Invader: Sacrifice

by Simon Scarrow, T.J. Andrews

Genres: Historical Fiction; Ancient; War & Military; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

The gripping final novella in the ebook-exclusive INVADER series, set in Roman Britain, AD 45, from Sunday Times bestselling authors Simon Scarrow and T. J. Andrews.

Britannia, AD 45. Rome's plan to establish a new friendly king over a hostile native tribe is in grave danger. A sinister new Druid sect, led by a charismatic priest, is threatening to destabilise the province and has taken several Roman soldiers prisoner. Now Optio Horatius Figulus faces his most dangerous mission yet. He must venture deep behind enemy lines in search of his captured comrades and the Druids' secret fortress. Can Figulus stop the Dark Moon Druids from inflicting a devastating defeat against the Second Legion? Can he rescue his comrades before they are put to death in a terrifying spectacle?

(P)2018 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: October 8, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 86

Sample

Lindinis

Early 45 AD

A throated roar went up from the crowd as the rebel prisoner stepped into the makeshift arena. He looked round nervously at the spectators on the earth embankments.

From his position high up in the wooden stands Optio Horatius Figulus looked on as a pair of orderlies dragged away the lifeless corpse of the previous fighter. Blood disgorged from a deep wound across the slain Briton’s chest, leaving a glistening wet trail on the grass. The gaunt prisoner briefly stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of the dead fighter, before one of the legionaries on arena duty shoved him forward. Several paces away stood his opponent. A towering Durotrigan, his bare torso covered in swirling tattoos and rippling with taut muscle. He gripped a short sword in his right hand and glared menacingly at the next challenger. The swordsman had already seen off three opponents in a series of brutal fights to the death, with the winner staying on. Now the crowd hushed in anticipation of the last bout of the day’s games.

‘This’ll be over quickly,’ legionary Vatia said. ‘That skinny one doesn’t stand a hope in Hades. Not against that big bloody bastard.’

Figulus rubbed his bristly jaw as he assessed the fighters with his professional soldier’s eye. The swordsman was several inches taller and considerably bulkier than his opponent. But the effort of the previous fights had taken its toll on the Durotrigan and he looked tired, his chest muscles heaving up and down as he caught his breath.

‘I reckon the challenger’s got a chance.’

‘That lanky streak of piss?’ Vatia spluttered.

Figulus nodded. ‘Speed always beats strength, legionary,’ he said, recalling the words of his late friend, Sextus Porcius Blaesus.

Vatia snorted derisively. ‘Sorry, sir. But there’s more chance of finding an honest man in the Senate than the skinny one winning.’

Figulus glanced at his comrade and smiled. Decimus Artorius Vatia was one of the few remaining legionaries in the small detachment under the optio’s command. The short, squat legionary had been born in the slums of the Aventine district in Rome, and the cocky young rogue was never short of an opinion or a dirty joke.

‘Fancy yourself as an expert, do you, lad?’

‘If there’s one thing I know, sir, it’s gladiator fights. I used to be a ticket scalp at the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre. I’ve seen all the great fighters down the years.’ He counted them off on his podgy fingers. ‘Britomaris, Tetraites … even Pavo. And I reckon the swordsman’s going to win this one by a mile.’ A grin played out on his round face. ‘Unless you’d care to bet on it?’

Figulus hesitated. For a moment he was tempted to take the wager, but then common sense got the better of him. He’d already lost a sizeable amount of his pay gambling on dice over the long winter months in Britannia, and he couldn’t afford to squander any more of his pitiful savings. He shook his head.

‘Maybe another time, lad.’

‘As long as it’s a good fight, I couldn’t give a shit who wins,’ muttered Pulcher, another of the legionaries in the detachment. ‘Half of these scraps have been bloody useless. I’ve seen Greek schoolchildren fight better than this.’

