Invictus Read online

  The magistrate recoiled half a step at the protest and quickly rounded on the centurion. ‘Carry out the sentence. Get him out of here! Now!’

  The centurion nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Escort! Close up around the prisoner!’

  Hefting their shields and spears the auxiliaries formed a tight screen around Iskerbeles while the centurion took up the loose end of the chain hanging from the prisoner’s neck and gave it a jerk as he led him away. ‘Let’s go.’

  They started out along the steps at the foot of the senate house and began to work their way around the edge of the forum to the street leading to the town’s eastern gate. Beyond, there was a low hill with gentle slopes, upon the crest of which the town executed its criminals. Looking up, over the tiled roofs of the town, Iskerbeles could see the tiny figures of the execution party who had been sent ahead to dig the post hole and construct the timber frame on which he was to be crucified. Then, with a painful jerk of the chain, the centurion drew him into the narrow street. Like most established Roman settlements, Asturica Augusta’s main thoroughfares were lined with small shops while above them additional storeys had been constructed to accommodate the town’s burgeoning population.

  The centurion barked out a command for those in the street to clear the way and the townspeople did their best to hurry aside, women grabbing their young children and older folk climbing stiffly out of the road onto the pavement. Behind the prisoner and his escort the crowd surged into the street and their angry cries were trapped between the walls rising on either side and filled the stifling air with their din. The centurion glanced back over his shoulder at the prisoner and sneered.

  ‘Your lot won’t be so mouthy when they see you nailed down and hoisted into place.’

  Iskerbeles did not reply to the taunt, but concentrated on staying on his feet as he was dragged along over the cobbled street. Around him the auxiliaries jostled past onlookers crowding the pavement.

  ‘What’s his story?’ a wizened old man demanded of the centurion.

  ‘None of your damned business,’ the officer snapped. ‘Clear the way ahead!’

  ‘That’s Iskerbeles,’ a fat woman responded to the old man.

  ‘Iskerbeles? Chief Iskerbeles?’

  ‘Aye, poor soul’s to be executed. For killing a money lender.’

  ‘Executed?’ The old man spat into the gutter at the feet of the nearest auxiliary. ‘That’s no crime. Or shouldn’t be.’

  The woman raised her fists. ‘Let ’im go! You Roman dogs. Set ’im free!’

  Those on either side quickly echoed her cry and it spread up and down the length of the street and into the mouths of the mob following the small party of soldiers. Soon the deafening sound of his name rang in the ears of Iskerbeles and his escort and the chieftain could not help a thin smile of satisfaction, even though he was being marched to an agonising death. The people of his tribe, and many of those native people who had come to live in the towns, continued to harbour a spirit of resistance towards the invader that they had fought for so many generations. The peace that the Romans had proclaimed came at the price of being ground under their heel and Iskerbeles prayed to the goddess Ataecina that she would unleash her full fury against Rome and inspire her followers to slaughter and burn the invaders and drive them back into the sea.

  A short distance ahead, several young men had emerged from an inn to see what the disturbance was about. As Iskerbeles looked up he noted their neat tunics and clean-shaven cheeks and saw them for what they were: the offspring of the wealthier families of the town who had long since thrown in their lot with the invader and enthusiastically adopted Roman airs and graces. A few of the young men still carried glazed flagons in their hands and the nearest raised his in a toast as he called out loudly.

  ‘Death to murderers! I say death to Iskerbeles!’

  Some of his companions shot him an anxious look, but the rest repeated the toast and jeered the oncoming prisoner. The fat woman turned on them in an instant and, hitching up the hem of her ragged stola, she charged along the pavement and slapped the ringleader hard across the face with a meaty hand. ‘You drunken fool.’

  He may have been inebriated, but he rode the blow well and shook his head briefly to clear it before he balled his right hand into a fist and smashed it into the woman’s face, breaking her nose and causing a bright crimson stream to pour from her nostrils.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, you hag. Unless you want to join your friend there, when they crucify him.’

