The Black Stone: Agent of Rome 4 (The Agent of Rome) Read online

  As he closed in on the middle of the group, a man ahead of him fell, grunting as he struck the ground. Ursus grabbed him under one arm and hauled him to his feet before charging away again. As they entered a clearing, he took the opportunity to get to the front.

  Maro was still leading the way. Ursus snatched the lantern from him and altered their direction slightly: by heading further south, they would have more time to get ahead of the raiders. On he ran, holding the lantern as steady as he could to keep the light aflame. As twigs snapped under his boots and birds scattered, he looked left. He could just make out the angular silhouette of the tower: the torches of the raiders hadn’t passed it yet. Fifty paces more took him close to the road and there was still no sign of a light. He crouched next to a tree, closely followed by Bradua and Agorix.

  ‘Bradua, here – guide the men in.’ Ursus swapped the lantern for the torch. ‘Agorix, you’ll take five of them across to the other side of the road. I’ll halt the lead horses. As soon as they stop, try and get the mounts down, then hit the men.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the rest of the legionaries arrived, Ursus tapped five on the shoulder in turn. ‘You’re with the guard officer.’

  The men gathered around Agorix. Ursus gave the Gaul one last order. ‘Remember – mounts first. The other animals will panic and you might just block the way.’

  Agorix led his squad down a grassy bank then across the road.

  Ursus looked through the trees towards the tower. A dozen torches were visible now, bobbing along as the column advanced. The first riders were no more than a hundred yards away.

  ‘That everyone?’ he asked, turning back towards the remainder of the men.

  ‘Numonis fell, sir. Done his ankle.’

  ‘All right, listen. Agorix will strike the front. We head along the side of the column and go for the cart. If we stop it, they can’t take the rock with them. If they can’t take it, there’s no point fighting on. Hit fast, hit hard … and remember who we toasted tonight. Mars is with us.’

  Though a couple nodded, most of the legionaries just stood there, trying to slow their breathing, probably fighting the urge to run. All in all, Ursus considered them a decent bunch, but there was a smattering of new recruits and some others whose only experience of fighting was mopping up Palmyran irregulars. He had little idea how they would do.

  Apelles came forward. He was a bearded, brawny Thracian who had somehow managed to equip himself with both spear and shield. He offered the shield to his centurion. Ursus knew he’d have a few of his beloved throwing darts mounted close to the handle.

  ‘Here, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Apelles. But you keep it.’

  Ursus moved up to a position between two trees at the top of the bank. The noise of the horses rumbled along the paved road and he cursed as he saw that the rear of the column was still coming past the tower. Sixty? More like eighty.

  Glad to see no trace of Agorix and his squad, he ordered Bradua and Maro forward. Maro was the only man wearing a cloak.

  ‘Take that off. We need it to hide the flames. Bradua, light the torch.’

  The veteran opened the lantern shutter and carefully removed the candle. Maro held up his cloak, which was easily wide enough to prevent the light being seen from the road. Bradua crouched beside it and put the candle to the torch. The goatskin and oil took light easily and in moments the whole thing was aflame.

  ‘Draw swords.’

  Ursus armed himself once more and peered around the closest tree. The lead trio were twenty yards away, sitting high in their saddles, the middle man carrying a lantern. The raiders were armed with swords and wore pale, long-sleeved tunics. A few were also equipped with mail and helmets, all of a rudimentary design. What he saw told Ursus absolutely nothing about who they were or where they came from. Presumably that was the idea.

  He counted five more ranks of riders before he saw the cart. The vehicle seemed to fill the road and was drawn by four stout horses. All he could see in the rear was a dark shape.

  ‘Get ready.’

  As the lead riders drew level with their position, Ursus grabbed the flaming torch from Maro and threw it into the road.

  The raiders pulled up, one man already wrestling with his reins as his mount backed away from the flames.

  ‘Now!’

