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a long cut into my tunic. He wheeled around, forcing me to look at him with the sun behind.
        I was breathing hard. He’d hardly raised a sweat. I could see he was enjoying himself.
        ‘Oh, fuck,’ I thought. This was a shitty hole I’d dug for myself. He’d skewer me with that blade of his and then turn back to Maximin, whose show of Arianism would have no chance now. I couldn’t even run away. He’d get on that horse of his and ride me down in no time. From the corner of my eye, I could see the wineskin deflating as it spilled its deep red content over the road. Not, you will agree, the most inspiring image in the circumstances!
        Thwack!
        Maximin had struck him a great blow across the back with his walking staff. The armour protected Yellow Beard from direct harm, but he was now fighting on two fronts. He swung round to wave his sword at Maximin, who fell back, jabbing at him with his staff.
        ‘Fuck you!’ I shouted, stabbing uselessly at the leather skirt that protected his buttock.
        He wheeled back to me, ignoring Maximin while he dealt with the greater threat. He lunged at me again. This time, I stepped out of his way and threw a random slash in his direction. Glory be – I felt a crunch of steel on flesh and bone. I’d got the wrist of his sword arm. He fell back with a scream of pain and fear. I’d gone deep and his sword fell to the road. He had it up at once in his left hand. But I now had the advantage. Sober, he’d only have been enraged by the slashed skin and muscle, and hacked all the harder with his good arm. But the wine and the intensifying sun were doing their silent work.
        He was backing away towards his horse, Maximin and I now facing him. I slashed again at him, roaring to raise my strength. But he knocked me away this time. I slashed again, and this time got him on the right forearm. Blood spurted. I lunged now, aiming at his throat. I fell short, but let him see my bloody sword. His face grey, he dropped his sword and ran for the horse. I followed.
        As he got to the horse, he turned back, knife in hand. But knife against sword is nothing, especially in the left hand. I could see terror and defeat in his eyes. I stabbed with an exultant yell. The blow glanced off his leather breastplate, but got him into a deeper panic. He bellowed like an ox taken to slaughter. All he wanted now was to get clear of me, but I was too close to let him on the horse.
        I stabbed again, and got him in the left shoulder. I stabbed again, and pushed straight through the fleshy part of his arm. He fell to his knees, babbling and raising his bloodied arms for mercy. I got the point of my sword between his neck and the edge of his breastplate, and pushed down with all my strength. As I pulled it out, he died with a gurgling, blood-frothing sigh. I watched as the life went out of his eyes.
        Suddenly tired and aching, I stood looking down at him. I felt the need of another night’s sleep.
        ‘Aelric, the other one’s alive!’
        I turned. He was twisting on the ground, covering his face and head as Maximin beat at him with his walking staff. I crossed over to them, and flopped onto the ground by the fallen man’s head, my sword at his throat.
        He was the theologian. I was sure I’d killed him with that heavy first blow. Instead, I’d only knocked him out, hardly drawing blood.
        ‘Quarter!’ he croaked in English, looking up at me.
        My strength recovering, I took his hair in my left hand, pushing my sword harder against his throat. ‘So, what brings you to this sunny clime?’ I asked in the same language.
        The answer was obvious. Quite a few of my people had joined with Alboin in the first invasions. There never were that many true Lombards, and they’d increased their numbers by offering a share of the booty to any band of savages who would go in with them. Though the majority had gone away after he’d made it clear