by R. W. Peake
Suddenly alarmed, she told Birgit, “Watch this door! If anyone other than Simeon or the others come in, scream.”
Without waiting for Birgit’s reply, she scurried as fast as her stola and traveling cloak allowed to the far side of the farmhouse. It wasn’t a huge house, but it had four rooms, and she could tell by the smell of the room she moved into from the main one that this was used as a stable, most likely for the more valuable of the departed farmer’s animals. Normally, she would have been careful where she stepped, but she had no time to do so, because she spotted that there was another door, this one large enough for animals. It was closed, yet before she reached it, a blast of light destroyed the darkness as the door was violently flung open. Startled, she let out a terrified shriek, trying to slide to a stop but slipping in a pile of manure and falling, hard, on her rear.
“Iras! It’s us!” Diocles shouted, holding a hand out to her as he pulled Thunder’s reins to lead his animal into the building.
Gasping in a combination of relief and pain, Iras struggled to her feet. Right behind Diocles was Gallus, who the Greek made room for by leading Thunder into the far corner, where he dropped the reins.
Approaching Iras, Diocles’ nose wrinkled and he said, “You smell like you stepped in cac.”
It was an odd thing to say, at an odd time, and the incongruity of the moment caused Iras to laugh, despite her state of mind. That was when she noticed something.
“Where’s Titus?”
Diocles hesitated for an instant, and Iras, mistaking the reason, uttered a muffled, choking sob and collapsed in a dead faint.
“What did you do that for?” Gallus demanded as Diocles dropped to his knees.
“I didn’t do anything,” the Greek protested as he gently slapped Iras’ face.
When he didn’t get any response, he reluctantly increased the force of his attempts. Finally, her eyes fluttered open, slowly coming into focus. Looking up and seeing Diocles, she gasped and tried to sit upright.
“Titus!” She said the name as both a question and a lament, needing to hear, but fearing the answer.
“He’s fine,” Diocles answered quickly.
Her face flooded with relief, but it was short-lived.
“Then where is he?” she demanded again.
There was no putting it off, and Diocles decided it was best to plunge in.
“He’s gone for help. To Siscia.”
For a moment, her face registered no comprehension, then she sat bolt upright. Disdaining Diocles’ offer of help up, she climbed to her feet.
“Are you mad?” She was furious now, completely oblivious to what was happening around her and her condition of just a moment before forgotten.
Gallus, meanwhile, hadn’t bothered to stay put, but moved quickly back into the main room.
“It was his idea, Iras,” Diocles said, then added quietly, “And it was a good one. The only one, really.”
“But what about Libo? Surely he would have been better suited,” Iras protested.
Diocles hesitated, then replied, “I don’t know for sure, but I think Libo is dead. The last time I looked back, I couldn’t see him at all, which probably means he’s off his horse. And if he was unhorsed…” His voice trailed off, but his meaning was clear.
“But why Titus?” she wailed. “He’s just a boy!”
“Because he’s an extraordinary boy.” Diocles was trying to remain patient, aware that his attention was needed elsewhere. “And he’s got Ocelus.”
Iras was almost overwhelmed by a confusing array of emotions at Diocles’ words: pride, fear, anxiety, and a feeling of helplessness that threatened to paralyze her. But there was a rational part of her mind that acknowledged everything Diocles was saying was true, and that Titus was the best, and perhaps their only hope.
“If anything happens to him…”
Diocles put a hand on her shoulder and assured her quietly, “He’ll be fine, Iras. He’ll get through and bring help. I know it.”
“I hope so,” Iras managed.
Absently, she reached up to pat Diocles’ hand, then moved back into the main room. Just as she entered, she saw Gallus leaping to the door to yank it open.
Simeon came stumbling in, his quiver empty, but still with his bow, gasping, “They’re right behind me!”
Gallus and Simeon put their shoulders into the door to slam it shut, but even so, had to struggle to close it as a single, brawny arm shot through the gap, clawing at the air. The sight of that elicited a scream from the children and Birgit, who clutched Miriam and shrank back into the far corner of the room. Gallus managed to draw his pugio, and with his left hand, he jabbed it downward, stabbing the forearm of whoever was still trying to keep the door from being closed. A howling yell emanated from the other side, but the arm was withdrawn, leaving a bloody smear on the wall next to the doorway. The door slammed shut, and Diocles quickly dropped the locking bar into place. They had won a few moments, but that was all. Quickly taking stock, Gallus saw that although the walls were made of stone, making it impossible to fire, the roof was wood. He knew it wouldn’t take long for the raiders to arrive at the idea themselves, and their only chance was to keep them from climbing the roof. Like most farmhouses, this one had a loft spanning half of the room adjoining the main one. If it was used in the same way as most such structures, the farmer’s children slept up there. Telling Simeon to keep watch, which he could only partially do through a crack in the shuttered window, Gallus beckoned Diocles to follow him. Climbing the ladder, both men had to crouch as Gallus inspected the planks that formed the roof, testing them until he found what he was looking for. Taking his sword, he used it to pry the plank he had selected by placing the tip in the crack between it and the support beam that it had been nailed to, wincing at the noise as the board screeched in protest. He did the same for the next two planks, so that there would be a space wide enough for a man the size of Diocles.