  By the time Ursus reached the bottom of the bank, Agorix and his men were already on the road. The Gaul went straight for the middle horse and hacked his blade deep into the animal’s neck. As Ursus bolted along the side of the column, he glimpsed the mount rearing and the rider being thrown.

  There was a strange moment of hesitation while the raiders struggled to react to what they were seeing. The second and third ranks did nothing more than watch Ursus run past them. The closest man in the fourth rank urged his horse out to block the Roman’s path but Ursus nipped up the bank and around him. He was then confronted by another horse and a spear-point coming at him.

  The spear suddenly fell to the ground and the attacker slumped back in his saddle, a small metal object sticking out of his throat.

  ‘With you, sir!’

  Apelles still hadn’t drawn his sword but already had another of the throwing darts ready. The driver of the cart was trying to control the horses and spied the Romans just before the second dart lodged itself in his chest. He dropped the reins and tried to pull it out.

  Sitting to his left was a tall, broad man wearing a fine metal chest plate. The wounded driver turned to him for help but the man did no more than glance at the soldiers then drop down onto the other side of the road.

  As Bradua and another legionary arrived, Ursus went for the lead horse on his side. With the column stationary, the beast had nowhere to go. Like the others, it was bucking against the reins, eyes rolling, mouth frothing. Ursus chopped four times into its throat. Chunks of flesh and hair and gouts of blood spilled noisily onto the stone. Mortally wounded, the horse fell to its knees.

  As the animal stench filled his nose, Ursus looked back along the road. The rest of his men were just behind him. One was trying to pull a rider out of his saddle. Another was felled by some unseen strike.

  As Ursus moved up to the cart, a spear clattered along the road, narrowly missing his feet. To his left, Apelles was flanked by Bradua and the other legionary, all three trading blows with the raiders. Ursus raised his blade, ready to cut the reins and disable the riding gear.

  But he faced an unexpected danger. The driver had managed to pull the dart out of his chest and was now clutching a dagger.

  As he flung himself off the bench, Ursus simply ducked. One of the driver’s boots caught his head but the rest of him crashed heavily onto the road. Ursus spun around, booted him in the side then drove his sword down into his unprotected heart. Pulling the blade free, he turned back towards the cart and peered at the closest wheel. It was as solid as any he’d seen, the wooden spokes two inches thick. His sword would barely scratch it.

  He looked up at the stone; it had been covered by a sheet. While he was trying to think of another way to disable the vehicle, another spear struck its side. He checked to the right again. More of the raiders were off their horses and engaging the Romans. Only two of his men were left on their feet. They – and he – had only moments.

  ‘Centurion!’

  Ursus turned back in time to see Bradua knocked to the ground, his head cracking against the road. His neck had almost been severed by a deep, dark wound. The other legionary was already down, lying next to the rear wheel of the cart.

  Apelles fought on alone. As Ursus went to help him, the Thracian’s shield suddenly flew high into the air, landing several yards up the bank. Towering over him was the tall man from the cart; head now encased in an angular helmet – bronze like his armour. Apelles swept at his foe but the blade bounced off the chest plate. The riposte was so quick that Ursus didn’t even see the tall warrior’s weapon. Apelles staggered, then fell, hand clutching his chest.

  Ursus
snatched a last look down the road. The raiders were advancing, stepping over the bodies of his fallen men. As he turned back, he wondered about Agorix, though he knew he must be dead too. The odds never had been good but they’d fought well to a man.

  As the warrior came forward, the raiders behind him stayed where they were. He was a foot taller than most of them, and in his hands was an immense double-bladed axe, the wooden handle reinforced with bands of metal. Ursus now saw that while the others were from the eastern provinces, the tall warrior had the face of a man from the northern part of the world. His eyes were pale, and the few tufts of hair poking out below the rim of the helmet were fair.

  ‘Nice try, Roman. A commendable effort.’ His voice was a low rumble, the Latin impeccable.

  ‘My men,’ said Ursus. ‘You’ll leave them as they lie?’

  He wanted them to be found with their swords and – as importantly – the lead identity tablet each wore around his neck.

