Free The Eagle's Vengeance by Anthony Riches

the father of her child is looking forward to facing off with the Venicones as a relief from her vividly expressed disappointment that his manhood hasn’t yet dropped off as the price for putting her through such discomfort.’
    The older man snorted a laugh.
    ‘Your first spear is keen to jump out of the skillet, is he? In that case we’ll just have to hope that the fire isn’t too hot!’ His expression softened as he watched Felicia climb up into the cart and take the child from her friend. ‘As for your woman, you needn’t worry yourself as to her safety while you’re away pulling barbarian beards. I have a woman in the vicus at Yew Grove who’s well accustomed to the life of a soldier’s wife, and she’ll make sure that they’re both looked after.’
    Marcus nodded his thanks, tensing slightly as he saw that Julius was beckoning to him.
    ‘Excuse me, Prefect, my presence is being requested by my superior officer.’
    The prefect nodded, his face creasing into a smile.
    ‘It’s time then, is it? Have fun …’
    The young centurion saluted Castus and turned away, walking towards the parade ground across which the First Tungrian Cohort was arrayed. As he made his way between two of the convoy’s gold carts he found his path blocked by the Sarmatae, Ram and Radu, who stood waiting for him with their hands on the hilts of their swords. He paused for a moment, waiting for them to step aside, but neither man showed any intention of moving.
    ‘Gentlemen?’
    Ram stepped forward, a broad grin on his face as he closed to within a foot of the Roman.
    ‘We fight. Now.’
    Marcus shook his head.
    ‘No. We march now. There’ll be plenty of time to fight later, and besides, we have no practice weapons to hand.’
    The answer was instant, and delivered in a tone of voice which raised the hairs on the back of Marcus’s neck.
    ‘ Now! We practise like we fight, not with wood, but with iron! We fight like men! We promise not to cut your pretty face, Centurion …’ Ram looked back at his brother with a smirk, missing Marcus’s quick pace backwards, and the sudden narrowing of his eyes as he readied himself to fight. ‘But perhaps he not a man, perhaps he a—’
    Whatever insult the Sarmatae had intended to throw at Marcus was lost in the sudden woosh of air from his lungs as the centurion stepped forward swiftly and put a hobnailed boot into his groin, sending him reeling away from the wagons, clutching at his abused testicles and fighting for breath. Regaining his balance to toss his helmet aside and unsheathe his swords in a flicker of polished metal, the Roman barely had time to raise his defence before Radu was upon him, his swords a whirling torrent of sharp iron, and for the next dozen heartbeats it was all he could do to parry the other man’s cuts and lunges.
    Only distantly aware of an uproar of noise from the gathered soldiers, and wondering what his wife was making of the unexpected display, he bared his teeth in a snarl of naked aggression and sprang forward at the Dacian with a ferocity born of the anger that had swiftly replaced his initial surprise at the nature of the twins’ challenge. Matching his opponent blow for blow he began to force the pace, his retaliatory cuts and lunges delivered so fast that the Sarmatae’s eyes widened as he found himself unexpectedly on the back foot in the face of the Roman’s speed and power. Parrying a thrust of the long spatha’s evilly sharp patterned blade, Radu spun away to his right, escaping from Marcus’s incessant attacks for a moment and shouting to Ram in a tone laced with urgency.
    Flicking a glance at Ram, Marcus realised that while he was bent over with his hands on his knees and his chest heaving, still struggling to breathe, he was clearly already over the worst of the kick’s physical impact. Looking back to Radu just in time to steer a vicious stab aside with his gladius, he realised that his opponent would simply seek to hold him at bay