walking across to his side.
‘Excellent. There’s always one man that wants to go first.’ He nodded at the cavalryman standing in front of the line of kneeling men, and the soldier stepped forward, grabbed the defiant bandit’s hair and used it to pull his head down, baring his neck for the sword. Silus put his spatha on the exposed flesh, sawing the rough sharpened blade backwards and forwards, the sword’s weight exerting enough pressure on the skin to start a thin line of blood trickling down the helpless man’s throat.
‘Of course I’m not going to let you go, but at least you’ll get to survive today, and who knows, if you sing loudly enough perhaps the procurator will spare you for assisting us?’
‘Spare us? More likely he’ll—’
Silus whipped up the blade, taking a quick breath with the upstroke before hacking down into the exposed neck with enough power to partially sever the man’s head from his shoulders, then lifted the sword again to finish the job. The headless corpse toppled forward, blood still pumping from the stump of the dead man’s neck. It sprayed the soldier with a hot jet that made him drop the man’s head and fumble to wipe his eyes clean. Bending, Silus picked up the head by the hair, scowling at the man whose job it had been to hold it. He raised the bloody, mud-spattered trophy, giving the other bandits a good long look at their comrade. The faces reflected fear, hate, but mostly the numb realisation that they would face the same fate soon enough. Marcus watched from the side of the line, his thoughts racing as he considered the murder of the helpless prisoner.
‘So, one man wanted to die here, in this muddy field, with no one to spare him a coin for the ferryman. Does anyone else feel the same need to leave this life here and now? Or would any of you like to talk, and spare the rest of us having to go through this ritual until you’re all dead? No?’
He nodded to the soldier, who gripped the next man’s hair and turned his face away while the decurion braced himself with a two-handed grip on the weapon’s hilt and inhaled quickly. The sword rose and fell in one clean blow this time, and Silus nodded to himself.
‘It seems I’m getting the hang of this. Anyone want to talk? No? Very well.’
He stepped up to the next man down the line, raising the blade as the soldier once again took a grip of the victim’s hair. Tensing himself for the downstroke the decurion took another quick breath of air, but held off from delivering the fatal blow as the helpless man beneath his sword let out a creaking moan of desperation and audibly soiled himself. Silus grinned at the terrified bandit, wrinkling his nose at the sudden stench of terror.
‘Nobody wants to die on an empty stomach. Perhaps I’m not being fair.’ He looked sideways at the man on the far side of the first bandit to die, watching as the colour drained from his face. ‘After all, I started in the middle of the line; perhaps I should have chosen the man on the other side to go third.’ He beckoned to the soldier holding down the bandit’s head to raise it, allowing him to see the victim’s face. ‘What do you think? Fairer to go the other way for a bit?’ The captive goggled up at him wordlessly, almost unable to comprehend his desperate circumstances, and Silus stroked his chin as if deep in thought. ‘It does seem a bit lopsided.’
The decurion turned away from the bandit, beckoning his assistant to follow him, and the soldier released his grip on the prisoner’s hair. Reprieved, the helpless man fell forward into the mud and started to cry like a baby, watching as the decurion moved up the line. He gestured to the soldier, who grabbed his new victim’s copper-hued hair and dragged him forward, ready for the killing stroke. Silus lifted the sword, and stood over the man, waiting patiently for some reaction. After a moment his victim turned his head as much as he could, given the harsh grip on his
‘Excellent. There’s always one man that wants to go first.’ He nodded at the cavalryman standing in front of the line of kneeling men, and the soldier stepped forward, grabbed the defiant bandit’s hair and used it to pull his head down, baring his neck for the sword. Silus put his spatha on the exposed flesh, sawing the rough sharpened blade backwards and forwards, the sword’s weight exerting enough pressure on the skin to start a thin line of blood trickling down the helpless man’s throat.
‘Of course I’m not going to let you go, but at least you’ll get to survive today, and who knows, if you sing loudly enough perhaps the procurator will spare you for assisting us?’
‘Spare us? More likely he’ll—’
Silus whipped up the blade, taking a quick breath with the upstroke before hacking down into the exposed neck with enough power to partially sever the man’s head from his shoulders, then lifted the sword again to finish the job. The headless corpse toppled forward, blood still pumping from the stump of the dead man’s neck. It sprayed the soldier with a hot jet that made him drop the man’s head and fumble to wipe his eyes clean. Bending, Silus picked up the head by the hair, scowling at the man whose job it had been to hold it. He raised the bloody, mud-spattered trophy, giving the other bandits a good long look at their comrade. The faces reflected fear, hate, but mostly the numb realisation that they would face the same fate soon enough. Marcus watched from the side of the line, his thoughts racing as he considered the murder of the helpless prisoner.
‘So, one man wanted to die here, in this muddy field, with no one to spare him a coin for the ferryman. Does anyone else feel the same need to leave this life here and now? Or would any of you like to talk, and spare the rest of us having to go through this ritual until you’re all dead? No?’
He nodded to the soldier, who gripped the next man’s hair and turned his face away while the decurion braced himself with a two-handed grip on the weapon’s hilt and inhaled quickly. The sword rose and fell in one clean blow this time, and Silus nodded to himself.
‘It seems I’m getting the hang of this. Anyone want to talk? No? Very well.’
He stepped up to the next man down the line, raising the blade as the soldier once again took a grip of the victim’s hair. Tensing himself for the downstroke the decurion took another quick breath of air, but held off from delivering the fatal blow as the helpless man beneath his sword let out a creaking moan of desperation and audibly soiled himself. Silus grinned at the terrified bandit, wrinkling his nose at the sudden stench of terror.
‘Nobody wants to die on an empty stomach. Perhaps I’m not being fair.’ He looked sideways at the man on the far side of the first bandit to die, watching as the colour drained from his face. ‘After all, I started in the middle of the line; perhaps I should have chosen the man on the other side to go third.’ He beckoned to the soldier holding down the bandit’s head to raise it, allowing him to see the victim’s face. ‘What do you think? Fairer to go the other way for a bit?’ The captive goggled up at him wordlessly, almost unable to comprehend his desperate circumstances, and Silus stroked his chin as if deep in thought. ‘It does seem a bit lopsided.’
The decurion turned away from the bandit, beckoning his assistant to follow him, and the soldier released his grip on the prisoner’s hair. Reprieved, the helpless man fell forward into the mud and started to cry like a baby, watching as the decurion moved up the line. He gestured to the soldier, who grabbed his new victim’s copper-hued hair and dragged him forward, ready for the killing stroke. Silus lifted the sword, and stood over the man, waiting patiently for some reaction. After a moment his victim turned his head as much as he could, given the harsh grip on his
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