by Ben Kane
Hooves hammered the ground, and Villius arrived. He took in Quintus, and the warrior with the knife, and slowed his horse. Quintus felt a surge of relief, but it vanished almost at once. Seeing the bowman, Villius changed his mind. Without as much as a second look, he drove his mount down the slope to safety.
The warrior with the knife let out an ugly laugh.
Hiss. The barbed shaft ripped a hole in Quintus’ tunic, tearing an agonising trail through his skin before it thumped into a tree a few paces away.
‘You’re bastards, all of you!’ cried Quintus. Eyes swivelling from one Gaul to the other, he jabbed his spear at the knifeman, putting him on the back foot. If he wasn’t to be slain by the bowman, he had to down his opponent. Fast. Quintus’ skin crawled. He could almost feel the next arrow sinking into his back. Or his side. Inspiration struck, and he darted off to his left before turning to face the Gaul again. His enemy roared with anger as he realised what Quintus had done.
Protected from the arrows by the other’s body, Quintus stabbed his spear forward again. The warrior dodged, but Quintus anticipated the move. With a mighty shove, he slid the spear point deep into the Gaul’s belly. An ear-splitting shriek rent the air, and he twisted the blade for good measure, before wrenching it free. The warrior staggered. His dagger fell to the ground unnoticed. He clutched at his stomach, but he couldn’t stop a couple of loops of bowel from slithering out of the hole in his tunic. His knees buckled, but he fought himself upright.
Quintus remembered the bear that he’d fought near home, a lifetime ago it seemed. It had taken an injury as severe as this, but had still nearly killed him. As his father was fond of saying, a man was dangerous until he was dead. He stepped in and thrust his spear deep into the Gaul’s chest. The man’s expression grew startled; his lips worked; a deep groan issued forth and then the light went from his eyes. He sagged down, a dead weight on the spear, but Quintus did not let him fall. Protected by the corpse, he peered over its shoulder. He was just in time to see an arrow punch into the Gaul’s back.
That was enough. With a great heave, he pushed the body off his blade. Blood drenched his arms, chest and face, but Quintus paid it no heed. Spinning on his heel, he sprinted for the stream, biting back the nausea that swelled in his throat. Everything now was about speed and tactics. How far he could get from the bowman before the next shaft was loosed. How difficult a target he could make of himself. After fifteen paces, he turned to his right. Ten steps further on, he zigzagged to his left. Hiss. An arrow struck the ground close to his feet. Quintus gasped with a mixture of relief and terror but didn’t dare to look back. On the count of ten, he changed direction once more. The Gaul missed again, and Quintus risked running straight down the slope for a bit before darting off to the right. The following shaft missed him by a good distance, and his heart leaped. He had to be more than a hundred steps from the treeline. The stream was drawing near. If he reached it without being hit, the bowman’s chances of success would be slim indeed.
One of his companions was halfway across the ford. Hope filled him until he saw it was Villius. The cur had a bow, but he wasn’t even looking back. Quintus’ order that each man was to save himself seemed stupid now. Bastard. He could be distracting the Gaul. Of the rest, Quintus saw no sign. He turned and sprinted left, heading in a diagonal direction to the watercourse. Twenty steps, then a jink to the right. Five steps and an about-turn. The lapse since the last arrow was longer than before, and Quintus’ guts churned. He risked a look at the warrior, and wished he hadn’t. The man was tracking his every move, and had an arrow aimed straight at him.
For the first time, panic ripped at Quintus. He couldn’t stop or slow down. His only choice was to keep going, to continue changing direction and hope that the Gaul didn’t second-guess his move. Given the number of times he’d evaded being struck, however, his luck had to be wearing thin. The bank was less than twenty paces away now. Eighteen. Sixteen. On impulse, Quintus decided to make a break for it. At full speed, he’d reach it in four heartbeats, maybe five. He would dive into the water and swim across. See if the whoreson could hit him then.
He ducked his head and sprinted forward.