Turning to the Greek, he said, “If you hear anything, and I mean anything, up there, you’re going to have to go out on the roof and stop them.”
Diocles’ face turned pale; nevertheless, he nodded his grim understanding, drawing the sword he had been given a few days earlier by Libo. Gallus dropped down, and ran to where Simeon was standing.
“They’re looting the wagon,” the Armenian said quietly, still peering through the crack.
“How many do you see?” Gallus asked.
“Five,” Simeon replied, then turned to Gallus. “Did you manage to count how many there are?”
Gallus shook his head, but said, “I can’t be sure, but I know there were at least a dozen.”
Simeon thought for a moment. “I know that I killed at least one.”
“As did I,” Gallus responded, “and the boy killed another.”
Iras looked up from comforting the children, wide-eyed.
“Titus did?” she gasped. “He killed a man?”
Gallus nodded, but he was thinking furiously about other matters.
Turning to Simeon, he asked the Armenian, “Can you handle a sword as well as you use a bow?”
The Armenian grinned.
“Not as well, but I know which end to hold.”
Gallus laughed, except it was cut short by the realization that there wasn’t an extra sword in the house. The only way his plan would work is if Simeon used Diocles’ weapon. And if any Latobici chose the same moment to climb the roof to set it alight, Diocles would have no way to stop it. Deciding quickly that it was worth the risk, Gallus ran into the other room, and told Diocles that he needed his sword. Although the Greek was confused, he complied, handing it hilt first to Gallus.
“I’ll bring it right back, but it might be a little bloody,” Gallus called over his shoulder as he returned to the main room.
Handing it to Simeon, he quickly explained what he was planning. It was to the Armenian’s credit that he didn’t hesitate once he learned what it was.
Titus had slowed Ocelus to a canter, then f
inally to a trot, but only did so when he saw his pursuers slow their own mounts. He, or rather Ocelus, had managed to increase the gap back to his pursuers, who were perhaps a quarter mile behind him. And looming ahead of him was the lone ridge that he had remembered, off to his left front, the heavily forested slopes beckoning to him. The only problem was the silvery ribbon that was the Savus, glinting in the sunlight, in between Titus and the possible safety of the ridge. Glancing at the sun, Titus estimated he had no more than a full watch of daylight left, but he would reach the ridge before dark. This was disappointing; his hope had been that he would be able to use the cover of darkness to cross the river, because he had had enough opportunity to see that one of the Latobici was armed with a bow. In fact, the warrior had attempted a long distance shot twice, although both had fallen well short of their target. Now he had a decision to make, whether to attempt to cross the river and risk being struck by arrows as his pursuers stood on the riverbank, or to forego the possibility of losing them by not even trying to reach the ridge. Nagging at him was the worry about Ocelus; he had been unable to stop to rest his horse, who, for the first time, was showing signs of fatigue. He had been run into a good sweat, making his coat a darker gray than normal, and his head was bobbing a bit with each step. Nevertheless, Titus was sure that his pursuers’ mounts were in at least as bad condition, and he had every confidence in his horse, no matter how old Ocelus was.
“I haven’t forgotten my promise,” the boy told the horse, more to break the silence than for any other reason. “You’re going to get an extra apple. But no more than that,” he added ruefully, remembering the aftermath of his short-lived experiment, when he had allowed both Sextus and Valeria to give Ocelus their own apples.
It was the worry about Ocelus that forced Titus’ decision. He had to find a place to elude his pursuers to allow his horse to rest, for at least a watch. Despite his youth, Titus understood that this was a horrible risk to his family; every watch he delayed in reaching Siscia meant his mother and siblings were still in danger. Yet, he reasoned with himself, if Ocelus finally did founder, his family, in all likelihood, would die along with him, because he held no illusions that the Latobici would show him any mercy. He didn’t know that the man he had killed was the nominal leader of this raiding party; what he did know was that he had slain one of their number, and that marked him as a combatant and not a boy. Under other circumstances, Titus would have taken great pride in that distinction, yet for the first, and what would turn out to be the only time in his life, he wished that they would view and treat him as just the ten-year-old boy he was, no matter what size he might have been. Following that thought was an even more unwelcome one; what if his efforts were in vain? What if it was already too late? As quickly as the idea came, he shoved it away with a shudder, refusing to let his mind go into that dark corner of his consciousness and open that door again. This may have been what prompted his next action. Suddenly pressing hard into Ocelus’ right flank with his knee while drawing the reins in the opposite direction, Titus gave his horse a hard kick in the ribs.
“Let’s go, boy!” he shouted, as much to startle Ocelus as anything. “Let’s go swimming!”
