Ropes and timbers creaked and shuddered as the thick line of imperial onagers were loaded with rocks the size of heads by busy legionaries, scuttling to and fro through the carpet of ferns and morning mist.
‘Loose!’ Merobaudes roared from horseback, sweeping his sword forward.
As one, the catapults bucked and hurled their burdens up towards the tip of the Rauberg – the Rugged Mountain. The sturdy, circular stone and timber walls of the Lentienses’ last stronghold bore the first six or seven strikes, but the next few shattered the sharpened stakes or struck dark cracks in the lower stone sections of the bulwark. One punched into the chest of a Lentienses warrior on the battlements up there, bursting through his green leather vest and ruining his chest, sending him shooting from the walkway and hammering into the side of the timber-walled great hall within the enclosure. Another rock zoomed up and took a warrior’s head clean off his shoulders, leaving the body standing, still holding a spear and hide-covered shield, blood spouting from the neck until the cadaver toppled out over the parapet and tumbled down the grey, fern-streaked hillside like a discarded child’s toy towards the noose-like Roman lines below.
Gallus stood in formation with what remained of his auxiliary unit, watching the sprays of dust, splintered wood and blood up on the acropolis as the siege engines endlessly spat this stony hail. Some said that only a few hundred Lentienses held out up there with King Priarius, having fled there from the forest battle at Argentoratum, but Emperor Gratian had shown not a flicker of hesitation in bringing his obscenely overpowered army to the tribe’s last refuge. Some thirty thousand men: legions, cavalry alae, palace regiments and barbarian allies stood in a thick ring around the base of the hill. He looked to his left, glaring at Dexion – cold, expressionless – and Gratian who watched the bombardment with hooded eyes, assured of victory. Beside them was the giant Frankish general, Merobaudes. The man looked like an escaped nightmare with his drawn, scarred features and thinning, black hair hanging to his collar. Gallus knew little of this man, other than that he was one of Gratian’s minions, and that was a black enough indicator.
The thunder of the onagers ceased only when Gratian raised a hand. At this, a few Lentienses heads peeked out from where they had been crouched behind their lofty parapet, confused at the unexpected hiatus. Gratian flicked his fingers, beckoning a gaunt fellow in courtier’s robes forward. The man wore a haughty look and peered down his blade of a nose. He bellowed in some jagged foreign tongue, addressing the hilltop. An interpres, Gallus realised, probably offering King Priarius the chance to surrender and no doubt enjoy the remainder of his days in the dungeons of Treverorum.
Suddenly, a bucking of timber sounded from up on the acropolis, and one of the rocks that had been fired up there came arcing back out over its walls, shot from some hidden Lentienses device. The rock sailed down, straight for Gratian, Dexion and Merobaudes.
Yes, Mithras guide the rock from which you were born, Gallus mouthed, his eyes wide. But the rock plummeted right onto the interpres, flattening him as if he was never there and showering all nearby in dirt and blood.
Gratian’s horse reared wildly and the young emperor’s nostrils flared in terror and humiliation. He yanked at the reins, only just bringing the beast under control. ‘I’m tired of watching this,’ he called out like the boy he was in a screeching-gull voice, thrusting a shaking finger at the hilltop stronghold. ‘Set them aflame!’ The emperor and Dexion turned to look in Gallus’ direction, Gratian gesturing to the ballista crews there. Gallus swung away and dipped his head.
‘You,’ a voice snapped in front of him. Gallus jolted and looked up to see the ballista commander angrily waving him over. Dagr and the rest of the auxiliaries were already busy helping the ballistae crews to load the twelve missile-throwers. He hurried over, then looked around for the usual iron bolts that these devices shot. Instead, he saw small, red-hot rocks the size of clenched fists being lifted with copper tongs onto the concave channel carved into the wooden spine of the contraption. Dagr stood at the left-hand winding lever of one ballista, and waved him over to operate the right-hand one. ‘Ready?’ the spike-haired centurion asked.
Gallus nodded, and the pair groaned and took the strain, turning the levers and tightening the ballista ropes until they creaked and would tighten no more.
‘Loose!’ Merobaudes barked, riding over to take charge of the ballistae crews.
Gallus stepped back as all twelve ballistae spat forth as one. These red-hot rocks sailed over the acropolis walls and punched through the great hall’s timbers, some landing on and sinking through the hall’s thatched roof. Moments later, dark smoke coiled up from the structure. Gallus noticed how all in the Roman encirclement watched, waiting for the first sign of flame. Realising he had an instant of invisibility, he turned his gaze back to Gratian and Dexion. His eyes focused on the throbbing of Dexion’s jugular. Every heartbeat is stolen from my wife and my boy, you wretch.