  ‘We will.’

  ‘The army will find you. And they’ll kill you.’

  ‘No more talk. You’ve delayed me long enough as it is.’

  Ursus took a deep breath. By the great and honoured gods he was going to hurt this big bastard if he could. A bit of armour would have been handy, though, shield and helmet too.

  The warrior stomped forward, axe held high. Ursus looked for a weak spot but the man clearly took his personal protection seriously; he was also wearing arm-guards and greaves.

  Ursus stepped back. He’d just realised he didn’t particularly want to die at the end of some barbarian’s dirty, bloody axe blade.

  ‘The army will find you.’

  He turned his sword upward and placed the tip against his throat. The last thing he saw was the warrior lower his axe.

  Ursus drove the blade in. Cold iron gave way to warm blood and he slumped to the ground, his head coming to rest on Apelles’s leg. The sound of the raiders’ voices and their boots on the road grew faint as the black fog took him.

  His last thought was of the girl. She was probably still waiting in his quarters: alone, confused and scared. It was not a good thought. Not good at all.

  Gutha looked down at the Roman and shrugged. A centurion, perhaps. Hardly a glorious death but he had led a glorious charge; and he seemed like a man who’d done his fair share of fighting for the Empire. At least he’d chosen the manner of his death. Gutha could understand that.

  ‘Any of them left?’ he shouted in Nabatean. The only replies were the moans and prayers of the injured. He walked over to the bank and wiped his axe blades clean on the turf, then placed the weapon in the cart. He unbuckled his helmet, removed it and put it beside the axe.

  He pointed at Reyazz, his second in command. The young man had already sheathed his sword and was flicking blood off his hands.

  ‘Place ten riders in a cordon around us until we’re ready to move. I don’t want any more surprises.’

  Reyazz relayed the orders.

  Gutha walked up to the front of the cart. The men were struggling with the other horses, all of which were desperate to get away from the dead animal. Gutha could see that some of the riding gear had been damaged. Another warrior came up from the front of the column.

  ‘They did the same to us, sir. We’re clearing the horse out of the way now.’

  Gutha turned to Reyazz. ‘How long before you can get us moving again?’

  ‘Half an hour?’

  ‘Make it a quarter. Who did you send to check the barracks?’

  ‘Syrus. Commander, please, don’t—’

  Unsure where the man was, Gutha shouted: ‘Syrus, come here!’

  He heard a cry and saw a man running up from the rear.

  As he waited for him, Gutha watched the others checking the fallen. From the looks of it, not one Roman was left alive.

  ‘You.’

  The closest man turned round, a hulking fellow with a patch over one eye. ‘Commander?’

  ‘Put the Romans on the other side of the road. Nobody is to take anything from them. Our dead and those too hurt to move – lay them here on the bank.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Syrus came to a stop, breathing hard, already chewing his lip.

  Gutha rested his hands on his belt and looked down at him. ‘You were sent to check the barracks?’

  ‘Yes, Commander. My men and I got very close. There wasn’t a single soldier. You were right: the festival, the drink—’

  ‘You were told to wait. To watch. To send a runner if anyone appeared.’

  ‘We did wait, sir. But we saw no one. We returned—’

  ‘Too early. Far too early.’

  Syrus dropped to one knee. ‘My apologies, Commander. The fault is entirely mine.’

  ‘I’d say so, yes.’

  Gutha watched as a fifth injured warrior was laid out on the bank. ‘That the last of ours?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the man with the eye-patch. ‘Plus six dead.’

  ‘Strip all but their tunics.’

  ‘Yes, Commander.’

  Only two of the wounded were moving. One man’s tunic had been slashed open, exposing a glistening cut across his chest.

  ‘Water,’ he gasped. ‘Water.’

  ‘Thing is,’ Gutha told Syrus, ‘we can’t take him and the other four. We’re in enemy territory. We need to move quickly, without drawing attention. And we can’t leave them alive because they know too much.’

  Syrus was still down on one knee.

  ‘Get up.’

