Servus Capax by Autieri Jerry

Author:Autieri, Jerry [Autieri, Jerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-09-22T00:00:00+00:00

14

A sword hacked down, slamming across Varro’s chest. The mail shirt crunched under the impact, pressing into his muscle and driving the wind from his lungs. But rather than cut the links, the blade chipped and shattered. A shard of bronze landed under his eye. The Massylii footman hovering over him shouted in frustration.

Varro shook shard from his face, cursing and shoving off from the puddle of blood and wine under him. He butted his head into his attacker’s causing him to stumble aside as Varro leaped up from prone. Even with the heavy weight of his chain shirt, the sheer terror of being downed in a fight fed him strength.

Five men surrounded him, as Merac stood laughing atop the wagon and pointing at the man holding his head. He stuttered out something in his native language. Varro thought he heard the word for sword, but wasn’t sure. Instead, he faced the tightening ring of others converging on him.

His own sword had fallen from his grip and sat in a red puddle. A sandaled-foot stepped on it, and Varro met the confident smirk of the man who stood on it.

“Glad I never wasted time learning your names.” He drew his pugio, which was perfect for the close work ahead. Only he had attackers on every side, and had to trust his mail to turn the blades of his foes while he evened his chances. It would only take one lucky stab to end him.

“You’re nothing but shit,” Merac said. “Is that the right word? Shit? Yes, I think that it is and that is you. Like shit, we wipe you off our feet with disgust.”

Merac pointed with his own sword and the five men lunged at once.

“With a grunt Varro skipped aside from one blade, only to find another slip across his chest. The man at his back stabbed, not wise enough to cut his exposed hamstrings, and the point of his sword broke links in his mail, but he twisted aside to avoid a deeper cut.

His own pugio popped the throat of the man to his right. A clean, effortless thrust and the foe went down whistling from a bloody gap in his neck. He punched out with his left, his arm strengthened from years of hoisting a body-length shield. His forearm knocked aside the sword thrust at his face.

Then horses thundered across his rear, sending his enemies screaming and flailing away.

Varro did not hesitate.

The way up the cart lay open and Merac paused in astonishment. His finger extended at the men riding past him, as if he had expected their cooperation. Varro took one stride over the puddles and bodies underfoot and landed on the cart runners. Then he grabbed the rail and hauled himself into the bed with Merac.

The half-naked Merac, wine stains glistening on his chest, brought his sword up in some strange attempt to parry a blow Varro had not even taken. The lack of discipline was so astounding, Varro nearly missed his chance.

“Too bad you speak my language,” he said.

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