Young lad called Proteus. A farmer boy, only signed up with us weeks ago.’
Gallus ground his teeth. A farmer boy; words that could describe most of the legion these days. The men he had sent back for the burials had returned, reporting that only forty-seven bodies lay in the forest — yet forty-eight were missing. He and Felix had debated earlier that day on whether to engage the Goths. Now the decision was made.
‘The quicker we move the less pain our man in there will suffer. Take up your position, Avitus.’
As Avitus slid down next to the other legionaries on the ground, Gallus took one final scan of the area. He waited, eyes trained on the Gothic watchmen on the walls. The silence grew agonizing until at last, the pair on the front wall turned in towards the gatehouse. Gallus cupped his hands over his mouth and whistled a trilling note twice.
Splitting into two groups, the legionaries scuttled for the two corner towers of the front wall of the fort, stilling themselves against the chill of the stonework. Gallus, leading the right-hand group, screwed up his eyes at the towers; the timber tower houses on top of the stone walls had long since decayed and this would be their way in — giving them a semi-fortified high ground to hold at the same time. But one slip, one yelp, any mistake and they’d have nearly twice their number to deal with in a straight fight. Gallus looked to the far end of the wall and prayed that Felix and his men were ready in the blackness.
Felix counted behind tightly closed eyes.
Four, five, six…
‘Go!’ He hissed to a startled Zosimus. The big Thracian then swung a length of looped hemp rope up to a timber stump on the outside edge of the tower, where it caught silently. He yanked it twice and then grunted. ‘It’s all yours, sir,’ he whispered.
Felix flashed a wry smile; being the shortest legionary in the century meant he was always the first name on the sheet where stealth was required, as with poor Avitus on the other side of the fort. ‘Smallest buggers in the century versus the tallest warriors in the world,’ he cursed bitterly. He filled his lungs as he looped and knotted the rope around his torso, kicked off his boots and passed his helmet to Zosimus before hoisting himself to walk up the wall, wincing at the scuffling and scraping of his bare feet on the masonry. His arms stiffened as he started pacing upwards, his eyes fixed on the lip of the tower. Flakes of dry and rotten wood sprinkled in his eyes as his weight on the rope ground at the stump up above. Gently placing one foot after the other Felix settled into a rhythm, and his heart steadied a little. Then there was a terrible groan of bending wood. He froze, praying for the beam to settle. Then there was a sharp crack.
His world whooshed upside down, a blinding white light filled his vision as his head cracked off of the stonework and his sword slipped from its sheath, clattering against the wall. Gruff yells broke out from the battlements above. As Felix’s head stopped spinning, he quickly realised he was dangling like a fish on a line, but then he was jolted upwards. Panicked, he grappled at the rope, kicking out to get a foothold on the wall again.
Lurching all too rapidly towards the top of the wall, he stiffened in horror; a snarling blonde-locked and bearded Gothic guardsman glared down at him with icy-blue eyes and a snarl. The blood pounded in his ears and he started kicking out from the wall to increase his weight. Still he rose until he could smell the ale from the Goth’s breath. He closed his eyes as he felt himself being scraped over the parapet and onto the battlements, clenching his fists in grim expectation.
‘Whoa!’ Hissed Gallus. ‘Easy, friend — you’re safe!’
Felix opened his eyes to his centurion and Avitus, huddled on the battlement behind their shields under a bombardment of missiles from the insides of the fort. The Goth remained hanging over the wall, now with a
Gallus ground his teeth. A farmer boy; words that could describe most of the legion these days. The men he had sent back for the burials had returned, reporting that only forty-seven bodies lay in the forest — yet forty-eight were missing. He and Felix had debated earlier that day on whether to engage the Goths. Now the decision was made.
‘The quicker we move the less pain our man in there will suffer. Take up your position, Avitus.’
As Avitus slid down next to the other legionaries on the ground, Gallus took one final scan of the area. He waited, eyes trained on the Gothic watchmen on the walls. The silence grew agonizing until at last, the pair on the front wall turned in towards the gatehouse. Gallus cupped his hands over his mouth and whistled a trilling note twice.
Splitting into two groups, the legionaries scuttled for the two corner towers of the front wall of the fort, stilling themselves against the chill of the stonework. Gallus, leading the right-hand group, screwed up his eyes at the towers; the timber tower houses on top of the stone walls had long since decayed and this would be their way in — giving them a semi-fortified high ground to hold at the same time. But one slip, one yelp, any mistake and they’d have nearly twice their number to deal with in a straight fight. Gallus looked to the far end of the wall and prayed that Felix and his men were ready in the blackness.
Felix counted behind tightly closed eyes.
Four, five, six…
‘Go!’ He hissed to a startled Zosimus. The big Thracian then swung a length of looped hemp rope up to a timber stump on the outside edge of the tower, where it caught silently. He yanked it twice and then grunted. ‘It’s all yours, sir,’ he whispered.
Felix flashed a wry smile; being the shortest legionary in the century meant he was always the first name on the sheet where stealth was required, as with poor Avitus on the other side of the fort. ‘Smallest buggers in the century versus the tallest warriors in the world,’ he cursed bitterly. He filled his lungs as he looped and knotted the rope around his torso, kicked off his boots and passed his helmet to Zosimus before hoisting himself to walk up the wall, wincing at the scuffling and scraping of his bare feet on the masonry. His arms stiffened as he started pacing upwards, his eyes fixed on the lip of the tower. Flakes of dry and rotten wood sprinkled in his eyes as his weight on the rope ground at the stump up above. Gently placing one foot after the other Felix settled into a rhythm, and his heart steadied a little. Then there was a terrible groan of bending wood. He froze, praying for the beam to settle. Then there was a sharp crack.
His world whooshed upside down, a blinding white light filled his vision as his head cracked off of the stonework and his sword slipped from its sheath, clattering against the wall. Gruff yells broke out from the battlements above. As Felix’s head stopped spinning, he quickly realised he was dangling like a fish on a line, but then he was jolted upwards. Panicked, he grappled at the rope, kicking out to get a foothold on the wall again.
Lurching all too rapidly towards the top of the wall, he stiffened in horror; a snarling blonde-locked and bearded Gothic guardsman glared down at him with icy-blue eyes and a snarl. The blood pounded in his ears and he started kicking out from the wall to increase his weight. Still he rose until he could smell the ale from the Goth’s breath. He closed his eyes as he felt himself being scraped over the parapet and onto the battlements, clenching his fists in grim expectation.
‘Whoa!’ Hissed Gallus. ‘Easy, friend — you’re safe!’
Felix opened his eyes to his centurion and Avitus, huddled on the battlement behind their shields under a bombardment of missiles from the insides of the fort. The Goth remained hanging over the wall, now with a
Similar Books
