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both take out one of the bodyguards with
our bows. The third will prove more difficult as his shield will be up. I’ll
race over to take him out at close quarters whilst you wing the agent, to
prevent him escaping. Shoot him in the arse or leg.”
    “Are you looking to capture, rather than kill,
him then? And bring him back with us?” the archer asked, his tone laced with a
warning at how difficult the task could prove.
    “Yes. Those are our orders. To
quote one of Fabius ’ poems, ours not to reason why,
ours but to do and die. What’s that though?” Oppius asked , nodding his head towards an item Teucer had brought back with him, wrapped in cloth.
    “A present,” the Briton replied, handing over
the bundle.
    The centurion unfolded the cloth and held up
the gladius , the polished steel glinting as brightly
as the soldier’s aspect.
    “Someone was selling it as a spoil of war. I
thought you might like it.”
    “It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” Oppius remarked.
    The two men did not have long to wait before
the picts , forming a triangle around the agent,
appeared. Teucer had not been exaggerating about the
size and strange fearsomeness of the northern Britons. They all seemed as large
and powerful as Roscius . All were crowned with shaggy
locks of long red hair. Oppius thought they might be
brothers, such was their similar appearance. Although Teucer had remarked how incest was as popular as drinking in some parts of the
country. In contrast to the picts surrounding him the
agent was slight, spindly. He was dressed like a barbarian but pick off that
scab and Oppius would recognise the kind of haughty Roman who could tax both your patience and income. The
centurion recalled Caesar’s comment the other evening, how he distrusted men
with a lean and hungry look. It seems he was right in this instance. The agent
carried a dagger, but had the look of a politician rather than soldier. He was
more likely to stab himself with the weapon, rather than anyone else, Oppius fancied.
    Both men took a breath and nooked an arrow.
    “You take out the one in front of the agent.
I’ll deal with the one on his left,” the centurion ordered, his tone devoid of
emotion. Soldiers killed people. Lucius Oppius was a
soldier. Therefore Lucius Oppius killed people. The
syllogism appeared as straight and true to the centurion as Teucer’s aim.   

 

 
 
    16.

 
    Teucer breathed out in time to the sound of the arrow sighing as it left
his bow. The arrowhead pierced through the pict’s long red beard and into his throat – his life
extinguished in a half-formed gurgle. The intake of breath from his cousin was
taken in both shock and pain as Oppius ’ arrow buried
itself easily and deeply into his stomach. This time a scream and then groan
did cause the air to shudder. Mourning his comrades not however the third
bodyguard raised his large shield up in a defensive position and ordered the
agent to stand behind him. The agent barely heard the Briton though as he raced
away in the opposite direction to the attack. He caught the sight and sound of
an arrow whistle past him as Teucer tried to shoot
him in the leg and bring him down.
    Oppius covered the ground between the tree line and his enemy quickly,
drawing his gladius as he did so. The remaining pict unsheathed a large Roman
cavalry sword, a spartha , in reply – another spoil of
war. The centurion took in his opponent. He was equal, if not superior, in size
and strength to the Roman. As the barbarian snarled he noticed that there were
plenty of gaps where teeth once resided. Few Britons seemed to have good teeth.
His nose was as crooked as a Roman tax collector. A long red welt of a scar, in
the shape of a lightning bolt, ran across his chest.
    Swords clashed upon each other. The barbarian
roared wildly, but there was still method in his madness. He was agile for his
size and his power made up for any deficiencies in technique. The centurion
tried to get inside but the