  The woman clutched a hand to her nose, then looked down at the blood on her palm, and let out a shrill screech as she hurled herself on the youth, fists flailing.

  ‘You bastards! Bastards! Sucking us dry!’

  Her screams were so loud that the nearest elements of the mob stilled their tongues and turned to look in her direction. They divined the nature of the clash in an instant and there was a surge towards the inn as they rushed to join her attack on the youths who had instantly become symbols for all the causes of their misery. Fists flew, hair was grabbed, insults screamed and feet lashed out in a frenzied outburst of rage. At once the mêlée spilled out into the street ahead of the prisoner and his escort. The centurion drew up and let out an explosive sigh.

  ‘Fucking great . . . That’s all I need.’ He handed the chain to one of his men and hefted his stout vine cane. ‘Keep closed up as we get through this lot. And I don’t want to see anyone getting stuck in. Clobber them if they get in the way, but no more. They’re pissed off enough as it is, without one of you bastards giving them any further excuse. Clear? Then stay together and let’s move.’

  He gestured along the street with his vine cane and set off at a slow, steady pace. As the squad approached the fringes of the violent struggle, the centurion raised his cane and barked, ‘Clear the way!’

  A one-armed man glanced round nervously and scurried to the side of the street, but the rest continued fighting heedlessly.

  ‘Fair enough,’ muttered the centurion. He raised his cane and smashed it down across the shoulders of the nearest man. His victim lurched into the crowd with a pained grunt as the officer swung again, this time punching the gnarled head of the cane into the small of a woman’s back. She collapsed onto her knees and he thrust her aside with his spare hand and stepped into the gap. It only took a few more blows before the townsfolk became aware of the danger and made efforts to get out of his way. The soldiers followed on, using their shields to force their way through the fighting, Iskerbeles doing his best to remain on his feet as he was jostled by the men on either side. As they broke free of the mêlée they came to a crossroads and a flash of movement to one side drew the attention of Iskerbeles. Glancing down the intersecting street he saw a small party of men in dark brown cloaks dashing across a parallel junction. Then they were gone.

  A sharp yank of the chain brought him back as the auxiliary charged with leading him growled, ‘Shift your arse.’

  The soldier spoke the local dialect with only a slight accent and Iskerbeles stared hard at him. ‘You’re no Roman. From the east of the province, am I right?’

  The auxiliary shrugged. ‘Barcino.’

  ‘Then you are one of us. Why serve those Roman dogs? Don’t you want to be free?’

  ‘Free to be what?’ The soldier laughed harshly. ‘A hairy-arsed peasant scratching a living on some shitty scrap of land? If that’s freedom, then you can bloody keep it.’

  Iskerbeles’ eyes narrowed. ‘Have you no heart? No pride? No shame?’

  ‘The only shame I’m feeling is that it’s a shame I have to listen to your bellyaching.’ The soldier gave the chain a quick wrench. ‘So keep your trap shut, friend, and spare me the lecture.’

  Free of the crowd, the centurion increased his pace, and as the street bent to the left around a small temple, the town gate came into view. The sentries on either side s
tirred into life at the sight of an officer and shuffled to attention as he approached. Unlike the auxiliaries, they were not proper soldiers, just men recruited by the town senate to extract the tolls for entering the city. They were equipped with weapons and whatever armour could be acquired cheaply to make them look the part. The centurion barely acknowledged them as he led his squad through the shadow of the gate and out into the bright sunlight of the open countryside beyond the town’s wall. The road was paved for a few miles before it became a dusty track picking its way through the hills of the region. A line of merchants’ carts, and heavily laden mules led by peasants, waited to enter the town and they barely spared a glance as the prisoner was marched past them. A horse trader and his companions with a long string of mounts passed at the rear of the line and the centurion cast an envious eye over the horseflesh as he compared them to the poor-quality mounts that his cohort had to make best use of.

