Scaurus chuckled softly.
‘I can guess one of them — your sense of honour, yes?’ Marcus nodded gravely. ‘And the other?’
‘The chance that we might yet manage a negotiated peace with these people.’
Scaurus raised an eyebrow.
‘More likely that we’ll manage nothing of the sort, but I can see the way you’re thinking, and if you’re not to be dissuaded. .’ Marcus shook his head, and the tribune turned to Julius with a helpless shrug. ‘Very well. Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’
Marcus watched in grave silence as the dead Sarmatae ruler was lowered over the wall’s edge and down to the bare earth below. Once the corpse was safely on the ground, he faced Julius with a grim smile.
‘It’s time to go and see what fate I’m due. Look after my wife and child, if the worst possibility comes to pass.’
Before any of them could answer he gripped the knotted rope and stepped over the wall’s parapet, lowering himself down to join the king’s corpse. Regaining his feet he cast a glance at the enemy camp and saw a sudden bustle of activity as more warriors issued from the gates to stand ready to repel any attack. Squatting, he untied the rope around the corpse and gathered the dead king’s body into his arms. Struggling to his feet he turned, and began the long, slow walk towards the barbarian camp without looking back at the cluster of officers watching his progress from the wall above. As before, his approach was greeted by a group of horsemen headed by the dead king’s son, although this time, he noticed, the prince had dispensed with the obvious threat of his long lance. Reining his horse in a few paces from the Roman, he stared down at the centurion’s burden with a look of fear and sorrow.
‘You bring my father to me, do you, Roman?’
Marcus nodded, standing stock-still with the king’s heavy body held across his chest.
‘As I swore I would, Galatas Boraz. He surrendered to his wounds in the night.’
The prince bowed his head.
‘Tell me truly, did he die alone?’
Marcus shook his head.
‘No. When it became clear that his end was near, my tribune, a warrior of proven courage, paid his respects as was only fitting, and sat with him until the end. The king died with his sword in his hands.’
Galatas sighed, staring down at the body in Marcus’s arms.
‘For that much I am grateful.’
The prince gestured to his men, and a pair of slaves came forward to relieve the Roman of his burden. Marcus stood still, acutely aware of the iron and bone arrowheads pointing at him. After a moment Galatas lifted his head again, unashamed of the tears streaking his cheeks.
‘There are men all around you, Roman, who will be strongly tempted to put their bone heads into you and watch you die in agony as their revenge for my father’s death. Have you seen what our crimson arrows can do to a man?’
Marcus returned his gaze steadily.
‘I have. One of your scouts managed to scrape himself with such an arrow when we disturbed his hiding place during our march here. It did not look to be any sort of death for a warrior. I gave him peace, rather than stand and watch a warrior die in so unfitting a manner.’
‘I see.’ Galatas shook his head, and Marcus felt a slight easing of the tension in the air around him. ‘And for that I give you my respect.’
He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, glancing sideways at the bodyguard beside him, the man Amnoz who had shown such enmity during the Roman’s previous visit. Beneath the looted Roman helmet the bodyguard’s face was set in obdurate lines, his eyes fixed on Marcus with an undisguised, smouldering hatred. Alongside him was another man with their father’s features, clearly several years older and heavier set, and he recalled Balodi telling him that Inarmaz had another son. Where Amnoz’s expression was one of a simple lust to kill the Roman, his brother Alardy’s face was altogether more calculating. Galatas spoke again, and Marcus heard a note of resignation in his voice.
‘You will recall that my uncle Inarmaz swore an oath to have your head the next time he saw you. Amnoz is his son, and he has repeated his father’s oath. I have discussed this matter with them both at length, and expressed my disappointment that they should violate the hospitality of my camp, but my uncle has declared that he will serve only the king. Since I am not yet acclaimed by the nobles, he is refusing to accept my command to desist in this matter. It is a thin distinction, but in the absence of my uncle I am not strong enough to force obedience upon them. Not yet. .’
Marcus looked up at him and realised from the weariness in his face that the young prince had problems enough of his own to deal with. He nodded, casting a level stare at Amnoz.
‘I understand. You cannot protect me from this man without weakening your own position, perhaps to the point of provoking a rebellion.’
Galatas nodded, and the Roman looked at the warriors gathered behind him, seeking out those men whose faces betrayed their uncertainty as to whether they should back the young man at their head. He found enough men who appeared undecided to support Balodi’s assertion that his nephew’s position was by no means secure.
‘I see. You are yet to be acclaimed as the new king of your tribe, since your father’s death has only just been confirmed. And every man here will watch and judge you if you prevent Asander Boraz’s men from seeking some vengeance on the men who killed their ruler. And yet to murder the man returning your father’s body to you in cold blood, that might also earn you the ire of your gods. I see your quandary, Prince Galatas, and I might offer a suggestion that will suit both our needs?’
A curt laugh sounded from behind the prince, and Inarmaz pushed his horse to the front of the group, his powerful stallion biting bad temperedly at the beasts in its way.
‘Go on then, Roman, show the prince here the way out of his dilemma. Doubtless it will involve your being allowed to leave unharmed?’
Marcus opened and raised his hands, stepping slowly forward while the arrowheads tracked his movement. The polished iron head of Amnoz’s kontos dropped to meet him, its point digging lightly into his mailed chest in a clear warning, and Marcus smiled up at the man with his teeth bared.
‘As to your last point, Inarmaz, the answer is more than likely yes; I assure you that I will be walking away from this place. But to understand why that would be the case, you might want to consider the possibility that far from protecting me from you and his father’s men, Prince Galatas might be trying to protect you from me?’ He stared at Amnoz for a moment longer, then spat on the ground before the horses’ feet.
Galatas whipped out a hand, taking a handful of the tunic protruding from beneath Amnoz’s mail shirt and preventing him from dismounting with a sudden harsh word of command. Turning back to Marcus he narrowed his eyes in question.
‘You wish to forfeit the traditional protection I am obliged to offer you, given that you have returned simply to bring my father’s body to me?’
Marcus nodded curtly, staring at Amnoz with an intensity that was only partly feigned.
‘I do. I challenge him to a duel in the manner I am told is traditional for your tribe, one sword and two men, with only one allowed to leave the ring of shields. Does he accept, or is his bravery nothing more than a show to impress the boy he keeps in his tent?’
Inarmaz looked down at him with an ugly grin.
‘My son may not speak your tongue the way I do, but I’m sure he’ll have recognised the term you just used. Unless you’re as good in the circle as you seem to believe, Roman, you’ll soon find yourself on your back in the mud with your guts split open and the dogs pulling at your entrails.’
He nodded to his son, and the bodyguard shouted a string of orders to the peasant infantrymen gathered behind the horses. While Marcus watched they hurriedly formed a wide circle around him, planting their shields in an uninterrupted barrier of wood and iron that would hem the combatants into the arena in which their fate would be decided. The prince dismounted and took a shield from one of them, carrying it across to Marcus and handing it to him with a grimace.