Conspiracies of Rome Read Online Free PDF Page B

feet.
        ‘You fucking old blackbird,’ one of them rasped in Vulgar Latin. ‘Do you think we give a shit about you and your Triple God?’ He sucked in a mouthful of wine and recited: ‘The Father is greater than the Son, and separate from him.’
        He continued with a garbled account of the Arian heresy, while Maximin nodded eagerly, doubtless considering whether they’d spare him if he pretended to convert.
        They were enjoying themselves too much to make an early end of Maximin. The drink had made them merry in their brutal way. Perhaps they would let him go. But I doubted this. I knew their sort. They’d soon grow bored, or their drunken mood would change in some other way, and then Maximin would be another bloody heap to frighten later passers-by as we’d in turn been frightened by the half-eaten corpses that had dotted the road every few miles from Pisa.
        I thought quickly. I’d acquired a good sword from a drowned brigand outside Paris. I had this in my hand. But there were two of them, and each was a match for me in open fight. What to do? Taking Maximin’s advice wasn’t an option. Once you’ve walked several hundred miles with someone, in generally disgusting weather, through dangerous country, you’re pretty well best friends. Besides, I owed him. I owed him my life. I owed him my further education. I owed him whatever prospects might present themselves in this world outside England. I owed him – and, unless you’re one of those degenerate Latins or Greeks whose sophisticated treachery is losing or has lost them control of the world, I don’t need to say more than that.
        I bobbed up again. They were still looking at Maximin. I waved to him. His eyes remained fixed on the bandits.
        ‘I have a silver crucifix in my baggage,’ he said in a wheedling tone. He jerked his eyes over to the far side of the road. Fortunately, one of the horses was sniffing at the baggage, concealing the fact that there was too much for one man to carry. The bigger of the two grunted and went over to look. By the horse, he steadied himself and stopped for a piss.
        That was my chance. I was up and across the road before either had a chance to look round. I swung my sword high and got the one by Maximin a blow to the unprotected head. He went straight down.
        With a shout of rage, the other had his breeches up and his sword out almost before I’d got my own sword clear and steadied myself from its recoil. He came at me, a dark stain growing down his left trouser leg. I jumped back, slashing at him.
        He grinned at me, an ugly scar running down his face into the straggly yellow beard. He stretched up and threw his arms wide, taunting me. ‘Come on, you miserable little fucker. See what you can do with a man who’s looking at you.’ He stamped on the ground and spat. ‘Come on. I want my breakfast!’
        I circled him, carefully staying out of sword reach. He seemed unbelievably big and heavy. He must have been pillaging and murdering since before I was born. He had armour. I had none. How I’d beat him I had no idea. I tried reasoning with him.
        ‘Get on your horse and be off,’ I said. ‘We saw Imperials just down the road.’
        No luck. He took advantage of the effort I put into the words and lunged at me. An inch to the right and he’d have had me.
        I danced back again and waved my sword. It felt suddenly heavy and twisted in my sweating hand. He stepped forward at me. His arm and sword were both longer than mine. I swung at him. Apart from a bit of playing back in Kent, and a quick running skirmish on the road in France, this was my first swordplay. Hardly moving, he parried me with a flick of his wrist. I staggered and nearly lost my sword as steel clashed on steel.
        Without warning, he lunged forward again, sword arm outstretched. Again, he nearly had me. It was only because I was still swaying about that he missed. As it was, he sliced