  A short distance from the gate a path stretched from the road up to the crest of the hill used for executions and the centurion and his men climbed towards the waiting work party. A small cluster of townsfolk stood to one side, waiting to witness the spectacle, and those who had been sitting rose to their feet as the condemned man and his escort approached. Iskerbeles felt his stomach tighten into a painful knot as he saw the crossed timber lying beside the small pile of loose soil and stone dug out of the ground for the post hole. He had managed to hide his feelings so far, and now gritted his teeth, determined not to betray himself to his enemies. It would be good to hide the fear and pain and show disdain and contempt for Rome until his last breath. Let the townsfolk witness that and let those who continued the struggle against the invader draw strength from his example.

  ‘Off your arses!’ the centurion called out and half turned to indicate Iskerbeles. ‘Here’s your customer. Get him nailed up nice and quick and we can be on our way.’

  The decurion in charge of the work party waved a hand in acknowledgement and turned to mutter an order to his men, who were squatting around the crossed timbers and tools used to prepare the execution. They sat with their backs to the approaching auxiliaries and did not bother to stir at the sound of nailed boots crunching over the sun-baked ground.

  ‘On your feet I said!’ bellowed the centurion as he strode forward, cane raised to strike at the nearest of the men who had defied his initial order. Then he caught sight of the dark patch of dried blood beside the shaft of the crucifix. There were more stains on the ground. He abruptly halted, a chilly tingle raising the hairs at the base of his skull. Then he saw the bare foot protruding beyond a nearby outcrop of rock, and instantly switched his cane into his left hand as he wrenched out his sword.

  ‘Ambush! To arms!’

  Before his startled men could respond, the decurion shouted an order in the native tongue and the men of the work party leaped to their feet, swords and spears in hand, and charged towards the soldiers of the escort. The onlookers who had been waiting to one side also cast off their cloaks to reveal more weapons. They rushed towards the auxiliaries and their prisoner without uttering a word. Iskerbeles, who had been trying to harden his resolve against the dread prospect of having his wrists and ankles pierced by iron nails, felt a surge of exhilaration at the sudden prospect of salvation. The man who had been masquerading as the decurion in charge of the execution party surged ahead of his men, swinging his sword at the centurion in a savage arc. The latter was a thorough professional and had trained many years for such a moment. He went into a crouch and parried the blow, then used his vine cane to strike his foe a glancing blow to the head, sending the man reeling back. The auxiliary officer glanced round at his men.

  ‘Close up!’

  The shock of the ambush swiftly faded as the soldiers raised their shields and lowered the points of their spears, facing out to meet the charge from two directions. The man who had been tasked with holding the prisoner’s chain hesitated, unsure whether to drop it and join the others, or continue to guard the prisoner. Iskerbeles swung his manacled hands up, snatched the chain from the auxiliary’s grasp and swung the short length against the man’s helmet. Metal clattered on metal and the soldier staggered back with a dazed expression, barging into the back of one of his comrades and nearly sending both men crashing to the ground. A gap opened between two of the auxiliaries and Iskerbeles bunched his raised hands into fists and rushed for the opening as fast as the length of chain between his leg manacles would permit. Leading with his right shoulder, he barged one of his escort aside and then tried to sprint a few paces, but the chain tripped him up and he fell headlong no more than ten feet from the Roman soldiers.

  The centurion thrust his cane out. ‘Don’t let the bastard escape!’

  One of his men rushed forward and drew his spear arm back, ready to strike. Iskerbeles rolled onto his side, raising his hands in a futile bid to ward off the blow. He squinted as he stared up at the soldier, black against the dazzling backdrop of the blazing sun. Then another shape slammed into the side of the auxiliary and sent him tumbling to one side with a loud clatter as the soldier’s shield struck the stony ground. Out of the corner of his eye Iskerbeles saw a blade rise and strike down three times and then a hand grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet and he saw the grinning face of the man from the crowd who had called for the death of Aufidius.

  ‘Well met, Callaecus, my friend.’

  ‘Greetings later,’ the man panted. ‘Kill Romans first.’