Quintus had only gone a few steps when he felt a tremendous blow hit his upper left arm. The tiniest delay, and then pain such as he’d never felt before. Looking down, he saw a bloody arrow tip protruding from his left bicep. Moving, I have to keep moving, he thought. Otherwise the bastard will get me in the back with the next one. To his relief, the bank was now very close. He lunged into the water, gasping at the biting chill. Swimming wasn’t an option, so Quintus began wading across, praying that the Gaul had not been emboldened enough to come out of the safety of the trees to take another shot. On the other side, he’d be at the very limit of most bows’ range. A splash off to his right – another arrow – provided a little relief, but it wasn’t long before the extreme cold of the water began to sap his strength. His legs seemed to have lead weights attached; waves of agony from his arm were washing over him. Desperate for a rest, Quintus ground to a halt. He could taste acid in his mouth. The Gaul would keep releasing as long as he could. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his fears. The warrior was aiming high in the air to give his arrow more distance. Quintus had no desire to drown in the stream, choking on his own blood, so he ducked down until the water met his chin. Walking like a crab, he battled on.
The sight of Calatinus, on foot but with a bow, and one of the others, armed similarly, on the far bank was as welcome as any he could remember. In unison, they released arrows in a massive arc that took them high overhead. Quintus couldn’t stop himself from looking again. The shafts landed within twenty steps of the Gaul, who turned and fled back into the safety of the trees. The slope opposite was empty now. Drained, relieved, Quintus waded ashore. He staggered as he clambered up the bank, but strong arms stopped him from falling.
Quintus shoved them away. ‘I’m all right.’
‘No, you’re not! How bad is it?’ Calatinus’ voice was concerned.
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t exactly have time to examine it,’ he replied with a flash of humour.
‘Come on. Get under cover. We can look at it there.’
With the other rider covering them, they entered the shelter of the trees. A few steps in, Quintus saw three more of his companions. They greeted him with real relief.
‘Seen any Gauls on this bank?’ he asked.
‘Not a sign, thank the gods,’ came the answer. ‘They’re probably still running.’
Quintus yelped as Calatinus’ fingers probed at the point where the arrow entered his arm.
‘Sorry.’
‘What can you see?’
‘You’re lucky. It looks to have missed the bone. Once it’s been removed and cleaned up, the wound should heal all right.’
‘Take it out now!’ demanded Quintus. ‘Get it over with.’
Calatinus’ forehead creased. ‘That’s not a good idea. It’s not bleeding that much now, and I have no saw to cut the shaft. If I try to remove the arrow by breaking it in two, I’m bound to set it haemorrhaging again. We haven’t got time to hang around trying to stem the flow of blood. We killed at least three warriors—’
‘Four,’ interrupted Quintus.
Calatinus grinned. ‘But only the gods know how many others might be out there.’
There were loud murmurs of agreement.
Quintus scowled, but he knew his friend was right. ‘Very well.’
‘You can ride behind me,’ said Quintus. ‘We’ll be back in the camp before you know it.’
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Quintus followed Calatinus through the trees. It was only then that he began to wonder how his father would react. Surely he’d be pleased? They had slain most of the Gauls and put to flight the rest – without any apparent losses. That had to be a good thing. Deep in his belly, however, Quintus wasn’t so sure.
Get back to the camp first, he told himself savagely. You can worry about it t
hen.
By unhappy chance, Fabricius happened to be near the camp’s southern gate when the exhausted party got back. Snow was falling thickly, coating the ramparts, the ground and the soldiers’ cloaks and helmets, but that didn’t stop him from focusing on the nine riders as they passed through the entrance. His face twisted in disbelief as he recognised first Calatinus, and then Quintus. ‘Stop right there!’ he bellowed.
Their relief at reaching the camp dissipated a little, but they reined in. Quintus, numb with cold and half-conscious, mumbled a curse.
‘Curb your tongue, you insolent brat!’ roared Fabricius, approaching. He came in from their right, so he did not see the arrow in his son’s arm.
Quintus coloured. He made to speak again, but the combination of his father’s glare and his weakness held him silent.
Fabricius pinned Calatinus with his eyes. ‘What is the meaning of this? Where have you been?’