‘I once prized a jasper gemstone from an enemy chieftain’s helm and brought it to my wife,’ Dagr said in a low voice so only Gallus would hear. Gallus turned to him, a chill snaking up his spine. The man had caught him once more. ‘She stared at it for hours,’ Dagr continued. ‘No matter what we were doing, her eyes were drawn to it. It fair kept her quiet,’ he cocked one eyebrow and grinned wryly. ‘Blissful days.’
Gallus feigned a smile then turned back to the ballista and pretended to be helping load it again, aware of the colossal form of Merobaudes walking his horse around the artillery as if inspecting every move. Up on the acropolis, cheers rang out as the coils of smoke turned white and then dissipated – the fires had been quelled.
‘In her eyes I saw desire, love. But when you stare at the emperor and that one by his side, I see none of that,’ Dagr continued. ‘I see something darker than I have ever witnessed in a man’s eyes.’
The streak of unease grew icy. The fingers on Gallus’ sword-hand twitched as if urging him to be ready to draw his blade. ‘I march, I fight, I serve. I’m an auxiliary, just like you.’
Dagr stared at him, eyes searching, judging. Suddenly, his eyes widened, flashing over Gallus’ shoulder. ‘Then be ready to receive orders from an officer,’ he whispered quickly before ducking down to work the ballista again.
‘You, auxiliaries,’ an all-too familiar voice barked behind the pair. Dexion!
Gallus kept his head down, tilting his helm by the brow to shade his face a little more.
‘The emperor has called for the stronghold to be stormed. The Heruli will ascend the slopes to raise the imperial standard in good time, but first he wants to… clear a path.’
Gallus’ top lip wrinkled as he interpreted the statement. The auxiliaries were to be sacrificed – sent up the hill first in order to test the rigour of the Lentienses defences against an infantry assault.
‘Well… move!’ Dexion urged Dagr. The big centurion’s face stiffened and he grudgingly waved the remnant forty of his century together. Gallus and Dagr stood on the right of what was to be the front line, backed by another few auxiliary centuries that had been marching with Merobaudes’ portion of the army.
Gallus looked up the slope, strewn with broken fragments of stone and timber from the wall and smashed bodies from the parapet. They were to march up the steep incline to the thick acropolis gates – high as three men and well-constructed. Either side of the gates were stone towers, bristling with the helms and speartips of crouched Lentienses guards who were already anticipating the frontal assault. How in Hades do men with swords and spears break through that? He mouthed, knowing that these few centuries of auxiliaries were inadequate. The hill was far too steep for a battering ram or war towers – if they had any. He glanced over the assembled assault force. ‘We have no ladders?’
Dagr shook his head. ‘We don’t need any, we have that.’
Gallus followed his outstretched finger and saw another cluster of auxiliaries rushing from the trees to join them. They carried overhead a timber pole – as long as the trunk of an adult pine, Gallus was sure. On the end was fitted a massive iron hand – so large it looked as if it had been stolen from a colossus – fingers together and bent at the knuckles in the shape of a beak. ‘What the?’
A wheeled timber frame came with it, and the fresh auxiliaries positioned this at the base of the hill, then lifted the iron hand end of the pole onto the crossbar of the frame, before feeding it on over, more and more men at the rear end holding on and acting as a counterweight with some tying iron weights to it. The immense beam jutted uphill further and further, its shadow looming over Gallus and Dagr as it reached up the precipitous slope. Gallus’ eyes widened like those of the Lentienses on the gate towers as the huge iron hand hovered over the gateway.
‘Tear it down!’ Merobaudes bellowed.
With a series of grunts and cries, some of the men balancing the other end of the beam let go and stepped back, and the iron hand up on the hilltop whooshed down, crunching into the timber gates, gouging several feet into them, the iron fingers looped over the tops.
‘Heave!’ Merobaudes snarled.
