Videssos Cycle, Volume 1 Read Free Page A

moon rose, a couple of days past full and red as if reflecting the light of this grim field.
    As if that had been a signal, the Celtic chieftain came up once more. The Romans tensed to receive his onslaught, but he stopped out ofweapon range. He put down his sword, raised his bare right hand above his head. “It’s well you’ve fought,” he called to the Romans in fair Latin. “Will you not yield yourselves to me now and ha’ done with this foolish slaughter? Your lives you’ll save, you know.”
    The military tribune gave surrender a few seconds’ honest thought. For some reason he was inclined to trust the Gaul’s good intentions, but doubted the barbarian would be able to control his followers after they had the Romans in their power. He remembered all too well the Gallic custom of burning thieves and robbers alive in wickerwork images and knew it would be easy for the Romans, once captive, to be judged such.
    One legionary’s comment to his linemate rang loud in the silence: “Bugger the bastard! If he wants us, let him come winkle us out and pay the bill for it!”
    After that, Marcus did not feel the need for any direct reply. The Celt understood. “On your heads it will be, then,” he warned.
    He turned to his own troops, shouting orders. Men who had chosen to sit for a moment heaved themselves up off their haunches, tightened their grips on spears, swords, clubs. They tramped forward, and the insane smithy’s din of combat began again.
    The Roman ring shrank, but would not break. The still bodies of the slain and thrashing forms of the wounded impeded the Gauls’ advance; more than one stumbled to his death trying to climb over them. They came on.
    “Give yourselves up, fools, while there’s the most of you alive!” their chieftain yelled to his foes.
    “When we said ‘no’ the first time, did you not believe us?” Marcus shouted back.
    The Gaul swung up his sword in challenge. “Maybe after the killing of you, the Roman next in line to your honor will have more sense!”
    “Not bloody likely!” Gaius Philippus snarled, but the big Celt was already moving. He cut down one Roman and kicked two more aside. He ducked under a broken spear swung club-fashion, lashing out with his blade to hamstring the swinger. Then he was inside the Roman line and loping at Marcus, longsword at the ready.
    A score of legionaries, first among them Gaius Philippus, moved tointercept him, but the tribune waved them back. Fighting died away as, by unspoken common consent, both armies grounded their weapons to watch their leaders duel.
    A smile lit the Celt’s face when he saw Marcus agree to single combat. He raised his sword in salute and said, “A brave man you are, Roman dear. I’d know your name or ever I slay you.”
    “I am called Marcus Aemilius Scaurus,” the tribune replied. He felt more desperate than brave. The Celt lived for war, where he himself had only played at it, more to further his political ambitions than from love of fighting.
    He thought of his family in Mediolanum, of the family name that would fail if he fell here. His parents still lived, but were past the age of childbearing, and after him had three daughters but no son.
    More briefly, he thought of Valerius Corvus and how, almost three hundred years before, he had driven a Celtic army from central Italy by killing its leader in a duel. He did not really believe these Gauls would flee even if he won. But he might delay and confuse them, maybe enough to let his army live.
    All this sped through his mind as he raised his blade to match the Gaul’s courtesy. “Will you give me your name as well?” he asked, feeling the ceremony of the moment.
    “That I will. It’s Viridovix son of Drappes I am, a chief of the Lexovii.” The formalities done, Marcus braced for Viridovix’s attack, but the Celt was staring in surprise at his sword. “How is it,” he asked, “that a Roman comes by the blade of a druid?”
    “The druid who bore it