Invader: Dark Blade
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Synopsis
The third novella in the gripping INVADER series, set in Roman Britain, AD 44, from Sunday Times bestselling authors Simon Scarrow and T. J. Andrews
Despite defeat in battle, Britannia's natives continue to resist their Roman conquerors. All attempts to impose Roman rule have failed. A new king has been installed among the Durotriges to bring them into line and Optio Horatius Figulus of the Second Legion is charged with protecting him. It's a thankless task and, worse still, the Druids are rumoured to be plotting to assassinate the king.
The king begins a devastating campaign of reprisals against his political rivals. Whole families are murdered, weapons are confiscated and the old gods are denounced. As open native rebellion threatens, Figulus finds his unswerving allegiance to Rome faltering. Just as a Druid assassin is poised to strike...
(P)2014 Headline Publishing Group Ltd
Release date: December 18, 2014
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 84
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Invader: Dark Blade
Simon Scarrow
‘Three sixes!’ the bearded legionary exclaimed, punching a fist in the air in celebration. ‘Yes!’
Horatius Figulus, the burly young optio seated opposite, stared down in dismay at the three dice lying on the trestle table in the soldiers’ mess. He shook his head and muttered a curse to the gods at his bad luck. Around the table the ten other legionaries from the detachment under his command looked on in hushed concentration as they waited for the Gaul to take his turn. On the next roll of the dice rested a hundred sestertii, equivalent to almost a month’s salary for a junior officer in the ranks of the Second Legion.
It was the end of a long and gruelling campaign season in Britannia for the men of the legion, waging a brutal war against those tribes who remained hostile to their presence on this barren island. Figulus and the legionaries in his detachment should have been looking forward to playing dice for the next three months, squandering a small fortune on skinfuls of cheap wine while they were bottled up at the fort, one of several scattered across the province. Instead they faced a testing winter in this remote corner of south-west Britannia.
A pro-Roman king had been installed in Lindinis, the tribal capital of the Durotriges and a hotbed of native unrest against Roman rule. The king’s personal bodyguard had been killed in a native ambush, and the imperial envoy dispatched from Rome to administer the new king’s reign had decided that Figulus and the eleven legionaries in his detachment should fill the position until the king’s regime was stable. While he awaited further instructions, Figulus had decided to pass the time with a few games of dice against Sextus Porcius Blaesus, the Sixth Century’s unofficial gambling champion.
Blaesus leaned back and gestured to the playing dice, grinning through his straggly beard. ‘Your turn, sir.’
Clenching his teeth in frustration, Figulus scooped up the dice and dropped them into the clay cup shaker. The mess was unusually quiet this morning. The majority of the Batavian cohort garrisoned at the fort had departed for the capital at first light, under orders from the imperial envoy to police the natives ahead of the day’s planned festivities. All evidence of the struggle to remove the previous king had to be cleared away before the celebrations could begin and only a single depleted century now remained inside the fort.
Silently whispering a prayer to Fortuna, Figulus rattled the shaker for a few moments before he removed his hand from the mouth of the cup and released the dice. They clattered against each other as they tumbled out of the shaker and rolled to an abrupt halt on the table. The legionaries leaned in closer to inspect the numbers carved on to the surface of the ivory dice. Figulus craned his neck, the tension rising in his chest. Then he caught sight of the numbers. He had scored a pair of ones and a three. A much lower total than the three sixes Blaesus had just thrown.
‘Blaesus wins!’ one of the legionaries cried out.
Figulus’s opponent sucked in air between his teeth. ‘Never mind, sir. And, oh, yes … you owe me a hundred sestertii.’
‘Bollocks!’ Figulus thundered, slamming a fist on the table as the painful extent of his heavy losses began to sink in. ‘But that’s impossible! No one’s that lucky, for fuck’s sake. Not even you.’
His opponent folded his thick arms across his broad chest and flashed a smug grin at Figulus. ‘Luck has nothing to do with it, sir. There’s a certain technique to it, you see. It’s all in the wrist.’ A thought occurred to him and he smiled at the downcast optio. ‘Another game, perhaps? Winner takes all …’
Figulus clamped his lips shut. Despite his losses, he was sorely tempted to accept Blaesus’s offer of another bet. He was about to take up the challenge when a distant shout sounded from the other side of the fort. A few moments later an icy blast swept through the mess and the handful of Batavian auxiliaries taking breakfast swung their gazes towards the entrance. An auxiliary stood in the doorway, struggling to catch his breath and wearing a panicked look on his face.
‘Stand to!’ he shouted at his comrades. ‘Everyone at the gates, now!’
At once the Batavian auxiliaries shot to their feet, shouting excitedly to each other as they grabbed their kit and hurried out of the mess after their comrade. The shouts outside grew louder with each passing moment, accompanied by the heavy thud of the soldiers’ boots crunching on the frozen ground.
‘What the hell’s that all about?’ Titus Terentius Rullus, the heavily scarred veteran seated next to Figulus, wondered aloud.
The young optio abruptly rose from the bench and turned to his comrades, temporarily forgetting about his punishing losses at the dice. ‘Only one way to find out. Move yourselves!’
