Videssos Cycle, Volume 1 Read Free

thrust high. Scaurus turned the stab with his shield. The spear-point slid past him off the
scutum
’s rounded surface; he stepped in close. The Gaul backpedaled for his life, eyes wide and fearfully intent on the motion of the tribune’s sword.
    Marcus lunged at the opening under the arm of his corselet. His aim was not quite true, but the thrust punched through his foe’s armor and into his vitals. The barbarian swayed. Bright blood frothed from his nose and mouth as he fell.
    “Well struck!” Gaius Philippus shouted.
    His sword-arm was red almost to the elbow. Marcus shrugged, not thinking his blow had carried that much force. More likely some smith had jobbed the Gaul, though most Celtic metalworkers took pride in their products.
    It was growing dark fast now. Marcus set some men not yet fighting to make torches and pass them forward. His soldiers used them for more than light—a Celt fled shrieking, his long, greasy locks ablaze.
    Liscus went down, fighting against the countrymen he had abandoned for Rome. Scaurus felt a stab of remorse. The interpreter had been bright, jolly, and recklessly brave—but then, of how many on both sides might that have been said? Now he was merely dead.
    The Gauls pushed forward on either wing, slashing, stabbing, and chopping. Outnumbered, the Romans had to give ground, their line bending away from the covering forest. As he watched them driven back upon themselves, the growing knowledge of defeat pressed its icy weight on Scaurus’ shoulders. He fought on, rushing now here, now there, wherever the fighting was fiercest, shouting orders and encouragement to his men all the while.
    In his learning days he had studied under scholars of the Stoic school. Their teachings served him well now. He did not give way to fright or despair, but kept on doing his best, though he knew it might not be enough. Failure, in itself, was not blameworthy. Lack of effort surely was.
    Gaius Philippus, who had seen more bumbling young officers thanhe could remember, watched this one with growing admiration. The fight was not going well, but with numbers so badly against the Romans it was hard to see how it could have gone much better.
    The buccinators’ horns blew in high alarm. The woods were screen no more; leaping, yelling Celts burst forward, storming at the Roman rear. Tasting the cup of doom in earnest, Marcus wheeled his last reserves to face them, shouting, “Form circle! Form circle!”
    His makeshift rear defense held somehow, beating back the ragged Celtic charge until the Roman circle could take shape. But the trap was sprung. Surrounded deep within the land of their foes, the legionaries could expect but one fate. The night was alive with the Celts’ exultant cries as they flowed round the Roman ring like the sea round a pillar of hard black stone it would soon engulf.
    Druids’ marks on his blade flashing in the torchlight, the Gallic chieftain leaped like a wolf against the Roman line. He hewed his way through three ranks of men, then spun and fought his way back to his own men and safety.
    “There’s a warrior I’d sooner not come against,” Gaius Philippus said, somberly eyeing the twisted bodies and shattered weapons the Gaul had left behind him.
    Marcus gave tribute where it was due. “He is a mighty one.”
    The battle slowed, men from both sides leaning on spear or shield as they tried to catch their breath. The moans of the wounded floated up into the night. Somewhere close by, a cricket chirped.
    Marcus realized how exhausted he was. His breath came in panting sobs, his legs were leaden, and his cuirass a burden heavier than Atlas had borne. He itched everywhere; dried, crusted sweat cracked whenever he moved. He had long since stopped noticing its salt taste in his mouth or its sting in his eyes.
    His hand had been clenched round his sword hilt for so long he had to will it open to reach for the canteen at his side. The warm, sour wine stung his throat as he swallowed.
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