Reading Online Novel

Legionary(70)



The enclosed courtyard inside was cast half in shade, the other half baking in sunlight. A pair of feeble-looking, dark-skinned men stood, back-to-back, naked and wielding only spears. Circling them were three warriors armoured in bronze scale vests and ornate, gem-studded helms decorated with broad, gilt wings. Pushtigban wearing antique armour, Gallus realised. They seemed to have foregone the masks worn by their kind only to allow them to cast baleful looks at their victims. Two of them swished curved sabres deftly, and the leader carried a hammer, spiked at one end.

Gallus scanned the gymnasium floor, spotting a severed ear and spatterings of dried blood. And there was something new; a stone block clad in dried matter. Gallus looked from the spike hammer to the battered, bloodstained stone. The gouges in the stone were distinctly shaped just like the spike.

‘Ah, it seems we are early,’ the Median spearman behind Gallus hissed. ‘Ah well, you can relax and witness the fate of these two criminals.’

One of the two criminals threw down his spear, fell to his knees and held out his hands for mercy. Gallus followed the man’s gaze and saw the two figures watching the bout from chairs in the shade. His blood cooled. Tamur seemed uncertain how to respond to the call for mercy. A word in his ear from Ramak saw him wave away the criminal’s pleas.

The nearest of the pushtigban strolled over to the criminal. The begging man held out his hands as if reaching out to the warrior for help. The pushtigban reached out slowly, then his hand shot out like a snake and grappled both of the beggar’s wrists like a shackle. Then the pushtigban swept his shamshir round to cut through the beggar’s forearms. The wretch fell back, mouth agape in silent agony as he thrashed. Lifeblood pumped from his stumps as he scrambled on all fours in an attempt to right himself. Gallus saw Ramak sit forward, his golden eyes sparkling at the spectacle. Eventually the maimed criminal slowed and groaned like some tormented animal, his strength leaving him. The pushtigban stalked over, lined up his serrated blade over the back of the man’s neck, then swiped his head from his shoulders.

The other criminal watched all of this in a frozen panic. His legs trembled violently and he gripped his spear to his chest in white knuckles. The pushtigban warriors moved over to surround the man.

‘Fight,’ one said, ‘or you will suffer more than your friend. Much more.’

The man nodded jerkily, shivering as he forced himself to level his spear. At this, the pushtigban’s faces split into broad grins. Like wolves, two of them leapt upon the man, swiping their spears down. The man used his spear like a staff, parrying the strikes. But in moments, the shaft was in splinters, and he was on his knees, pleading as his friend had done moments ago. ‘I fought, I did as you asked!’

In spite of his words, the lead pushtigban with the spiked hammer grabbed a tuft of the criminal’s hair, then dragged him towards the bloodstained stone block. The pushtigban pushed the man’s head onto the block, side-on, then aligned the hammer to the man’s temple, lifted it back then roared as he swung it down with gusto. A sharp crack rang out, along with the wet splatter of the wretch’s brains bursting from the opposite temple and showering the filthy stone. At once, the body fell limp. Ramak rose to his feet in delight. Tamur looked through the bout, his brow knitted and his lips pursed as if his mind was elsewhere.

Gallus stared through the spectacle. Nearby slaves rushed to clear the gymnasium floor and another pair hurried out to offer Gallus and Carbo a tray of food each. A heap of nuts and dates, a pot of honey, bread and a leg of chicken, with a cup of honey-sweetened water to wash it down. Gallus eyed the delicious fare as though it was maggot-infested.

‘Eat,’ the spearman behind them grunted. ‘You will get nothing else until tomorrow.’

‘Eat? Like a prize pig? To ensure your festival blood games are a fine spectacle?’ Gallus spat over his shoulder.

‘Eat!’ the man yelled this time, prodding his spear tip into Gallus’ spine.

Gallus lifted the chicken and tore a chunk off. He nodded for Carbo to follow suit. He threw down the sweetened water, then looked to the four figures jogging onto the gymnasium floor. Swordsmen. They wore white trousers and mail shirts and they were fawn-skinned with dark black hair and thick moustaches. They tossed two wooden swords to Gallus and Carbo. The spearmen behind them nudged them forward, forcing them to pick the weapons up. As they stalked onto the sandy courtyard, the leader of the three pushtigban from the previous bout shouted over. He weighed his spike hammer in his grip and grinned at Gallus.

‘I look forward to the Festival, for I have yet to crush a Roman skull.’