Inarmaz’s eyes narrowed.
‘Accusing me of treason won’t save you from my revenge, Roman. Defend yourself!’
The two men advanced to either side of Marcus, and at Inarmaz’s signal they attacked fast, hammering at his defences with the fury of men whose world had been ripped to shreds before their eyes. Ducking under a sword-cut aimed at his head, Marcus spun, slashing the prince’s sword at Alardy’s legs with the aim of hamstringing him, but the sword was heavier and slower to wield than he was used to, and the warrior danced away from his attack with a mocking grin as the sword’s blade ended its swing practically resting on the centurion’s shoulder. Inarmaz waded into the fight, smashing at the Roman’s shield with his sword, and Marcus met the weapon’s threat with the polished iron centre of his shield, wincing as the collision of blade and boss instantly numbed his left hand. Barely hanging onto the board’s handle he stepped decisively inside Inarmaz’s defences with Galatas’s sword still held with its long blade pointing back over his shoulder and the heavy iron pommel decoration pointing forward. Dropping the shield he grabbed the noble’s heavy gold chain to prevent him from pulling back, and while Inarmaz was still trying to bring his sword to bear, the Roman smashed the pommel into his forehead with all the force he could muster.
A bellow of rage gave him an instant’s warning that Alardy was upon him, and in a flash of inspiration he used his grip on the chain to drag Inarmaz towards him, ducking away as he pulled the dazed noble into his son’s path. The warrior battered his father aside with his shield, ignoring him as he sprawled full length in the mud and squaring up to the Roman with a furious glare, kicking his enemy’s discarded shield away to prevent him from recovering it.
‘I shouldn’t imagine your father will be very happy when he recovers his wits.’
Alardy half laughed and half snarled his response, wristing his sword in an extravagant swishing arc.
‘He’ll be happy enough when I show him what’s left of you being dragged apart by his hunting dogs. You’re without a shield now, and no fancy sword tricks are going to save you.’
He attacked with fresh energy, and the Roman found himself hard-pressed under the flurry of his sword blows, falling back under the onslaught, able to do little more than deflect the strikes while waiting in vain for an opening in his opponent’s defence. Stepping back again, he felt the hard surface of a shield behind his rearmost heel, and at that moment a hand pushed hard into the square of his back, momentarily unbalancing him. As he staggered forward Alardy sprang to attack him, swinging his heavy blade in a lethal arc that Marcus barely managed to deflect with his own weapon, hooking his booted foot behind the Roman’s ankle and pulling him off balance before barging him to the ground. Standing on the blade of the prince’s sword, Alardy lowered the point of his own weapon to Marcus’s throat and grinned mirthlessly down at him, breathing hard from his exertion.
‘See? No shield, and now no sword either.’
Marcus looked up at him, then switched his focus to stare at the other side of the circle.
‘True. But I do still have one last weapon. Your uncle Balodi.’
For a moment Alardy frowned down at the Roman, uncomprehending, and then his eyes widened in shock, his back arching and the breath explosively bursting from his mouth as something hit him hard in the back. Rolling away from the sword’s point, Marcus got to his feet to see the young warrior drop his weapons and put a hand to the spot where a red-painted arrow protruded from his back. Gathering up the prince’s sword the Roman strode across to the dazed Inarmaz who had managed to get back to his feet, putting the weapon’s point to the Sarmatae noble’s throat while he was still staring aghast at his son’s plight. Tottering for a moment as the impact of his wound sank in, Alardy abruptly dropped to one knee as a line of bloody saliva ran down his chin and onto his mailed chest, lifting his eyes to meet Marcus’s pitiless gaze for a moment before his eyes rolled up to show only their whites. Pitching full length into the mud he lay twitching beside his brother while the Roman watched several warriors push their way through Inarmaz’s men with their swords drawn, shouting loudly in their own language and using the flats of their blades on those who were slow to yield to their advance. Moving quickly, they strode across the circle to stand around their prince while Balodi, now dressed in the furs of a noble, pushed through the shields and into the circle at the head of another larger group of his followers. His assured swagger was clearly intended to give the impression of a man who knew that events were running his way.
Motioning Marcus away from Inarmaz, Balodi pulled the heavy gold chain from around the nobleman’s neck and then brutally kicked his feet out from beneath him before pulling the king’s narrow gold crown from inside his clothing and raising it above his head in a clenched fist. Turning to Galatas he bowed ceremoniously before placing the crown on the young man’s head, then turned back to Inarmaz’s warriors and bellowed a brief command to them, gesturing to the prince with an opened hand before going down on one knee with his head bowed. From behind the shield holders a sudden rattle of iron announced the presence of dozens more of his men, with yet more still pouring from the camp behind them. At their leader’s shouted order they started rapping their swords and shield bosses together in unison and chanting Galatas’s name. After a moment of stunned silence one of the men in the ring of shields sank slowly to his knees, swiftly followed by another, and in a heartbeat every one of them had followed their fellows’ example in recognition of the fact that they were outnumbered and leaderless. Galatas stepped forward with his arm raised to take their salute, sharing a look of amazement with Marcus as men flooded from the camp behind him, adding their voices to the adulation.
‘So the king’s brother intervened just in time?’
Marcus nodded wearily at Tribune Belletor’s question.
‘Yes, Tribune. He put a poisoned arrow into Inarmaz’s son Alardy just as he was about to fillet me and serve me up to his dogs, and surrounded his warriors with men loyal to the old king. His possession of the dead king’s crown was the masterstroke, he just marched up to Galatas and put it on his head, which meant that Inarmaz’s men either had to fight then and there or proclaim their loyalty to the new king.’ He took another drink of water from the beaker in front of him before continuing. ‘The prince got me out of there as quickly as he could, but he gave me a message to bring back to you, Tribune.’
He turned to Belletor and opened a writing tablet, working hard to put the right tone of respect into his voice.
‘Tribune, it is apparent to me that my father, the king Asander Boraz, sought battle with you at the ill-advised urging of my uncle Inarmaz. Given my father’s honourable death in battle, and the attempted insurrection by my uncle, I would prefer to establish peaceful terms with your empire and withdraw my army to our tribal lands without any further conflict between us. I will be happy to meet with you on ground of your choosing in order to formally agree this end to our hostilities.’
Belletor raised an eyebrow at his colleague.
‘I find it intriguing that this man Balodi seems to have gained possession of the Sarmatae king’s gold crown, a valuable item which I was assured was in safe keeping ready for shipment to Rome as a prize of battle. How might that have happened, Tribune Scaurus?’
Scaurus maintained an admirably straight face.
‘There’s no secret there, colleague. I gave the crown to Balodi when I freed him, soon after the centurion here discovered him among the prisoners.’ Belletor gaped at him in amazement, but Scaurus continued as if he were discussing nothing of any greater importance than the weather. ‘I had another of my centurions escort him over the northern edge of the valley and then via a circuitous route to within a mile or so of the enemy camp while we prepared the king for return to the Sarmatae, so that at about the time Centurion Corvus here walked up to the side facing our wall, Balodi was slipping into a section guarded by his own men on the opposite side.’ He smiled blandly at Belletor. ‘This has all turned out very well, I’d say, a rebellion put down before any really serious damage was done and a new king with good reason to be grateful to the empire.’