As he had hoped, the combination of his cry and the physical commands he was given caused Ocelus to respond instinctively with a leap to his left. Where he got the reserves, Titus would never know, but the gray stallion went to the full gallop, heading directly for the river. Titus looked over, and his heart leapt with joy at the sight of the four barbarians engaged in some sort of discussion and not paying attention at that moment. He knew that it wouldn’t last; even as he was turning his attention back to the front, he saw a quick jerk of one of the Latobici’s heads, attracted no doubt by his own movement. Between the distance and the wind already roaring in his ears, he couldn’t hear the cries of alarm, but the four warriors immediately put their own mounts into motion, heading at an angle for the riverbank. Nevertheless, Ocelus, without any hesitation, went plunging into the river, his powerful legs churning up a fantastic spray of water and mud. In no more than the space of three or four heartbeats, Titus could feel his horse’s legs lose contact with the river bottom, as he became buoyant as well. Clutching tightly to the saddle, Titus turned to see that his pursuers had yet to reach the riverbank, but they were closing the distance rapidly, and he wasn’t quite halfway across. Ocelus was still swimming strongly, but Titus could hear how labored his breathing was becoming, his lungs working like the powerful bellows that they were, his nostrils fully dilated. Although he had very little experience in judging such matters, Titus thought that he would have to get at least fifty paces beyond the riverbank to be out of bowshot. And that was only if the bowman stayed fully on his side of the river and didn’t enter the water. Glancing back again, Titus’ heart sank as he saw that the pursuing tribesmen had reached the bank, and while three of them went plunging into the water, one of them had drawn up and hopped off his horse. As Titus watched in helpless horror, he saw the man draw his bow back, and point it slightly skyward, judging the trajectory of the arrow he was about to loose. There was an instant’s pause, then Titus saw a dark blurry object streak into the air, arcing up then down, moving so quickly that the boy’s eye could barely track it. And there was nothing he could do to avoid it, but fortunately the archer’s aim was wide, Titus hearing a hissing sound an eyeblink before the arrow created a splash as it entered the water, off to his right.
“Come on, boy, we’re almost there!” Titus urged Ocelus, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, brought on as much by the sight of his horse’s head, his nostrils less than an inch above the water, as he was by the near miss.
Even as he said this, there was another hiss, except this time it was to his left, and it was much, much closer, the entry of the arrow splashing Titus in the face. They were so close to the other side, he thought, although Ocelus’ hooves still hadn’t touched bottom. Just as this passed through his mind, Titus felt as if somehow one of the Latobici had managed to sneak up behind him and punch him in the shoulder, hard. It didn’t hurt, at least at first, but in very quick succession, the pain came in the form of a piercing agony right at the junction of his left arm and torso, just above the armpit, followed by the realization that he had been struck by an arrow. It was a reflex action for him to release his grip on Ocelus with his right hand to reach around to feel for the arrow protruding from his back. But although he instantly realized he had made a mistake relinquishing his grasp of Ocelus, it was too late, as just then the horse’s hooves touched bottom and the stallion made a surging leap forward. Titus slid right off the back of his horse, and almost instantly went under the surface of the water. This, in fact, was a good thing, because in the space he had occupied just a heartbeat before, another arrow came slashing down. In all likelihood, it would have been a mortal blow; instead, it splashed into the river harmlessly in the gap between the boy and his horse, who was now chest-deep in the water. Meanwhile, Titus was fighting against the panic that came from being hurt, and underwater. He knew how to swim under normal circumstances, but these were not normal circumstances; the pain in his shoulder had begun in earnest, making any movement of his left arm excruciating. In the confusion of the moment and in his near-hysteria, he lost track of where the surface was, causing him to thrash his one arm and both legs. He was close to drowning as he fought his body’s almost overwhelming urge to draw in a breath, which, as far gone with fear as he was, he understood would spell his doom. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad; the thought flashed through his mind, and it was so powerful that it caused him to stop struggling, his body going limp as he began to accept this finality. He was only vaguely aware of a sudden disturbance just above him, then he felt as if his right arm was clamped in a vise as he was violently jerked upward. Just as his head broke the surface, his body finally prevailed, and he opened his mouth to take in what he was sure would be a lungful of water. Instead, his reward was what he thought was the purest, sweetest air he had ever inhaled;
it wouldn’t be until much later that he would learn his father had experienced something very similar not long before. His right arm was still gripped by something powerful, and his left arm was too painful to lift, but what he was feeling at that moment was a whisper compared to the agony that was about to hit him. Just as the last of the river water streamed from his eyes, out of the corner of his vision he saw a large, gray snout, with big yellow teeth firmly clamped to his arm, dragging him backward onto the riverbank. Before he could appreciate what Ocelus was doing for him, he was almost overwhelmed with agony as the shaft of the arrow protruding from his back came into contact with the ground, shoving the head of the missile deeper into his body. For a horrifying moment, he was sure he would faint, yet there was some part of his mind that refused to submit, the imperative of the need to flee still too powerful.
