behind while he distracted them. He’d underestimated their training. They’d have a procedure for exactly the situation they were in, perfected over centuries and drilled into them again and again on the parade ground. With the vagaries of individual decision-making removed, their response to the lone man in the road had been automatic, unified and perfect.
She’d seen people underestimate the Romans before. They were all dead now. Not that the Romans were invulnerable, far from it, but they took a bit more killing than the average fool. Chamanca’s hands tightened around the handles of her sword and her mace. She made an effort to breathe calmly and slowly. There was going to be blood.
“Cut him down,” came the calm order from the Roman leader.
Atlas roared like a charging aurochs. She and Carden leapt from the ditch. The back line of Romans hadn’t been distracted by Atlas’ shout. They spotted the new threat immediately and readied themselves.
“Two more sir, to the rea—” the leftmost of them managed before Chamanca’s ball-mace smashed his jaw. Trained they might be, but they weren’t ready for her speed.
“Down!” shouted Carden.
She dropped into a crouch, chopping her blade through the leg of the central Roman. Her attack was unnecessary, since Carden’s swinging sword severed the heads from both remaining backmarkers. She was glad, however, to see how easily her new blade cleaved flesh and bone.
She dived backwards, avoiding the arterial spurt from the man’s thigh, on to her hands. She flicked over, spun, and landed on her feet to face the Romans. All this gymnastic leaping was unnecessarily flamboyant, but she meant to surprise the remaining Romans into surrender. It worked.
Atlas had killed the three at the front. Two junior soldiers and their boss were staring at her like head-whacked fish. Atlas’ axe flashed from behind them and split the leftmost soldier from neck to waist. A great wash of blood drenched the other two. Their swords dropped with thuds on to the hard-packed road and they whimpered. There was always a point at which people forgot their training.
“That one,” said Atlas to Carden, nodding at the legionary. Carden lifted his sword.
“No! Please! Not him! Not him! Don’t kill him! I’ll do anything! Take me!” The leader was screeching in passable Gaulish, which was close enough to the British language that they understood him. He was a large man, but fat, not muscular. His voice was high-pitched and lispy, but that could have been from his terror. Chamanca smiled.
Carden took a step forward but Atlas held up a hand. Carden stood back. “Chamanca,” Atlas said. “Why don’t you have a drink?” Chamanca could have kissed him. He’d seen what she too had seen. There was something stronger than the chain of command between the captain and the soldier. Atlas grabbed the captain by the chest and pulled him away, axe blade at his throat.
Chamanca lashed out at the soldier with her blade and then her mace. The blade sliced through the leather chin-strap, the mace knocked his helmet flying. He stood, blinking at her in shock, tears pouring from big eyes. He was young, a boy really, with a pale, girlish face.
“Kneel!” she commanded.
He knelt. She walked round behind him, pinned his arms with her legs, grabbed his hair in her hands. He fell forwards. She went with him, twisted his head, and sank pointed teeth into his neck. Warm Roman blood flowed into her mouth. She swallowed. The taste was better than she remembered. She unclamped her teeth with a lovely sucking noise, looked up at the plume-headed man and smiled.
“Oh Diana,” he said, “please stop. Please don’t hurt him any more.”
“Who are you, where were you going and why?” asked Atlas, his Latin fluent and without an accent.
“I’m Publius Considius. Tribune Publius Considius. I’m going to Caesar to report that Titus Labienus has taken the hill and is ready. There, that’s all. Let him go!”
Atlas nodded at Chamanca. She bent down again and took a long suck of blood from the young man’s neck. She hadn’t pierced anything vital yet, but there was still plenty to drink.
“I’ve told you everything!” whined Considius.
“What is Labienus ready for?”
“He’s to wait for Caesar’s attack. Once the Helvetians are committed, he’s to take the camp.”
Chamanca almost asked what Helvetians were, but realised that it must be the Roman word for Helvans. They’d made up Romanised versions of perfectly good tribe names in her homeland too. It had pissed her off.
“Take the camp?” Atlas twisted his axe blade into