by R. W. Peake
Finally, Diocles threw up his hands, exclaiming, "Pluto's cock, woman! Must you always win?"
The fact that the Greek had used an epithet that had been his former master's favorite, coupled with Iras' knowledge how rarely Diocles used such language, actually did more to shake her resolve than any of the other, reasoned arguments she had heard from the trio of men. Yet ultimately, although there was much truth in what Diocles said, Iras had made up her mind that the safety of her family was best guaranteed by reaching Siscia. Her reasoning wasn't entirely based on emotion; the fact was that Emona wasn't a fortified town, nor did it have more than a Century of auxiliaries. The citizens were pinning their hopes on the fact that Emona was at the far west end of Pannonia, while the depredations that were taking place were occurring to the northeast, almost directly north of Siscia. Not without some logic, the citizens of Emona were convinced that because of Siscia's location and importance, it would bear the brunt of whatever the rebelling tribes had in mind. However, it was equally true, and was a major factor in Iras' reasoning, that Siscia was much better prepared and defended than Emona. Most compelling to her was the thought that this would be where Gaius would come, along with the rest of the men of the Legions. And just like had happened on the trip to Arelate, it was Titus who tipped the scales, although this time it was in the opposite direction.
"Whatever you decide, Mama," he told her quietly, ignoring the mutters and groans from the three men.
The last time Titus said this, he had his own reasons, and Iras had recognized it as an attempt to manipulate her. This time, however, she viewed his words as a lifeline, her only ally in what was turning out to be at the least a contentious exchange. And she grabbed it, not thinking nor particularly caring whether or not her son's motives were pure.
"Thank you, Titus." She smiled at her son. Drawing courage from his support, she turned back to the others and said, "We're going on to Siscia."
As is normally the case with such things, and as the rebels intended it, when the attack happened, it happened quickly, and they picked their spot well. It was the third day out of Emona, with Siscia just a bit less than two days away. At a spot where the road ran along the Sava to the left, and there was a heavily wooded hill to the right, a force of more than a dozen warriors, members of the Latobici tribe, to whom this part of Pannonia belonged, came bursting from their hiding place. In conception, it was a perfect plan; in execution, the leader of the band was too eager, so that Libo, who was riding ahead of the wagon as a scout, had a crucial moment that gave him the instant of warning he needed.
“Ambush!” he shouted, drawing his sword and performing the only maneuver that ever had a chance against a surprise attack.
Lowering his blade out in front of him, he savagely kicked his horse in the ribs, aiming the beast directly at the nearest barbarian warriors, just coming out of their hiding spot. Gallus, riding next to the wagon, turned to shout a command at Simeon, but the Armenian had reacted instantly as well, jerking one rein to begin turning the wagon about.
“Head back to that farmhouse!” Gallus shouted, and Simeon, who had essentially made the same decision at the same time, merely gave a grim nod as he brought the whip he carried on the seat next to him down on the back of the twin pair of mules.
There was a sudden, vicious lurch that knocked Iras from her feet, just as she stood to get a better look at the cause of the disturbance, and the children let out a frightened cry at the sight of their mother losing her feet. Miriam, who had been nestled in Birgit’s arms, sound asleep, was awakened and began adding her own lusty cries to the noise, contributing to the chaos. It was this combination of events that alerted Titus and Diocles, riding a few dozen paces behind the wagon, but it was the older Greek who reacted first.
Taking in the sight of the wagon that was just beginning to turn back in their direction, he leaned over to look past it in time to see Libo strike down one of the leading warriors before he was surrounded by at least a half-dozen Latobici, all mounted as well.
“We have to get up there to keep those cunni away from the wagon,” Diocles commanded the boy, who didn’t hesitate, drawing his sword, small though it was.
Diocles drew his own blade, one that he had begun carrying for the previous several days, and together, they moved at the gallop past the wagon.
Iras had regained her feet, and her eyes widened in horror at the sight of her son heading in the opposite direction of the wagon, screaming at him, “Titus! No! Don’t you dare! Come back here!”
Titus, his face set in a determined scowl, shouted back, “I have to help keep them off the wagon, Mama!”