Figulus turned back to the arena as the umpire for the occasion, a centurion from the Eighth Cohort, introduced the two fighters. The heaving crowd of Britons, traders and off-duty Roman soldiers had gathered to watch the day’s games in the earth and timber arena, hastily erected by the local garrison in a low vale between the fort and the sprawling native settlement at Lindinis. The games had been arranged by Trenagasus, the pro-Roman king of the Durotriges. The king had been returned to the throne by Rome the previous year, but his efforts to pacify his surly people had been met with fierce resistance. Two days earlier a sinister Druid cult had seized Lindinis. The Dark Moon Druids and their charismatic leader, Calumus, had taken Trenagasus hostage and threatened to execute him unless Rome surrendered its forces and retreated from the kingdom. Only the arrival of a relief column from Calleva had saved Rome from a humiliating defeat.

Dozens of rebels had been captured during the bitter struggle to retake the settlement. Now Trenagasus had ordered those prisoners to fight to the death in front of their fellow tribesmen. The grim public spectacle was as much to provide some much-needed entertainment for the Roman garrison as the king’s beleaguered subjects, and serve as a warning of the punishment awaiting all those who dared to defy the king. Since noon the crowd had looked on as forty pairs of rebels had taken to the arena with a variety of weapons, in a crude imitation of the gladiator contests held back in Rome. Some fought with long Celtic swords. Others wielded tridents or broadaxes, and one bout even featured two Britons fighting bare-knuckled. A few of the prisoners had turned their weapons on themselves, preferring death over fighting their fellow rebels, but most had fought willingly since Trenagasus had declared that the champion would be spared death and instead be sold into slavery.

A hushed silence descended over the arena as one of the legionaries stepped forward and thrust a spear into the challenger’s right hand. The prisoner looked down at his weapon, wielding it awkwardly as he tested its weight. Opposite him the swordsman flexed his muscles, the point of his bloodstained short sword glinting under the pallid winter light.

‘Fight’s about to begin, sir,’ Vatia said, rubbing his hands gleefully. ‘This is going to be an easy win.’

Figulus smiled weakly. ‘We’ll see, legionary.’

Normally the optio would have been excited about the contest. He enjoyed a good gladiator bout as much as the next man, but for the past few days he’d been wracked with guilt. Two of his comrades had been captured by the Durotrigan rebels during their frantic retreat from Lindinis. Helva and Rullus had been dragged into the marshes, and Figulus had been unable to save them. In his darker moments the Gaul tormented himself with images of his friends in the enemy camp, grimly awaiting their fate. Or perhaps they were already dead. Their heads parted from their shoulders, or burned alive in one of the Druids’ terrifying wicker effigies …

A sharp crack split the air as the umpire lashed his whip. The crowd erupted into a deafening roar as the fight began.

‘Here we go!’ Pulcher said, punching a fist in the air.

The swordsman wasted no time in charging at his opponent, eager to make a quick kill and claim his prize as champion of the games. The spearman quickly stepped back out of range, as the larger Briton thrust at him, and almost lost his footing on the blood-slicked ground. He caught himself and staggered backwards as the swordsman lunged, the latter narrowly missing with a quick thrust at the vitals. The Romans and traders in the crowd roared their encouragement. The Britons were more subdued, uneasy about witnessing the public killing of their fellow Durotrigans, and many of them looked on sullenly as the two rebels fought to the death.

‘Get stuck in, you bastard!’ Vatia yelled at the swordsman, as if the Briton could hear him above the enthusiastic cheers and shouts of the audience.

The swordsman let out a bellow of frustration as the spearman continued retreating around the edge of the arena, tentatively thrusting his weapon at his opponent to keep him out of killing range. Then the swordsman feinted with a low attack, driving the tip of his blade at the challenger’s exposed throat. The latter saw the attack at the last moment and quickly dropped to his haunches, ducking the blow. In a smooth motion the challenger stabbed out with his spear, aiming the point down at an angle and drawing a howl of pain from the swordsman as the leaf-shaped tip pierced his thigh, skewering muscle and sinew. With a deep grunt the challenger wrenched his weapon free and jerked back, moving deftly out of range as the swordsman lashed out at him with a wi. . .