The Wall
by
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I brought up my shield defensively in front of me, the sword driving sparks from the circular boss on my shield. The savage crouched low, circling, looking for an opening. He wore some kind of leather jerkin as body armour, and had a spear in his other hand, which he jabbed towards me, while keeping the sword ready for a thrust or slashing blow. Lank, unwashed hair hung in his face. He had a straggly, unkempt beard. I could hear the panting of his breath, and smelt its unclean stench in my nostrils. He shouted, trying to unsettle me, thrusting forward with the spear, which I knocked away with my sword, but he swept his sword blade, longer than mine, in an arc over my shield and its point narrowly grazed my helmet, sparks flying in the chill air. The blow didn’t stun me, but knocked the helmet to one side, over my eyes, and he gave a scream of victory as he swept his spear in for a disembowelling blow. I managed to twist backwards, deflecting the spear with a chopping blow from my sword, but slipped on a pool of blood behind me, staggering away. The savage charged in, kicking my shield so I fell to the ground, and swept his sword down as I tried to roll away, the edge passing within a whisker of my neck. I scrambled away to the edge of the wall, ramming my helmet back into place with my palm, and as he came with the spear again I struck out at his hand, rather than the weapon itself. He screamed as my blade hacked into his gripping fingers and the spear fell, two severed digits falling into the dirt. In pain and fear he rushed me and brought the sword down, burying it in the top of my shield and shoving himself in after it, driving me backwards into the wall, his face close to mine, straining to bury his teeth in my face in his fury. For the second time that evening I crashed the peak of my helmet into a man’s face, this time splitting the skin on his forehead open. He staggered away, stunned, blood running down over his eyes, and as he tried to wipe it away with his sword hand, I stepped in and seized his hair, pulling his head down and rammed my knee into his face. He fell to his hands and knees at my feet, and I reversed my grip and stabbed him twice, three times, between the shoulders, until his struggles ceased......
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About the Book
Silent, intimidating, built from the rocks of the rough battered landscape it dominates, the wall is all that stands between Roman Britain and the barbarian wilderness beyond. The soldiers who patrol the wall are a special breed, tough and weather worn like the very structure they defend. This is the story of one such man, Sulla, one of the thousands of Roman legionaries whose very life is tied inextricably to the great wall. For Sulla's destiny is the inevitable encounter with the painted enemy and the hidden nightmare of his unknown fears that await beyond the relative safety of the battlements...
About the Author
Paul Tilbury was born in High Wycombe Buckinghamshire in 1970 and was educated at the John Hampden Grammar School. From a young age he developed a keen interest in history and in adulthood this interest focused increasingly on the art of ancient warfare.
The Wall is his first novel, his earlier writing being a series of short stories and poems. Paul Tilbury lives with his wife and two sons in Brackley, Northamptonshire.