Ocelus, his stride now opened, never faltered as they went thundering past, the old stallion already opening a gap on Diocles’ Thunder and closing the distance to Gallus, who had hurried to join the other bodyguard. Iras continued shouting at her son, almost obscured by the dust raised by Ocelus’ and Thunder’s hooves, and she was sure that this was the last sight she was going to have of her son, still alive and breathing.
The farmhouse that Simeon was heading for was abandoned, but hadn’t been burned by this warband, although it had been thoroughly looted. The leader of the raiding party had forbidden his warriors to torch the buildings, not wanting the column of smoke to alert anyone traveling the road. That wasn’t his only reason; they were operating close to Siscia, and the Latobici knew from firsthand experience how quickly the Roman military moved. He wanted to scoop up as many solitary wagons and travelers as he could before being forced to melt away back into the hills. He and his men were unprepared for this kind of response, however, as his men swarmed around the first Roman, who had done the exact opposite thing the leader had expected. Nevertheless, he wasn’t worried, yet even as some of his men surrounded that first Roman, he saw another galloping up, his sword also drawn. Shouting to alert the pair of his warriors closest to him, he headed directly for Gallus, bringing the spear he carried up and level, aimed directly at the onrushing Roman. He saw two more riders behind the man he was aiming at, and, for a moment, he considered that the prudent course might be to withdraw, but when they got closer, he saw that one was a boy, the other a slightly built man with dark features and almost completely gray hair. Dismissing them as a threat, he discarded the idea of a retreat, returning his attention to his rapidly closing adversary, who had veered his own mount in his direction to meet the challenge.
“You know what to do,” the leader shouted to the other two warriors just before he and Gallus met.
They, in fact, did, each one splitting on either side of the Roman, wheeling about to turn perpendicular to Gallus, both of them waiting to see how Gallus met the attack of their leader. What Gallus did, much like Libo’s act, was completely unexpected. Instead of continuing to head straight for the leader, he suddenly veered to his right, changing his aim from the Latobici leader to the warrior to his left, who had just come to an almost complete stop. Robbed of his mobility, this warrior, armed with a sword, desperately brought it sweeping up in a last-ditch attempt to block Gallus’ thrust as the Roman went galloping by, but he was an instant too late. Gallus’ arm jerked from the impact; he was an infantryman by training and had never fought from horseback, so although he braced himself, between the force of the thrust and the motion of his horse, he felt his blade yanked from his grasp, leaving it lodged deep in the ribs of the Latobici warrior. The man gave a wheezing gasp, reeling in the saddle as a froth of blood suddenly appeared on his lips before toppling from the back of his horse to land with a dull, lifeless thud onto the dirt near the road. Gallus had scored a kill, except he was now unarmed.
The Latobici leader, momentarily thwarted by Gallus’ maneuver, had flashed by the pair, unable to bring his spear up and over the head of his own horse to bear on the Roman. Viciously yanking the reins of his horse, whose head was jerked by the motion, he wheeled about, lips pulled back in an evil grin as Gallus desperately tried to turn his own mount, intent on returning to the corpse of the first ma
n and retrieving his weapon. The leader’s horse leapt forward, and it became a desperate race back to where the body lay, the slain man’s horse trotting off a few paces before deciding to graze. It quickly became apparent that the leader would cut Gallus off, but again, the Roman didn’t do what would have been the understandable thing and veer away in an attempt to open the distance. Instead, he turned his horse so that it was heading in the general direction of the leader, but at such an angle that, to the Latobici, it appeared that the Roman had lost his head from fear. There was no safety in the direction the Roman was headed; on the other side of the road was the river, which was too wide and deep to cross. All the leader had to do was nudge his own mount with his knee to adjust his own trajectory to intersect the man. Once he dispatched this Roman, there was only the original man to worry about, and although whatever was happening was behind him, he was sure that his men had already dispatched that one. Then it was just that boy and the old man before they could run down the wagon.
He never saw the blow that killed him, so he didn’t know that it was actually the boy he had dismissed who struck it. One moment, his entire being was focused on the fleeing Roman, who suddenly pulled up as if realizing his flight was futile, then there was a searing, unspeakably intense pain in his back, starting just below the ribcage but lancing deep into the very center of his being. There was the feeling of some sort of foreign object entering his body, then it was gone almost before he realized it was there, leaving nothing but an agony. For some reason, the grip on his spear suddenly relaxed, and he felt it bouncing off his thigh as it fell to the ground, just before he felt himself toppling off to the side. The impact with the dirt was tremendous, although he barely felt it over the agonizing pain in his back. His last conscious thought was a feeling of surprise at the sight of a large, gray horse that went thundering by, and the boy holding a bloody sword. Where did he get that? the leader wondered. It was so small.