  He helped Iskerbeles to a safe distance and then sprinted back towards the knot of combatants near the crest of the hillock. Several men were already down in the swirling dust, three of them soldiers. Their comrades now fought back to back, with their centurion. But they were outnumbered and the fearless savagery of their attackers ensured the outcome. One by one they were dragged down and finished with frenzied blows from blades and thrusts of spears, until only the centurion and two of his men still lived, half crouched and eyes flickering at the men around them as they held their weapons out, ready to ward off any attack. As if by some unspoken agreement both sides drew away from each other and the remaining twenty or so ambushers stood two sword lengths back in a ring around the trio of auxiliaries. All were breathing hard as they braced themselves to continue the fight.

  ‘Throw down your weapons!’ Iskerbeles called out.

  The centurion’s lips curled in contempt, but before he could reply one of his men dropped his sword and released the grip of his shield so it fell beside his blade. His comrade glanced at the centurion before he followed suit.

  The centurion sniffed. ‘You cowards . . .’

  ‘Surrender!’ Iskerbeles ordered. ‘Do it now, or die!’

  The officer gritted his teeth, slowly turning to cover all angles, as the two survivors of the escort party edged away from him. Then he sighed with frustration as he straightened up and tossed his sword and cane at Iskerbeles’ feet.

  ‘You may escape now, but we’ll be on your trail soon enough, and you’ll be hunted down like dogs.’

  ‘Really?’ Iskerbeles smiled. ‘We’ll have to see about that. Callaecus, get these chains off me.’

  The tribesman came over and pulled the pin from the neck ring and then the manacles on each hand before bending to remove those around his chief’s ankles. Iskerbeles tenderly rubbed the red welts that had formed on his skin as he regarded the other men from his village. ‘You’re fools, the lot of you. The Romans would have been satisfied with my blood alone for the murder of the money lender. Now they’ll kill us all.’

  ‘Only if they get the chance!’ Callaecus chuckled. He jabbed a thumb at the three auxiliaries. ‘And if they fight like these milk-livered cowards, then we’ve nothing to worry about.’

  Iskerbeles frowned. ‘They have far better men than these to send against us. Make no mistake about that. If we start a fight against Rome now, then it will be a fight to the finish. We can only win if we su
rvive long enough to inspire the other tribes and unite them behind us.’ He paused to let his next words have their full effect. ‘The odds are against us. Us, and all our people. The Romans will not content themselves with pursuing us alone. They will come after all of us. Our women and children too. Are you prepared to risk that, my friends? Think carefully on it.’

  Callaecus threw back his head and laughed before he responded. ‘Do you think that we have not talked this through? Every one of us. We have sworn an oath to rescue you, Chief Iskerbeles. You will lead us to victory, or death.’

  Iskerbeles sucked in a breath as he regarded the expectant faces watching for his reaction. Then he shook his head. ‘You fools . . . So be it. Until victory, or death.’

  Callaecus punched his sword arm into the air and a cheer ripped from his lips. The others followed suit as Iskerbeles rolled his head and flexed his muscles. Then he stooped to pick up the centurion’s sword and examined the weapon. It was finely balanced and the ivory handle was worn smooth with use. The blade was well looked after and had a keen edge and he nodded approvingly at the centurion. ‘You know your business.’

  ‘I do. And I know that I’ll be having that back before long. I swear it, by Mithras.’

  ‘He won’t come to your aid, Roman. Not if our Gods can help it. And failing that, not if my friends and I can help it.’

  The centurion snorted with derision. ‘You? You’re nothing but a bunch of peasants who stink of goat shit and sweat. You surprised us this time, I’ll admit. But next time, we’ll be ready, and then you’ll see what Roman soldiers can really do.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Iskerbeles looked towards the town gate and saw the sentries there shading their eyes as they looked towards the crest of the hill. Already one of them had turned to rush through the gate and raise the alarm.

  ‘We had better leave. Get into the hills before they send someone after us.’