The Legion by Simon Scarrow Page B

finger’s width, through the door. When the axe was wrenched free, it left a narrow gap through which Macro could see the men outside in the pale dawn light. More blows smashed through the weakened timber and hands wrenched at the shattered lengths of wood.

    ‘Don’t worry, lads,’ Macro said evenly. ‘There’s only one way in. All we have to do is keep ’em out until the prefect gets here.’

    He glanced round at the men standing poised in the gloom and noted their expressions. Some looked grim but determined, while a handful of others, younger, had an anxious, fearful look in their eyes. It was a centurion’s duty to lead from the front, to inspire his men, and Macro eased himself forward towards the door, sword clenched in his right hand. He drew out his dagger and held it in the other hand. With a splintering crack a length of the door was pulled away, then more pieces, until only a shattered fringe remained. Outside, the renegades closed round. The first man stepped up, then kicked the makeshift barrier of meal sacks over. He carried a spear and he lowered the tip and thrust at Macro with a grunt. The leaf-shaped head stabbed towards his midriff and Macro parried it away as he swung to his left. At once he recovered his balance and lunged at the spearman, forcing him back, out of the door.

    ‘Form up around the door!’ Macro shouted. ‘Take ’em from the side as they come in.’

    As the men hurried into place, the spearman thrust again, hands gripping the shaft tightly and legs braced apart. This time he fully concentrated his attention on the centurion, as if they were paired in a duel. He weighed Macro up with an expert eye, and feinted. Macro flinched for an instant and then he grinned.

    ‘I don’t fool that easy. Try harder.’

    This time the thrust was in earnest and the point shot forward like a ram. Macro slashed down, just above the man’s hand, and the point went down towards the floor. Macro’s dagger hand darted forward and stabbed into the renegade’s forearm. With a gasp, he released the shaft and Macro stamped down on it, forcing the man off balance. He stumbled forward, inside the doorway, as he strove to regain his balance. One of the legionaries stepped up and punched his sword high into the man’s back, driving him to one side. He fell on to his knees and slumped down with a groan as the legionary ripped his blade free.

    ‘First blood to us, boys!’ Macro cried out, then beckoned to the faces watching him from outside. ‘Come on! Who’s next?’

    There was only the briefest hesitation before a burly swordsman swallowed nervously and made to approach the door. Before he could reach it, a voice called out.

    ‘Stand aside! Let me through!’

    Macro felt a cold shiver ripple down his spine as he recognised the voice at once. The men in front of him drew aside, creating a small open space before the door. Into it stepped a tall, powerful man in his early twenties, dark hair falling to his shoulders. He carried a short sword in one hand and a small round shield in the other. His body was protected by a black leather cuirass, decorated with silver whorls. His lips twisted into a cold smile.

    ‘Centurion Macro. Well, what a surprise. I should have guessed you would try to find me.’

    ‘And now that I have, I’m going to kill you,’ Macro replied through gritted teeth.

    ‘Really?’ Ajax stepped closer, his eyes fixed on Macro. ‘Then why not come out here? Let’s settle this, man to man.’

    Macro felt a burning compulsion to confront the gladiator. The urge coursed through his veins and threatened to cloud his judgement. He clamped his jaw shut and stared back at the man who had tormented him so cruelly barely three months before.

    ‘What’s the matter?’ Ajax smirked. ‘Are you not man enough to face me?’

    Macro took half a step forward, almost to the threshold of the tower’s entrance, and checked himself.

    ‘Tell you what, Ajax,’ he spoke in a flat