Swords Around the Throne Read Online Free PDF Page B

blade. He was standing astride the fallen man, shielding him with his body.
    â€˜What’s this?’ cried one of the men at the table, surging to his feet. ‘Who the bloody fuck are you?’ Castus saw the centurion’s stick, the scarred and weathered face of a veteran. He pulled himself upright.
    â€˜Aurelius Castus,’ he said. ‘Centurion. Third Cohort, Sixth Legion. You?’
    The other man strode up to him, standing so close that Castus could smell his breath, his rank wine-sweat. He was a hand’s breadth shorter, but almost as heavily built.
    â€˜Satrius Urbicus,’ the man said with a sneer in his voice. ‘Centurion. First Cohort, Second Legion. Now tell me you’ve come to apologise.’
    Castus held his stare, said nothing. The blood was beating in his head, and the cuts on his ear throbbed. Urbicus edged closer, his scarred upper lip twisted back from his teeth.
    â€˜My men came here for a quiet drink. Your savages attacked them,’ Urbicus said. ‘So you owe us an apology.’
    â€˜I think not.’ Castus spoke in a breath. All his life he had deferred to his superiors, and Urbicus was clearly senior to him. When he glanced down he saw the injured man, Speratus, lying at his feet, his face a pulp of blood, one eye swollen shut.
    â€˜You trying to argue with me, young man?’
    The blow was sudden, a slashing upper-cut – Castus flinched, blinking, as the stick smacked against his skull.
    â€˜You should learn to respect your elders, I’d say.’
    A heartbeat’s pause, too brief to think or balance the odds. Then Castus drove his fist up into the centurion’s chest, throwing the full power of his arm behind it. Urbicus let out a tight gasp. He was caught off guard, fighting for balance. His feet skated on spilled wine and he went down hard. Castus followed him, dropping to one knee, and drove two hard accurate punches into the other man’s neck. He drew back his fist to punch again, but his arm was seized – somebody else was wrestling his chest, pulling him back. He fought against them, but he could hear the other shouts now, and sense the swirl of the mob as it parted.
    Urbicus was trying to get up, but his own men had him pinned. Castus realised that Valens and Flaccus were gripping him; Diogenes had his arm tightly clasped.
    â€˜Leave it!’ Valens was hissing in his ear. ‘The tribune’s here with troops – Infernal gods, leave it!’
    Numbed, breathing hard, Castus let them drag him upright and across the room to a bench. He could make out the noise from the courtyard now, the voice of the tribune Jovianus as he called for order. Armed men were in the room: Frisiavone auxiliaries, armed with staves. Sitting on the bench, legs spread, he let out a great gasping sigh and felt the red heat of anger rushing from his body. Hollowing remorse rushed in.
    Thin rain misted the paved plaza of the forum. Grey morning, sore heads, and the incense smoke from the sacrificial altar sickening men’s stomachs. The cohorts were drawn up in two facing lines, the men of the Sixth on one side and those of the Second on the other. On both sides bruised faces, raw scars. Between them, the praepositus Jovianus intoned the words into the thin smoke.
    â€˜ Sacred Concordia, Sacred Disciplina, hear our prayer and accept our sacrifice. In your name we cast aside our strife. In your name we bind ourselves in true brotherhood .’
    Four elders of the Bagacum curia stood with covered heads, acting as officiating priests for the ceremony. They mumbled the prayer between them, looking far from pleased. The altar was a rough, temporary thing, a stone with a painted dedication, but money would be deducted from the funeral funds of both cohorts to pay for a stonecutter to make a proper inscription. Money would be deducted, too, to pay for the damage caused by the night’s affray.
    The punishments should have been much