‘We, er, went hunting, sir.’
‘Hunting?’ Fabricius’ voice rose in disbelief. ‘In this weather? When you had a patrol to go on?’
‘The conditions weren’t too bad when we left, sir’ – here Calatinus looked to his companions for support – ‘and I think we’re still in time for the patrol.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Fabricius’ gaze moved along the line of horses, searching for bodies slung over their backs. Seeing nothing, his lips thinned. ‘Did you manage to bring down anything then?’
‘No game, sir, no.’ Calatinus couldn’t stop himself from grinning. ‘But we did kill four Gauls.’
‘Eh? What happened?’
Quintus’ mouth opened, but his father silenced him with a look.
Calatinus quickly told the story of the clash by the stream. As he mentioned Quintus being struck by an arrow, Fabricius rushed to his son’s side. ‘Where were you hit?’
‘I’m f-f-fine.’ Vaguely aware that he was slurring his words, Quintus tried to lift his left arm, but was unable to.
‘Hades below! You must go to the hospital at once.’ Fabricius took the horse’s reins. ‘Was anyone else injured?’
‘Our tenth companion didn’t appear at the appointed meeting place, sir,’ admitted Calatinus. ‘We waited for a little while, but the weather was worsening, so we carved the word “camp” on a tree trunk before we left, and hoped he would see that.’
‘One man lost, and another injured, for what – four measly Gauls?’ cried Fabricius. ‘Whose idea was this hare-brained expedition?’
‘It was mine, sir,’ replied Calatinus.
Quintus tried to protest, but his tongue wouldn’t move.
‘You’re a damn fool! We will speak later of this,’ snapped Fabricius. ‘Get back to your tents. You’ve got just enough time to fill your bellies and warm up before we ride out on patrol. I will leave my son in the care of the surgeon, and join you shortly.’
Quintus heard Calatinus mutter his good wishes. He was too tired to do more than nod.
‘Get off then,’ barked his father.
All at once, the world came rushing in on Quintus. He felt his thighs’ grip on his mount weaken; he began to lose his balance, could do nothing about it. ‘Father, I—’
‘Don’t talk. Conserve your strength.’ His father’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
Quintus didn’t hear it. In a dead faint, he slid off Calatinus’ horse to the ground.
Chapter III
Near Capua, Campania
‘AURELIA!’
She ignored her mother’s voice, which had carried all the way from the house to where she was standing, at the edge of their property. She’d been thinking about Quintus and Hanno, and her feet had carried her here of their own volition. This was the way the three of them used to come when they sneaked up into the woods. There Quintus had trained her to use a wooden, and then a real, sword. Atia called again, and Aurelia’s lips twitched with brief amusement. What would she, or her father, make of the fact that she could use a weapon? Ride a horse? Both activities were forbidden to women, but that hadn’t stopped Aurelia badgering Quintus to teach her. Eventually, he’d given in. How glad she was that he had; how she treasured the memories of those carefree times. But the world was different now, a harsher, darker place.
Rome was at war with Carthage, and her father and brother were possibly among its casualties.
Stop thinking like that! They’re still alive.
Fabricius had been the first to leave, riding away to fight a people whom he’d fought before, a generation ago. Quintus had gone a few months later, and he had taken Hanno too. Sadness filled Aurelia as she recalled saying goodbye to her brother, and to the slave who had become a friend. If she admitted it, Hanno had perhaps meant something more. Yet he was one of the enemy now, and she would never see him again. That hurt more than she cared to concede. Sometimes she dreamed about running away, to Carthage, to be reunited with him. Aurelia knew it for a crazy fantasy. Yet there was more hope of achieving that than seeing Hanno’s friend Suniaton – Suni – again, she thought sadly.
‘Aurelia? Can you hear me?’