Figulus led the way out of the mess on to the main thoroughfare. A bitterly cold wind lashed across the fort, burning his bristly cheeks. The mild weather of recent weeks now seemed like nothing more than a fanciful memory. The first snow of winter had arrived during the night, drifting down from the bleak grey clouds and settling on the roofs of the buildings and coating the tips of the wooden palisades enclosing the fort. Across the thoroughfare several auxiliaries were staggering out of one of the timber barracks blocks to see what the fuss was about, fiddling awkwardly with their ill-fitting armour and scuffed helmets. Figulus and his men followed the auxiliaries, stopping off at their barracks to seize their equipment and weaponry in case they were needed.
The snow crunched under their boots as they carried on towards the hubbub. The familiar strident note of a Celtic war horn reached their ears from the far side of the gate and Figulus felt his pulse quicken.
‘Looks like the Britons are up to their old tricks again.’
Rullus spat. ‘Bastards never learn, do they?’
Figulus smiled grimly at his comrade. Rullus was the most experienced of the men in the detachment. The veteran legionary had served in the Second for twenty-two years and had seen action across the length and breadth of the empire, from Germania to Moesia and beyond. He also had a healthy cynicism that provided a natural counterbalance to Figulus’s occasional hot-headedness. But now Rullus was drawing to the end of his military service with the Second Legion. In the spring he would receive his military discharge, along with a small gratuity and a modest plot of land in some distant province. Figulus was still finding his feet as a commanding officer and he would sorely miss his good friend once he retired.
More than two years had passed since Roman boots had first set foot on British soil, to be met by hordes of wild-haired native warriors urged on by the Druids, screaming at the invaders and imploring their gods to smite down their enemy. Figulus and his comrades had been forced to fight their way across the island, mile by bloodstained mile. The optio had had to grow up fast in the chaos and fury of battle, and he had more experience than some men twice his age.
The Roman soldiers passed several more empty barracks blocks as they approached the smaller gate built on the northern side of the fort. Twenty or so auxiliaries stood around in the billowing snow, muttering anxiously amongst themselves. A few more were climbing the gatehouse armed with javelins and bows, taking up their positions on the ramparts overlooking the ground beyond the fort walls. These men were the absolute dregs of the auxiliary ranks and Figulus had to suppress a powerful urge to discipline the soldiers as he marched swiftly over to the nearest man.
‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.
‘Convoy’s under attack, sir!’ the auxiliary replied much too quickly, struggling to control the rising panic in his voice. ‘Durotrigan raiders hit ’em just across the bridge. Escort column’s almost done for.’
Rullus stared accusingly at the auxiliary. ‘And you lot thought you’d just stand around doing fuck all?’
The auxiliary was momentarily stunned by the veteran’s savage tongue. Figulus forced himself to stay calm as he searched the faces of the men outside the gates. No one was ordering the men to form up, he realised. He looked back to the young auxiliary and gritted his teeth.
‘Who’s in charge here?’
‘Centurion Ambustus, sir.’ The auxiliary pointed in the direction of the gatehouse.
Figulus immediately headed towards . . .
Horatius Figulus, the burly young optio seated opposite, stared down in dismay at the three dice lying on the trestle table in the soldiers’ mess. He shook his head and muttered a curse to the gods at his bad luck. Around the table the ten other legionaries from the detachment under his command looked on in hushed concentration as they waited for the Gaul to take his turn. On the next roll of the dice rested a hundred sestertii, equivalent to almost a month’s salary for a junior officer in the ranks of the Second Legion.
It was the end of a long and gruelling campaign season in Britannia for the men of the legion, waging a brutal war against those tribes who remained hostile to their presence on this barren island. Figulus and the legionaries in his detachment should have been looking forward to playing dice for the next three months, squandering a small fortune on skinfuls of cheap wine while they were bottled up at the fort, one of several scattered across the province. Instead they faced a testing winter in this remote corner of south-west Britannia.
A pro-Roman king had been installed in Lindinis, the tribal capital of the Durotriges and a hotbed of native unrest against Roman rule. The king’s personal bodyguard had been killed in a native ambush, and the imperial envoy dispatched from Rome to administer the new king’s reign had decided that Figulus and the eleven legionaries in his detachment should fill the position until the king’s regime was stable. While he awaited further instructions, Figulus had decided to pass the time with a few games of dice against Sextus Porcius Blaesus, the Sixth Century’s unofficial gambling champion.
Blaesus leaned back and gestured to the playing dice, grinning through his straggly beard. ‘Your turn, sir.’
Clenching his teeth in frustration, Figulus scooped up the dice and dropped them into the clay cup shaker. The mess was unusually quiet this morning. The majority of the Batavian cohort garrisoned at the fort had departed for the capital at first light, under orders from the imperial envoy to police the natives ahead of the day’s planned festivities. All evidence of the struggle to remove the previous king had to be cleared away before the celebrations could begin and only a single depleted century now remained inside the fort.