The Romans at the foot of the beam now took to heaving at it, as if to pull it back downhill. An ominous groaning grew into a thick crackle of snapping timbers as the curved fingers of the hand wrenched at the gates. With a sudden bang, they exploded outwards in a shower of splinters, the iron locking bar that had been holding them shut leaping into the air, mangled, before tumbling down the hillside with the remnant of the right hand gate, while the left hand gate swung back on its hinges and fell askew and useless against the outside of the walls. A moment of silence followed with Lentienses guards rising from their crouched positions on the walls and behind the gateway, gawping at the chasm where their mighty gate had been moments ago. Then the auxiliaries manning the pole pushed it fractionally forward again and swung it sharply to one side. The heel of the iron hand struck the rightmost gate tower with an almighty clang, and the tower – made of dry stone – listed, then crumbled like sand. The men atop it cried in terror as the stonework fell away under them. A rush of rocks and flailing men careened down the hillside and the men’s cries were abruptly cut off as the already-bloodstained slopes gained a darker hue.
‘Now…advance!’ Merobaudes howled, swinging his sword overhead and pointing it up to the broken entrance. ‘And if you find their king, save him,’
Gallus shot the big Frank a look. Mercy?
But Merobaudes was not finished. With a twitch of his top lip, he added: ‘Save him for the emperor.’
Buccinae reinforced the order, and at once, the few auxiliary centuries crunched uphill.
‘We must ascend under our shields.’ Gallus urged Dagr. ‘Our strength is in our unity.’
Dagr then barked it as his own order along the line. ‘We climb the slope with our shields overhead.’
Gallus swung his shield up like a vast roof tile, clacking it into place with Dagr’s. He felt the loose earth crumble under his stride, his breath coming and going faster and faster. Suddenly, his shield arm jarred as something heavy thwacked off of it. Rocks, he realised, seeing the hand-sized boulders bouncing between the few gaps in the shield roof. Then a sharp thwack and the tip of an ango javelin poked through the shield. He glanced along the ascending line, seeing most of Dagr’s lot and those behind bearing the wrath of the Lentienses’ storm well. Only a few sunk down on their knees, perforated with arrows and javelins or skulls staved in by rocks. ‘That’s it, we’re almost there. Stay together, keep your spears close like the fangs of a lion,’ he cried, forgetting his place as a faceless ranker. He shot Dagr a look, uncertain what the man’s reaction might be.
‘You are no auxiliary,’ Dagr spat with the manic glint of battle-lust in his eyes, his fingers flexing on his spear. ‘I worked that out some time ago,’ he added, staggering as a rock thumped from his shield. His eyes grew steely and his lips thin: ‘Tell me, who are you?’
Gallus gave him a steely look. ‘If we live to see the end of this battle, perhaps I’ll tell you.’ He glanced up to see the lip of the acropolis gateway just a few feet away. A thick band of Lentienses warriors had gathered there, forming a nest of spears in lieu of their gate. ‘Now, on my word… shields, forward!’ he screamed. With a guttural cry, the auxiliary line dropped their shields to face frontwards, then surged against the Lentienses defenders. Gallus swatted one man’s spear out of the way then thrust his boot into the foe’s shield, sending the man toppling backwards and buckling the Lentienses line. The momentary gap was there: a chance to break their defence.
With a savage cry, Gallus leapt into the breach.
Dexion watched as the auxiliaries bayed and thrashed up on the acropolis. The screams were serrated and desperate: men fighting for their lives or striving to snatch this brief chance of glory to possibly better their future years. Yet they were little more than fodder for the Lentienses spears – to allow Gratian’s Heruli to then march up there and claim the final victory with minimal losses. A dull, quiet voice sounded inside Dexion’s head, like a distant, tolling bell. How can you watch, knowing they are almost certain to die? See what you have become, it pleaded. He smirked and shook his head, locking the weak voice of conscience away again.
‘The auxiliaries are proving to be stronger than we anticipated. The town will soon be ours,’ Merobaudes said, ranging over beside him, looking past Dexion and bowing fractionally towards Gratian. Dexion smirked: no honorific and a tone laced with vinegar… this cur was so sure of himself.
‘And the Lentienses will be no more,’ Gratian said with an amused snort. ‘But a pox on them if they capitulate too soon, for then I will have to turn my thoughts to that infernal trouble in the East.’
The voice within Dexion’s head tried again. Think of your brother, it beseeched him. A quarrel struck up within him. But damn, those cursed feelings he had long ago mastered were in a recalcitrant mood today.
‘Domine,’ a breathless voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see that a scout rider had appeared from the trees, his black mare slick with lather from a seemingly hasty ride. The rider ranged past Dexion, dismounted before Gratian and bowed. ‘Domine,’ he repeated, ‘I bring word from Treverorum.’