Titus reached Gallus, and together they rode over to the first Latobici corpse, where they were joined by Diocles, the pair of them watching as Gallus slid off his mount and ran over to the body, wrenching his blade from it. Meanwhile, the third warrior, seeing the fate of his leader and other comrade, had decided that he would be better off rejoining the part of the raiding party that was in pursuit of the wagon.
Quickly remounting, Gallus muttered, “Thanks, boy. I thought I was done for.”
Titus was sufficiently distracted not to bristle at being called a boy, as Diocles pointed east down the road.
“Libo’s in trouble!”
Gallus began heading in that direction, but he was stopped by Diocles.
“We can’t,” the Greek said quietly.
Gallus looked at him as if Diocles had lost his mind, but the older man was steadfast, pointing in the opposite direction. Even then, the half-dozen mounted men in pursuit of the wagon had closed the distance to within perhaps two hundred paces.
“We have to protect the wagon,” he insisted, and Gallus instantly saw that he was right.
Cursing bitterly, Gallus turned his horse.
“But we can’t just leave him,” Titus protested. “I’ll go help!”
“No!” Diocles shouted, the fear sharp in his voice. “You can’t, Titus! There are too many of them!”
Reluctantly, Titus looked again, and with a sinking heart, he saw that Diocles was right. Gallus was already headed after the wagon, and Diocles was clearly anxious to follow. Still, Titus looked at Libo, and he saw that the bodyguard was bleeding from a wound to his torso and one leg. Yet he continued to fight furiously, and Titus saw what he had to do.
“I’m going for help,” he turned to Diocles, his voice eerily calm. “I’m going to ride to Siscia. It’s our only chance.”
Diocles’ mouth opened to argue, then shut it. The boy was right, he realized.
Instead, he gave a quick nod, saying only, “May the gods go with you, Titus.”
“Tell my mother,” Titus said, then turned and jabbed Ocelus in the ribs.
Even as dire as the situation was, Diocles couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought of being the one to tell Iras that her son was risking his life.
What Titus had seen was what gave him the idea. Libo’s tactic of attacking the attackers had taken him off the road in the direction of the lower slope of the hill, just short of the line of trees. That left the road itself open, a clear path leading to Siscia, yet despite his youth he knew that time was of the essence.
“Okay, boy, I need you to be strong for me,” he whispered to Ocelus, who replied by flattening his ears, then, before Titus even touched the horse’s flanks, the gray stallion leapt into motion.
Within no more than three heartbeats, the giant horse was at a full gallop, his hooves thudding along the paving stones of the Via Postumia, the wind roaring in Titus’ ears. Despite the gravity and danger of the overall situation, Titus felt a grin plastered on his face, his lips pulled back in a combination of joy and from the force of the wind rushing past. Almost before his mind could register, the distance to where Libo was just then reeling in the saddle was halved, while the warriors surrounding the Roman were clearly intent on landing the final blow that would unseat him. That meant none of them were paying any attention to the lone rider heading their way at a full gallop.
Titus almost made it undetected, but it was a matter of just a few heartbeats’ difference between a clean escape and what happened, when Libo, wounded in at least a half-dozen spots, finally was too slow in parrying a thrust and took a spear in the throat. He fell from the saddle, dead before he hit the ground, enabling the two warriors nearest to the road to turn their attention away. Simultaneously they spotted the large gray stallion pounding toward them, and although they both reacted instantly, they underestimated the speed of Ocelus. They intended to intersect their quarry, but they completely missed, reaching the road well behind the fleeing boy. Shouting to their companions, the pair began their pursuit, and they were quickly joined by two more men, while the remainder of the Latobici turned back to the west to join the warriors who were pursuing the wagon. Ocelus was running full out, his neck extended flat, ears back, and mane whipping in the wind. Titus could feel the strands lashing his face, and would have several small welts on his cheeks later. At that moment, however, he was intent on escaping; he had seen everything as it happened, and even then, his heart was heavy at the thought of Libo’s death. The image of the thrust that killed Libo came to his mind, but he risked closing his eyes for just a moment, forcing the picture away. Titus had become a decent horseman, yet he was still afraid risking a backwards glance, so he only turned his head towards his shadow, trying to catch a glimpse of any pursuers by looking for their own right behind him. Seeing nothing, he finally risked a quick peek over his shoulder, and was relieved to see that his pursuers were several dozen lengths behind him. Ocelus was still running smoothly, but Titus was worried; his horse was old, although he hadn’t really exhibited much signs of aging since he and Titus had been reunited.
