dagger as men changed their
positions and fidgeted in the dark.
‘Come on, Corvinus, what’s keeping you?’ he murmured.
‘Perhaps he’s just fucked off along with his men and left us to it,’ Magnus whispered back.
Vespasian was just beginning to fear the worst when a muffled cry floated through the air from the direction of the corral.
‘Shit!’ he hissed, looking around at the sentries. A couple of them stirred and looked about but then, after a few snorts from a camel, wrote the cry off as an animal sound and
settled back down to their snoozing.
Vespasian relaxed a fraction, knowing that Corvinus and his men were playing their part.
After a few more tense heartbeats a torch near the corral was raised from its holder and waved in the air.
‘Let’s go,’ Vespasian said quietly, getting to his feet at a crouch.
The townsmen on either side followed his lead, sparking off a ripple effect around the perimeter of the camp as each man felt his neighbour rise in the darkness; soon, more than two hundred
crouching men were converging from all angles in grim silence upon the unsuspecting Marmaridae.
Vespasian approached the outer ring of tents on the northern side of the pool; behind them was the first of the sentries’ fires. Indicating to Ziri to retrieve a nearby torch and then for
Magnus and the townsmen to stay covering the tents’ entrances, Vespasian edged forward. The sentry was sitting, facing him, cross-legged on the ground with his head on his chest and drawn
sword in his lap. Holding his breath, Vespasian gently approached the sleeping man, his spatha at the ready. An instant before he could strike, the sentry, sensing a presence close by, opened his
eyes to see a pair of sandalled feet before him in the dim firelight. He jerked his head up, wide-eyed in alarm, to witness Vespasian’s sword slamming towards him; it was the last thing that
he ever saw. The tip of the spatha punched through his neck just beneath his bearded chin and crunched on up into the base of his skull; any cry that he attempted was drowned by the explosion of
blood in his gorge, swamping the vocal cords and clogging his windpipe. He fell into the fire, face down, dead. Almost instantaneously his oily woollen robe and cloak caught alight, illuminating
Vespasian.
‘Now,’ he hissed at Magnus.
Grabbing the torch from Ziri, Magnus thrust it at the bottom of the tent flaps. The flames caught immediately, eating their way up the dry, coarse linen until the opening of the tent was a rage
of fire. Ziri stood at the entrance, spear in hand; the first Marmarides, dressed only in a loincloth, hurled himself through the blaze, straight onto its razor point. With a thrust and a twist
Ziri gutted him, then kicked him back into the fire, his spilled, moist intestines hissing and steaming in the heat.
Screams rang out as Magnus and those townsmen who had managed to retrieve a torch moved around the ring, fire-raising as they went. The bolder townsmen, shouting encouragement to each other, as
the attack was no longer a secret, surged forward to deal with the other sentries, battering them down under a hail of blows and jabs.
All around the outer ring tents were ablaze as the townsmen used the Marmaridae’s torches against them. Urging his men forward, Vespasian moved into the inner ring; but here fewer tents
were burning and the tribesmen, now fully alerted to the danger, had roused from their sleep and were now dashing to defend themselves. The terrified bellows of the hobbled camels unable to move
away from the fires merged with the shrieks and howls of the wounded and the dying into a raucous dissonance.
Standing to the side of a burning tent’s entrance, Vespasian brought his spatha slicing down as the flaps burst open, but he mistimed the blow and severed the escaping man’s
outstretched hands. Leaving him to roll away in blood-spurting agony, Vespasian swiped his sword back at the tent’s opening, slashing it
positions and fidgeted in the dark.
‘Come on, Corvinus, what’s keeping you?’ he murmured.
‘Perhaps he’s just fucked off along with his men and left us to it,’ Magnus whispered back.
Vespasian was just beginning to fear the worst when a muffled cry floated through the air from the direction of the corral.
‘Shit!’ he hissed, looking around at the sentries. A couple of them stirred and looked about but then, after a few snorts from a camel, wrote the cry off as an animal sound and
settled back down to their snoozing.
Vespasian relaxed a fraction, knowing that Corvinus and his men were playing their part.
After a few more tense heartbeats a torch near the corral was raised from its holder and waved in the air.
‘Let’s go,’ Vespasian said quietly, getting to his feet at a crouch.
The townsmen on either side followed his lead, sparking off a ripple effect around the perimeter of the camp as each man felt his neighbour rise in the darkness; soon, more than two hundred
crouching men were converging from all angles in grim silence upon the unsuspecting Marmaridae.
Vespasian approached the outer ring of tents on the northern side of the pool; behind them was the first of the sentries’ fires. Indicating to Ziri to retrieve a nearby torch and then for
Magnus and the townsmen to stay covering the tents’ entrances, Vespasian edged forward. The sentry was sitting, facing him, cross-legged on the ground with his head on his chest and drawn
sword in his lap. Holding his breath, Vespasian gently approached the sleeping man, his spatha at the ready. An instant before he could strike, the sentry, sensing a presence close by, opened his
eyes to see a pair of sandalled feet before him in the dim firelight. He jerked his head up, wide-eyed in alarm, to witness Vespasian’s sword slamming towards him; it was the last thing that
he ever saw. The tip of the spatha punched through his neck just beneath his bearded chin and crunched on up into the base of his skull; any cry that he attempted was drowned by the explosion of
blood in his gorge, swamping the vocal cords and clogging his windpipe. He fell into the fire, face down, dead. Almost instantaneously his oily woollen robe and cloak caught alight, illuminating
Vespasian.
‘Now,’ he hissed at Magnus.
Grabbing the torch from Ziri, Magnus thrust it at the bottom of the tent flaps. The flames caught immediately, eating their way up the dry, coarse linen until the opening of the tent was a rage
of fire. Ziri stood at the entrance, spear in hand; the first Marmarides, dressed only in a loincloth, hurled himself through the blaze, straight onto its razor point. With a thrust and a twist
Ziri gutted him, then kicked him back into the fire, his spilled, moist intestines hissing and steaming in the heat.
Screams rang out as Magnus and those townsmen who had managed to retrieve a torch moved around the ring, fire-raising as they went. The bolder townsmen, shouting encouragement to each other, as
the attack was no longer a secret, surged forward to deal with the other sentries, battering them down under a hail of blows and jabs.
All around the outer ring tents were ablaze as the townsmen used the Marmaridae’s torches against them. Urging his men forward, Vespasian moved into the inner ring; but here fewer tents
were burning and the tribesmen, now fully alerted to the danger, had roused from their sleep and were now dashing to defend themselves. The terrified bellows of the hobbled camels unable to move
away from the fires merged with the shrieks and howls of the wounded and the dying into a raucous dissonance.
Standing to the side of a burning tent’s entrance, Vespasian brought his spatha slicing down as the flaps burst open, but he mistimed the blow and severed the escaping man’s
outstretched hands. Leaving him to roll away in blood-spurting agony, Vespasian swiped his sword back at the tent’s opening, slashing it
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