roar of delight.
Marcus and Dubnus stepped forward to throw their own spears, and the Dacians’ battle experience showed as three men stepped forward in front of their comrades and raised their small shields to meet the weapons in flight. One threw down his shield, having managed to stop one of the flying spears, holding the board away from him to prevent the protruding blade from striking his body. The other was less fortunate, as a massive throw from Dubnus slammed its iron head through the shield and then, as if the layered wooden boards were no more substantial than smoke, cleaved deep into his face. He staggered backwards to fresh cheering from the crowd around them, and while the barbarians were still attempting to order themselves, Horatius bellowed a single word at his fellow centurions.
‘Phalanx!’
They went forward to meet the Dacians quickly, their paces synchronising as Marcus and Dubnus fell in on either side of the legion man, their shields locking together as they accelerated to a run.
‘Hit them hard, before they can flank us!’
Marcus picked a target as they closed with the milling barbarians, drawing his second spear back as the three men smashed into the Dacians, then snapping it forward to strike at his opponent’s face. The other man managed to deflect the blow over his head with his shield, but the centurions’ charge had blasted through the Dacians’ straggling line, and as his target staggered backwards Marcus struck again, leaping high into the air with practised grace and punching his shield’s iron boss down into the reeling man’s face. As he landed, he stabbed the spear’s iron head into the stunned barbarian’s neck, wrenching it free in a shower of the dying man’s blood as the prisoner slumped to his knees.
The flicker of a shadow made the Roman flinch backward, turning his body to gain some protection from the shield and raising his spear to meet the new threat, but before he could bring the weapon to bear something hit the spear’s shaft hard enough to almost tear it from his hand, the blade hammering at his shield an instant later. Looking down the weapon’s length he realised with a shock that the blade was missing, cleaved away by the blow intended for his head, and he threw it at the man in front of him to make him duck away, springing back to get some space as he drew his own sword. A pair of tribesmen were advancing on him with murder in their eyes, while his friends were deep in their own fights. He hefted the unfamiliar shield momentarily, before shaking his head and throwing its unwieldy weight at them. Stepping back swiftly to the twitching corpse of one of their fellows, he scooped up the dying man’s sword with his left hand and turned to face the pair as they battered the shield aside and came for him.
The man to his right was leading his comrade by a pace, having deflected the flying shield into his path, and the Roman met him blade to blade, allowing the Dacian’s long sword to skate harmlessly out to his left while the barbarian shaped to smash his small shield into the Roman’s face. As he punched the shield forward, Marcus pivoted backwards on his right foot and leaned back to allow the blow to spend itself on empty air, as he wristed the sword in his right hand high into the air above his shoulder. Hacking it down at the hapless Dacian’s extended shield arm, he severed the limb cleanly below the elbow, tearing a bloodthirsty roar from the crowd.
The maimed tribesman staggered backwards, dropping his sword and cupping the brutal wound with his right hand in a futile attempt to stop the blood that was pouring from the stump. His comrade quailed at the look on Marcus’s face as the Roman pushed the helpless man aside, tearing his throat out with a swift thrust and twist of his left-hand sword without ever taking his narrowed eyes off the surviving Dacian. Stalking forward, Marcus barely broke his stride as the prisoner charged forward with an incoherent scream, smashing away the Dacian’s sword and hacking a lump out of the rim of the terrified man’s shield, sending him backwards with blood leaking from a cut down the front of his rough prisoner’s tunic where the sword’s point had torn his flesh as it ripped through the layered wood of his tattered shield.
Their eyes met again in that instant before Marcus struck again, the Dacian’s gaze suddenly calm as if he knew for a certainty that he was facing his death. The Roman’s long sword swept out again, cleaving the shield almost in two, while the prisoner’s attempt to counter-attack was child’s play to parry. He stepped back and raised the shield’s boss and the remnant of board clinging to it with a look of terrified resignation, his sword’s blade barely level with the ground, and Marcus knew his opponent would not survive another attack.