Froggie snorted. “You’re a fool if you expect help from any farther away than my sword-edge, Slats,” he said. “But yeah, we’ll protect you.”
The far end did slope till it came out in the barracks. Two grim-faced men from First Squad were waiting at the top of the ramp.
“I’m the last,” Froggie said. The troopers grunted and swung the heavy trapdoor down over the opening, then slid a crossbar through the staples to hold it closed. There was next to no chance that the barbs would break into the burning temple, follow the Romans down the tunnel, and come up in the middle of the fort while everybody was looking the other way . . . but there was no chance at all if the tunnel was closed and barred.
Froggie stepped out of the barracks. The sky was orange from the flames that shot from the top of the temple, reflecting on the base of the clouds. The fire roared louder than a storm. It was like standing at the seashore as the surf comes in, a dull sound but one so loud that you have to shout to be heard over it.
Like he’d been ordered to, Verruca had the troopers crouching on the fighting step so that they couldn’t be seen from outside the fort. Maybe the barbs were too sure of themselves to notice a line of helmeted heads where there were supposed to be only women, but Froggie wasn’t the sort to take chances.
The girls stood in a close group beside the barracks. Froggie’d figured they’d be in a funk, either cackling in terror or frozen like open-mouthed statues while they waited to be chopped.
He should’ve known better. Queenie trotted over to him, holding a Roman dagger and looking as grim as a Fury. Every one of the girls had a weapon: a spear, a narrow-bladed barb hatchet, or at least a club.
“We chop now, boss-man!” Queenie said. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Froggie said. “We chop.”
Verruca, his normally ruddy face further brightened by the pillar of fire, came around the back of the barracks and saw Froggie. “I just put Third Squad with First at the west gate, Top,” he said, shouting over the flames. “We don’t need a reserve in the camp, not with the girls here.”
The city gates opened, their creaking audible despite the fire’s deep thrum. A trooper reached for the bar that held the camp’s north gate closed.
“Wait for it, Sedulus!” Froggie said. The trooper jerked his hands away as though the timber had burned him.
The barb mob spilled out of the city. Froggie couldn’t see them from where he crouched, but the varied shouts of “Kill!” and “Burn!” spilled around the fort like surf on a rock. Torches and a few spears flew over the walls. The green timber of the barracks wasn’t going to catch fire easily, not that it mattered if it did.
“Ready the gates!” Froggie said. The men chosen for the duty at the north, west and south gates lifted the crossbars out of their staples; other members of their squads braced the panels against the unskilled efforts of barbs pushing from the other side.
A few crested heads appeared over the wall, enterprising barbs who’d been lifted on the shoulders of their fellows. They didn’t have either siege equipment or discipline. It was like watching sheep trying to invade the butcher’s stall. . . .
Froggie tossed his swagger stick over his shoulder and drew his sword. “Get ’em, troopers!” he bellowed.
The troopers bracing the gates stepped back and let the panels fly inward. The barbs pushing against them lurched into a flurry of sword-strokes that lopped them to pieces.
The rest of the mob didn’t know what was happening. Two troopers at each gate strode forward with their shields raised, hacking barbs who were packed too tight to protect themselves or use their weapons. Outside the fort the leading pair spread slightly so that a third man could step between them. Another pace and two more troopers joined the wall of shields and slaughter. And two more . . .
The squads advanced only a little slower than if they’d been sauntering down the market square of a village when they were civilians. Every time a heavy, broad-bladed sword slashed, a barb died—though he might not be able to fall for a moment because of the crush of his fellows against him. Troopers stumbled and cursed as bodies writhed beneath their hobnails.