  The younger man did so.

  ‘Best get to it,’ added Gutha.

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘Yes. All five.’

  Syrus gazed up at the heavens and muttered a prayer. He drew his sword.

  ‘Water,’ pleaded the injured man. ‘Please.’

  Syrus walked towards him then stopped. ‘Sir, could I at least give him some water?’

  ‘No. Best to be quick. Merciful.’

  The men attending to the horses had stopped to watch Syrus.

  ‘Keep at it!’ Gutha ordered.

  Syrus stood over the injured man. As he lowered the blade towards his throat, the warrior tried to swat it away.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why?’

  Syrus stuck the blade in. The slick of blood that soon striped the warrior’s tunic was made black by the moonlight. His eyes remained open, even when his body became still.

  The next man stirred. Despite the numerous messy injuries to his belly and groin, he managed to roll away. Syrus tried to pull his blade out of the first man but it was stuck. Something crunched as he twisted it this way and that before finally wrenching it free. Gutha heard a whimpering cry and initially thought the warrior was still alive. But the noise had come from Syrus. He composed himself then moved on to the next man. Gutha ran a hand across his head and cursed.

  All this for a rock.

  They rode on through the night, putting ten miles between them and the temple. At dawn, the bulk of the column continued south while Gutha, Reyazz and two others sheltered at a previously requisitioned barn, then moved on the following day. Numbers were now more of a hindrance then a help and, with the cart’s precious load hidden beneath a stack of reed-bales, they hoped to reach friendly territory.

  It took nine days to reach friendly territory. Nine tense, long days spent avoiding army patrols, customs officials and curious locals. Once beyond the reach of the legions, they reunited with the main force and Gutha found the last few days of the journey far less taxing. He was looking forward to delivering the rock to his employer; partly because the long, complicated operation would be over, but also to see the mad bastard’s reaction.

  The final obstacle was the lengthy mountain road, particularly the steep stretch that led down to the town. But the cart and its load survived intact. As they halted at the outer wall, the escort was dismissed, every last man having sworn an oath of secrecy. Once through the noisy, busy streets, they reached the inner wall. Only Reyazz was permitted to
remain alongside Gutha. As the guards closed the doors behind them, other men came forward to take control of the horses. Gutha jumped down to the ground and looked around him, glad to be in familiar surroundings.

  To the left of the gate was a sloping path cut into the rock which led up to a cavern. Within was the vast network of ancient chambers that Ilaha had now claimed for his headquarters. Gutha heard a cry, and saw the man himself rush out into the light, his purple cloak a vivid splash of colour against the pale rock. He looked almost giddy as he ran down the path, eyes fixed on the cart.

  Gutha had worked for him for three years; and when they’d first met he’d gone by a different name. He’d been no more than an up-and-coming tribal chief then, with perhaps only a couple of hundred swordsmen at his command. Ilaha had always been a tad eccentric but there could be no denying his drive and energy, nor his ability to lead. Yet Gutha had observed a dramatic change in him – a change that seemed to gather pace with every passing day – and he now knew what to expect when he was in his priestly garb.

  One constant remained, however: for Gutha the only factor that really mattered. The man paid well. Unusually well.

  Holding up his cloak as he ran, Ilaha reached the bottom of the slope. The men had by now finished removing the reed-bales from the cart. As Ilaha approached, they and Reyazz withdrew, leaving Gutha alone with him. Ilaha lifted the sheet and peeked under it, then backed away, as if barely able to believe what he had seen.

  His cloak was embroidered with gold thread, the back covered by a lustrous sun. Though he was wearing a tunic and trousers underneath, Gutha could tell that he’d lost yet more weight. A wonderful rider and formidable swordsman, Ilaha hardly ever seemed to carry a blade these days and spent little time outside. And the weight lost from his fair, almost androgynous face made him seem gaunt, though his dark eyes had not lost their compelling power. It took him a long time to drag them off the rock.

  ‘You did it,’ he said in Greek. ‘You brought it to me.’