Gratian did not bother to look down at the man, his attentions fixed on the struggle at the broken gateway up on the hill. Every now and again he clapped or laughed as heads were cleaved or bounced down the hill, detached from their bodies. ‘Tell my courtiers, I will deal with it later,’ he said absently.
‘But Domine, it concerns your palace…’ he lowered his voice and looked around as if uncertain of how much he could say. Gratian looked down now with an irritated look. Dexion leaned a little closer too. ‘Something happened on that day you left the city. We only found them after you departed.’
‘Found what?’ Gratian shrugged.
‘The dungeon,’ the rider said, his face whitening. ‘They’re dead… all of them.’
Gratian’s face bent in bemusement. ‘The prisoners? Curse Lurco and his enthusiasm. He’ll pay for this…’
The rider gulped, and Dexion realised the emperor had misunderstood. ‘No, Domine, Lurco is dead. His men are dead, slain. The prisoners are dead too.’
An army of invisible ants rushed up Dexion’s back. ‘Slain?’
The rider turned to him and nodded.
‘And the prisoners too?’
Another nod.
‘All of them?’
The rider gulped again. ‘As far as we could tell.’
Dexion’s skin crept with the memory of one particular prisoner’s words:
Sleep with one eye open and a dagger in your hand, Speculator…
He slipped from his mount and grabbed the man’s collar, hauling him nose-to-nose. Dread, fear and anger had broken from their leash and fought like hounds in his belly. ‘Did you find the bodies of every prisoner?’
The rider’s face was streaked with runnels of sweat. ‘All of them. All o-of them b-but one.’
Dexion did not hear or listen to the rest of the man’s stammering response. He did not need to. He threw the rider down.
‘What has happened?’ he heard Gratian screech. Up on the acropolis, the din of iron and roars of dying men had grown deafening. But one name hissed in Dexion’s mind above it all, as if whispered by a demon.
Gallus.
His heart thundered and rogue emotions ran rampant through his veins. The slaughter had happened on the morning they marched from Treverorum. What if… he thought, then realised he knew the answer. You’re here, aren’t you? Where are you? he mouthed. He turned his head, eyes sweeping the woods, then combing the ranks of the encircling Romans. So many dark, baleful faces in those ranks. So many who had cast reproachful looks at him on this march. More than thirty thousand souls.
Where are you!
His mind turned to his brethren scattered through the ranks, fellow speculatores who answered to him. These men would have to help him find the cur. Four men. One with the onager crews, one with the Heruli and… his gaze swept up to the acropolis… two up there with the auxiliaries.
The fighting just inside the stronghold gateway descended into a swirl of man-to-man combat. A sword clanged against Gallus’ shield: a tribesman with legs, arms and torso clad in thick leather armour. He ducked another swipe then struck his spear down into the man’s unprotected ankle. The foe fell in paroxysms of pain, blood and dirt spraying up as he thrashed. Gallus looked this way and that, ready to pick out his next opponent, seeing Dagr and the other auxiliaries locked in battle all around him.
Gallus had been sure to keep one eye on the big centurion at all times – the man seemed too perceptive for a mere auxiliary officer. Suddenly, a whoosh overhead brought all eyes momentarily up, as another of the red-hot ballistae stones from the Roman lines at the base of the hill plunged into the great hall in the centre of the acropolis. Gallus could see now that the thatching had been soaked so as to protect it from such attacks. But when another three glowing stones punched into the collection of huts surrounding it, the thatched roofs of these smaller dwellings caught light. Gallus blocked, hacked and parried as the Lentienses guards fought like animals, but as the crackling fires grew and grew, orange flame licking out like serpents tongues and thick, black smoke stinging their eyes, they seemed to lose their confidence. First, a few shouted frantic orders, butted their shields out to throw off opponents, then ran back towards the great hall, then a handful more followed.
‘They’re drawing back. They’re retreating to the hall,’ Dagr cried.
‘Don’t let them regroup! Finish this as soon as we can,’ Gallus yelled, waving the auxiliaries on to surround the remainder of the Lentienses, blocking them from the great hall. This swift surge was enough. A moment later, the tribesmen threw down their spears, calling out for mercy. ‘Gather up their blades then guard them!’ Gallus snarled to the rearmost auxiliary century, only now reaching the lip of the acropolis and pouring into the walled plateau. Despite his lack of rank, the century and their centurion did not hesitate to obey. Just then, for a fleeting moment, he caught sight of Dagr. Those eyes, riddled with suspicion. But he didn’t have time to think about it as he heard a howl of defiance from the great hall’s three frontal entrances. He swung to see the few remaining Lentienses clustering inside the main door and at two smaller side doors, their spears jutting from these openings like bristling porcupines. One look at their eyes, tear-streaked and bulging, and he knew they were not for surrendering. Grimly, he swept a hand forward. ‘Take the hall!’
