Free Siege of Rome by David Pilling Page A

one grunted, “bring him down with your spear, Sama.”
       The vinegar-faced brute named Sama drew back his arm and left fly. Fortunately, he was a handless buffoon, and the sharpened stick that he called a spear flew harmlessly over my head.
       I swallowed and moistened my dry lips, cudgeling my brain for something to say. “I am a Roman officer,” I croaked, unable to think of anything better, “if you harm me, Rome will have her vengeance. Let me go, and you shall be rewarded.”
       Months later, when I repeated this little speech to Procopius, he laughed until the tears flowed down his cheeks.
       “Poor Coel,” he chuckled, dabbing at his eyes, “your continued survival is proof that God has a certain dry wit.”
       He was right, damn him. I should have spared my breath. Staying strong and silent might have made the peasants hesitate, but now they knew I was desperate. And scared.
       “Take him!” cried one w ho seemed to be their leader, a round-shouldered man with a greasy tangle of beard poking from under the scarf that hid the lower part of his face. He had a certain authority, and his robe and fringed mantle were made of finer stuff than the coarse wool of his fellows.
       He was also no fool, and hung back while the others rushed me all at once. There were seven of them, too many to repel even I had been fit.
       I had no option but to try. A man wielding a pitchfork came screaming at me, jabbing the prongs at my face. I batted the clumsy weapon away and sheared the skin off his knuckles, making him drop the fork and howl in agony.
       A flat-headed wooden club cracked against my shoulder. Once again my armour saved me. I swung around to stab at the clubman, and someone grabbed my hair from behind. That was futile, since it was shorn to a smear of stubble, Roman military style. I jerked my head backwards and connected sharply with a jaw.
       My satisfaction at the muffled curse that followed was short-lived. Something struck me in the stomach, expelling all the breath from my lungs. Fingers closed around my wrist, and I was unable to lift Caledfwlch.
       “Slash the Roman thief’s throat!” someone yelled. I felt cold steel pressed against my neck.
       “No, no,” cried their chief, “let him live for now. Spare him for the games.”
       The men holding me grumbled , and the one with the knife had murder in his eyes, but the round-shouldered man was clearly in command. From his superior dress and manner I judged him to be some elder or dignitary from the city.
       Despite his authority, he still had to wheedle a little. “Think, brothers,” he said in a voice dri pping with insinuation, “how we might put this fine Roman officer to the test. Will he last longer than the usual thieves and cut-purses? The Romans make their soldiers tough, so they say. They will not beg for mercy, nor reveal any secrets under torture. Let us challenge that proud boast.”
       His words made me quail, but I tried to maintain a stoic front while th e peasants laughed and nudged each other. It seemed that the prospect of breaking my body with various unspeakable tortures held more appeal than simply killing me on the spot, quick and clean.
       “Give me his sword,” ordered their chief. I stifled a cry as Caledfwlch was torn from my grip and handed reverently to him, like an offering to a priest.
       “Pretty,” the devil murmured, his deep-set eyes squinting at the blade as he inspected it, “a fine toy for my children to play with.”
       I worked up some pointless defiance. “If you have managed to breed,” I rasped, “then there is hope for every ape in Africa.”
       “I shall enjoy you,” he said, tucking Caledfwlch into the sash around his waist, “I shall enjoy you very much indeed.”
       They took me into the city, a sprawling and ramshackle place, designed in no particular order or pattern that I could see. As I have said, it had no walls, or drains