Gradarius
Roman Equestrian Series
By A.M. Swink
WAR IS ON THE HORIZON
Sworn enemies turned lovers, Decimus and Luciana face new challenges that put their love to the test. Decimus, haunted by his past, struggles with his feelings in the present. Luciana, when confronted with her old friend Boudicca's struggles, questions which of her loyalties is more important: her loyalty to Decimus, or her loyalty to her people? When sent to investigate a Roman traitor in Decimus's legion, both will have to decide which side of the coming battle they'll be on.
Rome and Britannia are hurtling toward a reckoning. Will Decimus and Luciana find a way forward together before war tears them apart?
‘Wedge! On me!’ Decimus beckoned with his gladius. Shields linked up on either side of his as the men fell into formation. Plancus, holding the cohort standard aloft, walked behind him. To his right, Vulso took up a rallying yell: ‘Gemina!’ The rest of the men added their voices, turning heads as they marched. They engulfed their beleaguered comrades on the right flank, investing the Romans with fresh energy.
Decimus didn’t stop until his gladius crashed against an enemy sword. He quickly brought his shield up, blocking the brute’s parry. He sought his next thrust. The large Briton overcorrected, throwing his sword up to steady himself. Decimus snaked forward, plunging his blade deep in his enemy’s armpit. The warrior howled as Decimus twisted the gladius away. His skin parted with a horrible sucking noise, dark blood spouting from the wound. As the man tumbled away, Decimus’s eyes widened in recognition. It was the wiry fellow from the Silure capital, the friend of the warrior who’d nearly revealed Decimus’s true identity.
An icy finger of dread pierced his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut. Mithras god, he silently prayed, please don’t let Luciana be here. The very thought of facing the woman he loved on a battlefield was enough to make his stomach churn.
As the warrior staggered off, clutching his haemorrhaging wound, Decimus lifted his eyes. He glimpsed two men bearing the old crone Luciana had called the Ancient One. The trio surveyed the scene from the safety of the treeline. The woman’s wrinkled old face gazed expressionlessly at the violence. Her long white hair melded with her shroud, enveloping her in an otherworldly cocoon. Just before her, Taraghlan the druid waved his staff about, chanting angry curses.
Then these sights were lost to him as another warrior charged, poised to strike. The smaller, lither figure rushed up in a blue whirl, his long ponytail flying behind him. He lifted his sword high and knocked the butt against Decimus’s helmet, momentarily stunning him. Decimus came to before he planted his face against the warrior’s woad-painted chest, the aroma of sweat heavy in his nostrils. He lifted his shield, catching the warrior on the chin. The Briton yowled as he stepped back, sword arm brushing Decimus’s shoulder. The blade harmlessly grazed his cuirass and kerchief, nicking only the leather ties securing his helmet, before falling away.
Decimus retracted behind his shield, awaiting the warrior’s next attack. When the screaming Silure charged at him, Decimus jabbed it up at just the right moment. The shield’s iron boss crushed the Silure’s nose. The man swung his weapon wildly over Decimus’s shield rim, his war cry petering into a whine. Decimus curtly knocked the blade aside with his gladius and pressed forward. The warrior toppled onto his back. Pausing only to stab the man’s groin, Decimus stepped back into the protection of the wedge.
He didn’t see the threat hurtling towards him until it was too late.
‘Sir!’
Decimus turned to see Morcant nearly upon him, dark eyes feverishly bright. The chieftain charged, sword whirling aloft. He was too close when Decimus finally saw him, swinging towards his unguarded neck before he could react. Just as Morcant’s blade sang for his throat, Vulso’s shield punched its way between them.
Decimus stumbled aside at the shove, his crested helmet toppling off in the grass. He recovered his balance and turned to see Morcant had nearly cleaved Vulso’s shield in twain, rendering it useless. As he wrestled his sword free of the twisted wood and metal, Vulso jabbed with his gladius. The short blade disappeared into Morcant’s shoulder, and he roared. He stepped back with such force that Vulso lost his grip on the hilt before he could recover his gladius.
Vulso fumbled frantically for his dagger. Decimus watched in growing horror as the chieftain rallied again for his next assault. He lurched towards them, knowing he was already too late.
‘Vulso! No!’
Vulso helplessly lifted his busted shield to repulse Morcant’s charge. The chieftain’s sword passed directly through its gaping tear and impaled Vulso through the throat.
Decimus watched Vulso’s head snap back. The pointed edge of Morcant’s blade emerged from the nape of his neck. His eyes rolled sightlessly towards the sky, his gaping mouth spewing blood.
‘Bastard!’ Decimus screamed, pummelling his shield into Morcant’s side. The chieftain backed up with the force of the blow and neatly recovered, turning his attention to the helmetless centurion.
Decimus crouched behind his shield, panting. His trembling hand gripped his gladius at the ready.
The Silure chieftain frowned slightly, taking in the distinctive scar along Decimus’s cheek. His eyes roved up to the recently stitched line over Decimus’s brow. His gaze widened with shock. ‘Leucus!’ He growled.
His low, rasping voice curdled Decimus’s blood. It was a shade from the mouth of Hades, calling him home. Gathering himself, Decimus thrust forward, lifting the tip of his gladius to Morcant.
The weapons rang with a deafening clang as they met, blades glinting in the sun. They fell away and met again, each man thrusting his shield at the other. The blackened stumps of Morcant’s fingers, curled round the gilded hilt of his sword, hauntingly reminded Decimus of their confrontation last winter. Here they were again, back to finish what they’d started so many months ago. This time, he knew, at least one of them would die.
If this book piques your interest then head over to your favourite bookstore.
A. M. Swink
A.M. Swink, the author of the award-winning Roman Equestrian series, grew up in Dayton, Ohio, obsessed with two things: books and horses. After a childhood of reading, writing, showing, and riding, she moved to Lexington, Kentucky to complete three degrees and work as a college professor of reading and writing.
She’s travelled extensively around Europe, exploring ancient sites and artefacts relating to the Iron Age and Roman era. She is fascinated by our connection to the past and the ancestral tether that draws us back into the mists of time.
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