The majority of the auxiliaries surged for the main, central doorway. He saw Dagr peeling towards the right door with one cluster of auxiliaries, and so he went left with another handful, rushing forward with a thunder of boots, the whooshing of hot-stones overhead and the defiant cry of the tribesmen.
Gallus skidded to a halt as the nest of spears at the left doorway suddenly braced, jabbing out. He ducked out of the way of one then hacked the tip from another. The auxiliaries with him followed suit, refusing to engage the spears head-on, but snatching opportunities to behead the lances. Soon, the porcupine was all but blunted. Gallus hoisted his shield and rushed the cluster of Lentienses. His weight against theirs did little, and he seemed set to slide off and stagger back, until the crunching weight of ten or more auxiliaries joined him. The Lentienses plugging the doorway were barged back. Some scrambled up and away, others became entangled in combat and the gloom inside the doorway was soon a sprawl of thrashing men and flashing steel. Gallus grabbed a dropped spatha and left them to it, stealing on inside, knowing that the fighting would end only when King Priarius was captured. The torchlit corridor ahead seemed to lead to the main chamber of the hall, and he prowled along it, spatha raised, eyes combing the shadows, the din of the melee fading behind him as he went. He jolted when, to his right, a frantic crunching of straw sounded from the ceiling and a shower of thatching fell like rain in the corridor. He looked up and saw a sliver of light where the thatched roof had been struck with another hot stone. This time the thatching caught light despite its dampness, and the dull, ominous grumble of fire spread overhead, illuminating parts of the interior in a menacing orange.
He came to the end of the corridor and saw the vast throne room before him. The sight was striking: an ancient, gnarled and knotted pedunculate oak rose at the rear of the hall like a spine, and the timber structure and pitched roof had been built around and were supported by it, branches stretched out like beams across the rear wall and the trunk rose on through the ceiling. At the base of the tree was an ancient timber throne on a stepped plinth. A weary figure sat upon this chair, sporting a tightly-curled auburn beard and sleek, collar-length hair, streaked with grey. He wore thick animal furs on his shoulders. Priarius? Gallus realised, barely recognising the man, who looked a lot older and greyer than he had on the battlefield at Argentoratum a fortnight ago.
Gallus stepped into the hall, eyes darting to locate the king’s guards.
‘There are no more,’ the man said wearily. ‘All my guards are fighting their last at the doors.’
Gallus halted at the man’s words, sure it was a gambit. But he saw that indeed there were no others in the hall: just animal hides, shields and crossed spears mounted on the walls. The commotion of the dull, echoing fights at the doors came and went in waves, then the ceiling groaned and sagged, a shower of thatching fell, ablaze, drifting down onto the packed-dirt floor between Gallus and the king. The upper branches of the oak too had caught light as the flames licked inside. Gallus stepped forward cautiously, one eye on the ceiling and one on the king, embers drifting down all around them.
‘My people will slip from history today,’ Priarius said, his eyes fixed on the floor before him. ‘And all because I listened to the harping voices of my eager and overly-brave Council. I did not want for war with your empire. I did not seek to bring Emperor Gratian’s forces to my home like this, to crush everything I hold dear under his boot.’ The man’s eyes drew up jadedly to Gallus, every line on his craggy face thrown into sharp relief by the fiery faggots of thatching floating around him. ‘I presume you come to take me as a prize with which to honour Gratian? Then come, seize me or take my head. I am no warrior, just a foolish king who has consigned his people to the dust.’
Gallus approached the plinth. ‘I owe Gratian not a libra of honour. It seems the cur knows little of such a virtue in any case.’
This seemed to stoke a last mite of curiosity from Priarius. ‘Yet you come to my hall with your sword in hand?’
‘I do only what I must,’ Gallus replied, stepping up the plinth stairs. ‘Your village would have fallen today, regardless of my presence. I aim to bring about the end of the fighting as soon as possible. Only then can I see that Gratian upholds his word and marches this army to Thracia. Only then can I find opportunity to sink this blade into the ribs of the demon he rides with… the one who took from me all I had... my wife, my boy… my future.’
Gallus halted, standing before the king, Priarius and he sharing a moment of affinity, grey ash now settling on the shoulders and faces of both men.