Silently whispering a prayer to Fortuna, Figulus rattled the shaker for a few moments before he removed his hand from the mouth of the cup and released the dice. They clattered against each other as they tumbled out of the shaker and rolled to an abrupt halt on the table. The legionaries leaned in closer to inspect the numbers carved on to the surface of the ivory dice. Figulus craned his neck, the tension rising in his chest. Then he caught sight of the numbers. He had scored a pair of ones and a three. A much lower total than the three sixes Blaesus had just thrown.
‘Blaesus wins!’ one of the legionaries cried out.
Figulus’s opponent sucked in air between his teeth. ‘Never mind, sir. And, oh, yes … you owe me a hundred sestertii.’
‘Bollocks!’ Figulus thundered, slamming a fist on the table as the painful extent of his heavy losses began to sink in. ‘But that’s impossible! No one’s that lucky, for fuck’s sake. Not even you.’
His opponent folded his thick arms across his broad chest and flashed a smug grin at Figulus. ‘Luck has nothing to do with it, sir. There’s a certain technique to it, you see. It’s all in the wrist.’ A thought occurred to him and he smiled at the downcast optio. ‘Another game, perhaps? Winner takes all …’
Figulus clamped his lips shut. Despite his losses, he was sorely tempted to accept Blaesus’s offer of another bet. He was about to take up the challenge when a distant shout sounded from the other side of the fort. A few moments later an icy blast swept through the mess and the handful of Batavian auxiliaries taking breakfast swung their gazes towards the entrance. An auxiliary stood in the doorway, struggling to catch his breath and wearing a panicked look on his face.
‘Stand to!’ he shouted at his comrades. ‘Everyone at the gates, now!’
At once the Batavian auxiliaries shot to their feet, shouting excitedly to each other as they grabbed their kit and hurried out of the mess after their comrade. The shouts outside grew louder with each passing moment, accompanied by the heavy thud of the soldiers’ boots crunching on the frozen ground.
‘What the hell’s that all about?’ Titus Terentius Rullus, the heavily scarred veteran seated next to Figulus, wondered aloud.
The young optio abruptly rose from the bench and turned to his comrades, temporarily forgetting about his punishing losses at the dice. ‘Only one way to find out. Move yourselves!’
Figulus led the way out of the mess on to the main thoroughfare. A bitterly cold wind lashed across the fort, burning his bristly cheeks. The mild weather of recent weeks now seemed like nothing more than a fanciful memory. The first snow of winter had arrived during the night, drifting down from the bleak grey clouds and settling on the roofs of the buildings and coating the tips of the wooden palisades enclosing the fort. Across the thoroughfare several auxiliaries were staggering out of one of the timber barracks blocks to see what the fuss was about, fiddling awkwardly with their ill-fitting armour and scuffed helmets. Figulus and his men followed the auxiliaries, stopping off at their barracks to seize their equipment and weaponry in case they were needed.
The snow crunched under their boots as they carried on towards the hubbub. The familiar strident note of a Celtic war horn reached their ears from the far side of the gate and Figulus felt his pulse quicken.
‘Looks like the Britons are up to their old tricks again.’
Rullus spat. ‘Bastards never learn, do they?’
Figulus smiled grimly at his comrade. Rullus was the most experienced of the men in the detachment. The veteran legionary had served in the Second for twenty-two years and had seen action across the length and breadth of the empire, from Germania to Moesia and beyond. He also had a healthy cynicism that provided a natural counterbalance to Figulus’s occasional hot-headedness. But now Rullus was drawing to the end of his military service with the Second Legion. In the spring he would receive his military discharge, along with a small gratuity and a modest plot of land in some distant province. Figulus was still finding his feet as a commanding officer and he would sorely miss his good friend once he retired.
More than two years had passed since Roman boots had first set foot on British soil, to be met by hordes of wild-haired native warriors urged on by the Druids, screaming at the invaders and imploring their gods to smite down their enemy. Figulus and his comrades had been forced to fight their way across the island, mile by bloodstained mile. The optio had had to grow up fast in the chaos and fury of battle, and he had more experience than some men twice his age.
The Roman soldiers passed several more empty barracks blocks as they approached the smaller gate built on the northern side of the fort. Twenty or so auxiliaries stood around in the billowing snow, muttering anxiously amongst themselves. A few more were climbing the gatehouse armed with javelins and bows, taking up their positions on the ramparts overlooking the ground beyond the fort walls. These men were the absolute dregs of the auxiliary ranks and Figulus had to suppress a powerful urge to discipline the soldiers as he marched swiftly over to the nearest man.
‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.
‘Convoy’s under attack, sir!’ the auxiliary replied much too quickly, struggling to control the rising panic in his voice. ‘Durotrigan raiders hit ’em just across the bridge. Escort column’s almost done for.’
Rullus stared accusingly at the auxiliary. ‘And you lot thought you’d just stand around doing fuck all?’
The auxiliary was momentarily stunned by the veteran’s savage tongue. Figulus forced himself to stay calm as he searched the faces of the men outside the gates. No one was ordering the men to form up, he realised. He looked back to the young auxiliary and gritted his teeth.
‘Who’s in charge here?’
‘Centurion Ambustus, sir.’ The auxiliary pointed in the direction of the gatehouse.
Figulus immediately headed towards . . .
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