Read Online Thunder of the Gods by Anthony Riches - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Riches
Tags: Historical, War
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heel.
‘I almost forgot. Doubtless you’ll also want to arrange for the traditional demonstration of your men’s abilities? Let me know what time tomorrow morning you’ll be parading the men, I’m looking forward to seeing if my new command has the skills to deal with what it’s going to be facing a few weeks from now.’
He walked away up the street, leaving the first spear staring at his back with a disquieted expression.
Marcus walked his horse through Antioch’s teeming crowds with a watchful group of legionaries detailed to escort him through the busy streets by Quintinus, men well accustomed to the variety of tricks and ruses employed by the city’s thieves and pickpockets. Hemmed in by the mass of humanity brought so close together by the lure of the city’s sophistication, he allowed himself to progress at the pace of the street, his senses still reeling at the rich smells of the taverns and spice shops after so long at sea, exotic scents underlaid by the deeper, richer stench of too many men and beasts packed into a confined space.
As the group of soldiers neared the southern wall, the city’s magnificent agora opened out to his left with the gaudily painted bulk of an amphitheatre rising behind it, the wide open space thronged with men gathered around a troupe of gladiators who were demonstrating their abilities to the admiring crowd. Halting his escort, Marcus mounted the horse so as to get a better view of the scene, watching through the colonnade that lined the street as matched pairs of fighters went through their mock-antagonistic routines to enthusiastic applause from the watching multitude. Most of them were no better than average, but among them were a few men who moved with crisp purpose, the arena killers against whom their hapless fellows were dead meat.
‘You like the games, do you, sir?’
The question broke his reverie, and the young tribune looked down at the soldier holding his horse’s bridle with a faint smile.
‘I was trained to fight by a man like that.’
The man’s eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘Gladiator, was he, sir?’
Marcus nodded, feeling an almost physical pain at the sudden, brutal reminder of the events that had led to the Tungrians being posted to Syria.
‘He was the finest gladiator ever to fight in the Flavian Arena, some say. To me he was more like a second father …’
He dismounted, gesturing to the gate rising over the crowd, two blocks distant.
‘Shall we?’
The soldier nodded, turning to the people nearest to them with a sudden flash of anger as a man stretched out a finger to touch Marcus’s sculpted breastplate with a look of awe.
‘Oi, get your fucking hands off the officer, unless you want me to cut them off and stuff them up your arse!’
The man looked at him uncomprehendingly, and with a sigh of irritation the soldier switched from Greek to Aramaic, backing up the threat with the highly polished blade of his dagger. ‘Fucking peasants. Anyone’d think you was Achilles himself from the looks they’re giving you.’ The soldier shot him a swift apologetic glance. ‘Not that you don’t look proper hard, Tribune. Be nice to have some men with scars and hard faces leading the legion for a change.’
The young tribune reflexively put a hand to the freshly healed cut across the bridge of his nose, the legacy of a frantic escape from the heart of a barbarian fortress, and the ensuing hunt across northern Britannia’s lethally treacherous marshes. At the Daphne Gate he ordered the men to wait for him, smiling as they immediately gathered around in the wall’s shadow and started a game of dice. Trotting the beast down the road to the south, he mused on the contrast between the teeming city thoroughfares and the lightly trafficked street that ran along the mountain’s shoulder. After five miles or so, the reason for the road’s relative emptiness became apparent, as he rode around a bend to find his way barred by a wooden gate, a
‘I almost forgot. Doubtless you’ll also want to arrange for the traditional demonstration of your men’s abilities? Let me know what time tomorrow morning you’ll be parading the men, I’m looking forward to seeing if my new command has the skills to deal with what it’s going to be facing a few weeks from now.’
He walked away up the street, leaving the first spear staring at his back with a disquieted expression.
Marcus walked his horse through Antioch’s teeming crowds with a watchful group of legionaries detailed to escort him through the busy streets by Quintinus, men well accustomed to the variety of tricks and ruses employed by the city’s thieves and pickpockets. Hemmed in by the mass of humanity brought so close together by the lure of the city’s sophistication, he allowed himself to progress at the pace of the street, his senses still reeling at the rich smells of the taverns and spice shops after so long at sea, exotic scents underlaid by the deeper, richer stench of too many men and beasts packed into a confined space.
As the group of soldiers neared the southern wall, the city’s magnificent agora opened out to his left with the gaudily painted bulk of an amphitheatre rising behind it, the wide open space thronged with men gathered around a troupe of gladiators who were demonstrating their abilities to the admiring crowd. Halting his escort, Marcus mounted the horse so as to get a better view of the scene, watching through the colonnade that lined the street as matched pairs of fighters went through their mock-antagonistic routines to enthusiastic applause from the watching multitude. Most of them were no better than average, but among them were a few men who moved with crisp purpose, the arena killers against whom their hapless fellows were dead meat.
‘You like the games, do you, sir?’
The question broke his reverie, and the young tribune looked down at the soldier holding his horse’s bridle with a faint smile.
‘I was trained to fight by a man like that.’
The man’s eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘Gladiator, was he, sir?’
Marcus nodded, feeling an almost physical pain at the sudden, brutal reminder of the events that had led to the Tungrians being posted to Syria.
‘He was the finest gladiator ever to fight in the Flavian Arena, some say. To me he was more like a second father …’
He dismounted, gesturing to the gate rising over the crowd, two blocks distant.
‘Shall we?’
The soldier nodded, turning to the people nearest to them with a sudden flash of anger as a man stretched out a finger to touch Marcus’s sculpted breastplate with a look of awe.
‘Oi, get your fucking hands off the officer, unless you want me to cut them off and stuff them up your arse!’
The man looked at him uncomprehendingly, and with a sigh of irritation the soldier switched from Greek to Aramaic, backing up the threat with the highly polished blade of his dagger. ‘Fucking peasants. Anyone’d think you was Achilles himself from the looks they’re giving you.’ The soldier shot him a swift apologetic glance. ‘Not that you don’t look proper hard, Tribune. Be nice to have some men with scars and hard faces leading the legion for a change.’
The young tribune reflexively put a hand to the freshly healed cut across the bridge of his nose, the legacy of a frantic escape from the heart of a barbarian fortress, and the ensuing hunt across northern Britannia’s lethally treacherous marshes. At the Daphne Gate he ordered the men to wait for him, smiling as they immediately gathered around in the wall’s shadow and started a game of dice. Trotting the beast down the road to the south, he mused on the contrast between the teeming city thoroughfares and the lightly trafficked street that ran along the mountain’s shoulder. After five miles or so, the reason for the road’s relative emptiness became apparent, as he rode around a bend to find his way barred by a wooden gate, a
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