‘Tell me, Roman, what is Gratian’s will: to have my head or to take me alive?’
‘He wants you alive,’ Gallus replied flatly.
Priarius’ eyes searched Gallus’. ‘And what fate is darker: death or Gratian’s prisons?’
Gallus’ mind raced with all that had gone on in the dungeons.
‘Your silence is answer enough,’ Priarius said. He inhaled deeply and nodded once. ‘Spare me the darkness.’
Gallus dipped his head once in understanding. He fixed his gaze on the trunk of the giant oak, then wrapped one arm around the back of the king’s head, pulling it into his chest, before thrusting his spatha into the man’s breastbone. Priarius tensed and then sighed. Gallus rested the corpse back against the throne and stepped away.
Tartarus or Elysium? The dark voice whispered in his mind as he stared at the blood on his hands and his tunic. With every life you take, you hasten towards perdition. He gazed through the bloodstains, barely hearing the dull clash of the struggle at the doors echoing through the corridors leading to the great hall. Then something crystal clear and oh-so close split the air, right behind him.
‘Emperor Gratian will be most displeased,’ the voice said.
Gallus swung on his heel to see a gaunt auxiliary – one of Merobaudes’ lot – had crept up on him. A fellow with a stark black beard that seemed to start just below his grey eyes. He felt a sharp jab in his abdomen and looked down to see the tip of the man’s curved sword point resting there. When he looked up again, slowly, his blood chilled.
Those soulless eyes had gazed upon him before, he realised, in his first days in the dungeons. This man was a speculator. The cur had watched on by Dexion’s side as Gallus had endured Lurco’s torture.
‘One move,’ Grey-eyes purred, then circled slowly, tracing his sword point roughly over Gallus’ tunic, taking the spatha to hold it in his other hand. ‘How did you do it? Nobody has escaped from those dungeons. Nobody.’
Gallus said nothing as the flaming clusters of straw fell all around them.
‘Now I have a dilemma much like yours with the dead king,’ he pointed with the spatha towards Priarius’ corpse. ‘Do I slay you, cut your belly open and let you watch as your gut ropes spill onto the floor… or do I take you alive, to Master Dexion, back to Augusta Treverorum? We could dig deeper into the ground, build darker, fouler dungeons below the existing one. Perhaps we could brick up the cell to ensure you never again escape?’
The man’s breath reeked of pungent meat, and Gallus sensed lust in his words.
‘Make your choice, Speculator, but make it a good one. For years I have been cleaning from my blade the blood of whoresons who made the wrong choice.’
The man’s face bent into a scowl. ‘Very well, time to get a little air in and around your belly,’ and he hissed through his teeth and tensed his twin swords.
‘Where is your shield, dog?’ a familiar voice said, halting him. Gallus and Grey-eyes looked to the main doorway to the great hall. There stood Dagr, wounded and blood spilling from his lips. He hoisted his spear and hurled it across the room. The tip crashed into Grey-eyes’ throat, just above the collar of his leather vest, throwing him back and pinning him to the trunk of the giant oak. Gallus looked to the dead speculator and then to Dagr. ‘You saved me?’ he spluttered.
Dagr fell to one knee, wincing. Gallus hurried down from the plinth and over to his side, crouching by him.
‘Aye, well, he was one of them, wasn’t he?’ Dagr half-spoke, half-rasped, his breath wet with blood. Gallus saw the grievous battle-wound near his armpit now, part-concealed by the arm of his tunic.
‘You knew he was a speculator?’ Gallus said.
‘Not until now. Not until I heard what he said.’
‘But you don’t know who I am. You know nothing about me,’ Gallus replied.
Dagr looked up, his face greying, and clasped a hand to Gallus’ shoulder. ‘At first, I wondered if you were one of them. But not for long. I know a good man when I meet one. I heard your words to the king. I know what drives you on. I c…can only respect you for that. Now be sure to do what you told P…Priarius you were going to… to do.’
Gallus frowned.
‘Save Th…Thracia and sl… slay the dark one… Dexion?’ Dagr said, a weak smile playing on his blue lips. With that, he slumped. Gallus caught him and laid him on the floor, but with a death rattle, Dagr was gone.
Outside, the clash of battle faded and was replaced by Roman cheering. Gallus took one last look around the great hall, the corpses and the eerie, encroaching light of the fire from overhead, then made for the side door. He would have to melt back into the ranks, and Dexion would surely be suspicious at having lost one of his brethren.