Remembering the horror, she walked a few steps further. Against all wise judgement, but with little other choice, Aurelia had brought an injured Suni from the shepherd’s hut where he’d been hiding back to the family house. Runaway slaves weren’t uncommon, and he had pretended to be mute. The ruse had pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes for a time, but then she had made the worst mistake of her life, calling him by his real name instead of his assumed one. It wouldn’t have mattered if Agesandros, the farm’s overseer, hadn’t overheard her and put two and two together. Embittered by the murder of his entire family by the Carthaginians during the previous war, he had slain Suni before her very eyes. Aurelia could still see the knife slipping between Suni’s ribs, the blood soaking through his tunic and the odd tenderness with which Agesandros had lowered him to the floor. She could still hear Suni’s last shuddering gasp.
‘Where are you, child?’ Atia was beginning to sound annoyed.
Aurelia didn’t care. In fact, she was glad. Relations with her mother had been cool – to say the least – since Suni’s death. This was because despite some initial misgivings, Atia had accepted Agesandros’ explanation that Suni had been a Carthaginian and, worse still, a fugitive gladiator who had joined the household by subterfuge. He had been a danger to everyone in the household; all the overseer had done was to rid them of a lethal threat. ‘I know you thought of the boy as harmless, dear,’ Atia had sighed. ‘With his maimed leg, so did I. But Agesandros saw through him, thank the gods. Remember, the injured viper can still deliver a fatal bite.’ Aurelia had protested vociferously, but her mother had put her foot down. Mindful of her need to protect Quintus’ involvement in Hanno’s escape, Aurelia hadn’t been able to reveal more.
‘Gaius is here! He has come all the way from Capua. Don’t you want to see him?’
Aurelia’s head snapped around. Gaius Martialis was Quintus’ oldest and closest friend; she had known him since she was tiny. He was steady, brave and funny, and she had a lot of time for him. Yet at their last meeting, a few weeks previously, he’d brought news that had rocked her world. Hundreds of Romans had been lost in the cavalry clash against Hannibal at the Ticinus; there had been no word of her father and Quintus, or of Flaccus, the high-ranking noble to whom she had been betrothed. She and her mother had lived in painful uncertainty since. Since hearing of the subsequent and unexpected defeat at the Trebia – the Senate had called it a ‘setback’, but everyone knew that for a lie – their anguish had known no bounds. In all likelihood, at least one of the three men had died, probably more. How could they have survived when more than twenty thousand others had not? Aurelia felt sick at the thought of it, but something in her mother’s voice gave her hope.
It didn’t sound strained or unhappy. Maybe Gaius’ visit was not ominous. A flicker of hope lit in her heart. It would be good to have some normal social interaction. Lately, she had had nothing but fractious e
xchanges with her mother, or frosty silences when she came across Agesandros. There was time for a swift, silent prayer, asking that those she loved be granted protection, especially her father, Quintus and Hanno. At the last moment, Aurelia added Flaccus, and then she turned and ran back down the path.
She found Atia and Gaius in the courtyard that lay adjacent to the main house, a cobbled affair that was bordered by storerooms, a hay barn, grain and wine stores, and slave quarters. In the warmer months, it was the busiest place on the farm. During the winter, it became a route between the buildings, which housed livestock, tools and a wide variety of preserved foodstuffs from fish to hams and herbs. Tracks crisscrossed the once-white snow in dizzying patterns. They had been made by men and women’s sandals, children’s bare feet, dogs, cats, poultry, horses and mules. Aurelia walked with care, avoiding the regular piles of manure. It was time to have the yard swept again, she thought absently.
‘At last you grace us with your presence. Where have you been?’ demanded Atia.
Elation filled Aurelia. Gaius couldn’t be the harbinger of bad news today – not when her mother greeted her in that way.
Gaius gave her a broad grin.
Aurelia bobbed her head in reply. Was she imagining it, or had he looked her up and down for the first time? Suddenly self-conscious, she tossed back her thick black hair and wished that she wasn’t wearing her everyday wool dress and old cloak. ‘I was walking. I came as soon as I heard you call.’
Her mother’s eyebrows rose in evident disbelief, but she did not push further.
‘It is good to see you again, Aurelia.’ Gaius inclined his head.
‘And you, Gaius.’ She gave him a demure smile.