“Keep it up, boy,” Titus shouted to the horse. “When we lose them, I’ve got an extra apple for you!”
Ocelus’ ears, flattened against his skull, only twitched in response, the horse continuing his smooth, ground-eating gait. While Titus wasn’t that experienced, he knew at some point soon he was going to have to slow down his horse, but then so would his pursuers. What he was counting on was the fact that their horses were already more winded when they started their pursuit than Ocelus; his hope was that this would make the difference in his escaping. As Ocelus continued along the road, Titus desperately tried to remember the country to the east and what opportunities it provided for him to lose his pursuers. From what he remembered, the ground was mostly open, the road following the Savus all the way to Siscia. Then, he recalled that, perhaps twelve miles ahead, there was a heavily forested ridge on the northern side of the road. It was a bit unusual; the ground around it was flat and open, but Titus remembered that Gallus had told
him that the ridge was riddled with caves, which might give him and Ocelus the chance to hide and lose his pursuers, should they continue to chase him. His hope was that they would give up, and do it soon, especially because while the ridge was his best chance at losing them if they continued the chase, it was on the other side of the Savus. He had swum with Ocelus before, but never under these kinds of circumstances, and while he wasn’t sure, he thought he had spotted one of his pursuers carrying a bow. First, however, he had to get there, so he risked another glance behind him, and was heartened to see that the gap remained the same. However, they were still back there and showing no signs of giving up.
The wagon just barely made it to the farmhouse, the mules giving their last bit of energy to do so. Simeon wasted no time, leaping from the wagon before it came to a complete stop.
“Mistress,” he shouted. “Get your children in the house! I will do what I can to hold them off!”
Even as Iras did as Simeon commanded, jumping down from the back of the wagon, then turning to grab Valeria’s hand and roughly pull her out of the wagon, Simeon went sprinting past her, back in the direction of the riders, who were less than fifty paces behind them. Meanwhile, Sextus, clearly frightened, jumped out by himself, and last was Birgit, clutching Miriam, but leaping down with an agility that was surprising, although it was fueled by fear. Iras barely had a moment to wonder what Simeon had planned, but as she hurried her children to the door of the squat, stone farmhouse, she saw something in one of his hands, while the other drew back to his cheek. Only then did she remember that among the many things that Simeon had told her over the course of their return to Siscia was his prowess with a bow. She had the odd, fleeting memory of him telling her how he had been one of Armenia’s corps of dreaded horse archers, trained in the same manner as the Parthians, if not as renowned, before he had been wounded, captured, and made a slave. Before she even shut the door, she saw Simeon release an arrow, draw another from a quiver he had slung across his back, nock, and let a second one fly. What she couldn’t see were the results, but she heard a blood-curdling scream that she barely recognized as coming from one of the rebel’s horses. Slamming the door shut, she was about to throw the locking bar down, then thought better of it. She didn’t know where Gallus, Diocles, or Titus were at that moment, but she was sure that they would be trying to reach the farmhouse as well. The children were whimpering with fear, yet surprisingly, Birgit seemed to be the calmest, holding Miriam, who was squirming mightily while the Gallic girl murmured to the two older children words in her native tongue that she had begun using with the children even before they left Arelate. At first, it had irritated Iras that the girl was using words that she didn’t know, but it was something she had planned to bring up and never gotten around to. Now it didn’t seem to be so important, and it was having a good effect on Sextus and Valeria, who were even then calming down. Outside, Iras caught a series of shouts and what she assumed were curses, including what was clearly a cry of pain that she could tell didn’t come from Simeon. There was the sound of hooves and she heard at least two sets that began sounding as if they were coming from the opposite side of the house from the wagon.
