by Ben Kane
The dim sound of a whistle didn’t register for a couple of heartbeats.
Then it was repeated, and the staccato hammering of a woodpecker some distance away came to a halt. There was a shriek of alarm from a blackbird, and another. Quintus felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. There were men nearby. Diana had not forsaken them after all, because the wind was blowing into his face, so he had heard whoever had whistled rather than the other way around. He turned and raised the flat of his hand towards Calatinus, the signal to halt.
His friend, who was twenty paces to his rear, peered to the front. ‘Deer?’ he asked in a hopeful voice.
‘No. We’ve got company! Tell the others to shut the hell up!’
Calatinus’ mouth worked in surprise, but then Quintus’ words sank in. He twisted around on his horse. ‘Quiet! Someone’s out there. Quiet!’
More whistles. Quintus scanned the trees in front of him, looking for movement of any kind. He was grateful for the wide gaps between the leafless trunks and the lack of undergrowth, which made it hard to hide. The ground before him dropped away gradually, leading down to a small, pattering stream some distance away. They had crossed it a short way into the woods. Instinct told him that whoever was calling had no idea of his or his comrades’ presence. The tone of the whistle wasn’t urgent. It felt more like a message to let one hunter know where another one was. It wouldn’t be other Romans — or at least that was doubtful. Since the Trebia, few men were inclined to go far from Placentia unless they were part of a strong force. That meant the men he’d heard were Carthaginian, or more likely Gaulish tribesmen. His guts churned.
He had vivid memories of what some Gauls — so-called Roman allies — were capable of. Both he and Calatinus had been fortunate to survive a night attack soon after their arrival in which scores of their fellows had been decapitated. The scarlet tracks left in the snow as the Gauls fled with their trophies still haunted him. At the Trebia, Quintus had been attacked and nearly slain by Gauls who’d had heads hanging from their mounts’ harnesses. That memory made red rage coat his vision for an instant. He had a bone to pick with any, and every, tribesman who fought for Hannibal. Blinking away his fury, Quintus took a deep breath. Caution was vital here. He and his comrades could have been followed into the woods. They could be outnumbered. There might even be an ambush set.
An odd calm descended over him. Maybe he was to die here. If that were the case, he would die like a man. Like a Roman. Taking plenty of the enemy with him.
Letting the reins drop to the ground, Quintus slipped off his horse and padded back to Calatinus. ‘Let’s go and take a look.’
‘And the rest?’
‘They can wait here. If we don’t return soon, they’re to make their own way back.’
Calatinus nodded. Quickly, they conferred with the eight other riders, who looked most unhappy. When the whistle rang out again, any trace of their earlier good mood disappeared completely.
‘Gods know how many warriors that could be. We won’t wait for long,’ warned the oldest, a taciturn man called Villius.
‘Give us enough time to see who’s out there,’ snapped Quintus. ‘Otherwise you could ride into a trap. They could be all around us.’
Villius gauged his companions’ mood. ‘All right. But on the count of a thousand, we’re riding away.’
‘That might not be sufficient,’ protested Quintus.
‘I don’t care.’ Villius’ tone was snide. ‘I’m not hanging around here to be butchered by Gaulish savages.’
There was a chorus of agreement.
Quintus shot a furious glance at Calatinus, who shrugged. He swallowed his anger. Their comrades’ reaction wasn’t surprising, and this was no time to hesitate. ‘Start counting.’ He turned his back on Villius’ sour smile. With his spear at the ready and Calatinus two steps behind, Quintus loped off. ‘You keep count as well,’ he growled.
‘Fine. One. Two. Three. .’ answered Calatinus.
Quintus silently matched his friend’s speed. They came first to Calatinus’ horse, and then his own, muttering calming words to both beasts as they passed. Quintus’ gaze roved from left to right at speed, taking in every detail. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. An old forked beech, taller than a block of flats in Capua. A spider web on a bush, its radiate patterns picked out by the frost. Leaves frozen to the ground singly, in piles, on the surface of puddles. Above them, bare branches rose up in a meshwork of layers to the grey sky. A dead oak, its gnarled trunk blackened and cracked by a lightning strike, leaning against the tree next to it, as if drunk. A flash of colour in the branches as a woodpecker — the one he’d heard? — flitted off in alarm. Quintus paused, but he could see nothing ahead. He hadn’t heard any fresh whistles either. The bird must have taken fright at their arrival. His pulse rate didn’t decrease, however, and he had to keep wiping the sweat from his eyes. He glanced around, saw his friend’s knuckles white on the haft of his spear, but Calatinus gave him a determined grin. Reassured, Quintus kept moving. Two hundred and fifty-five. Two hundred and fifty-six.
They had had a couple of glimpses through the trees, but as the slope bottomed out, Quintus had his first decent view of the stream. He peered at it from the concealment of a chunky beech. Calatinus tumbled in beside him. It was as he’d remembered, with a narrow grassy bank on this side, and trees right down to the edge on the other. The watercourse was mostly shallow, but with a deeper, rocky section in the middle. Spray rose into the air as the water struck the boulders. The stream was easy enough to ford on a horse, but slippery and cold for a man on foot.
‘Where the hell are they?’ whispered Calatinus. ‘Were we imagining the whistling?’
‘You know we weren’t.’ Four hundred. Four hundred and one. Quintus considered going down the slope, but this was as far as they could go without the risk of the others leaving. Calatinus knew it too.
They watched in silence.
Flakes of snow began twirling down from above. They came almost dreamily at first, but it wasn’t long before they were falling in earnest. The visibility began to deteriorate. It might have been Quintus’ imagination, but the temperature dropped as well.
‘My count is four hundred and seventy-five,’ Calatinus announced. ‘What’s yours?’
Quintus sighed. His breath plumed before him. ‘Four hundred and sixty.’
‘You know that that piece of shit Villius will ride off the moment he reaches a thousand?’
‘We can run all the way back. That will shave a hundred, a hundred and fifty off the total.’
Calatinus scowled, but to Quintus’ pleasure, he didn’t move.
They gazed down at the stream, their muscles stiffening in the cold. Quintus reached five hundred and eighty without seeing anything untoward. He decided that whoever he had heard must have moved off in another direction. It had all been nothing to worry about. He turned. ‘Time to go, then.’
There was no immediate answer.
Quintus was about to nudge his friend when he saw the look in Calatinus’ eyes. His head swivelled. It took all his self-control not to gasp out loud. There was a man — a warrior — halfway across the stream. Bulky in his wool cloak, he wore the patterned trousers and boots of a Gaul. He carried a long hunting spear. Behind him, two more men, similarly dressed, had emerged on the far side and were wading into the water. Both had arrows fitted to the strings of their bows. As the first warrior reached the near bank, he hailed a fourth figure, who had come out of the trees opposite.
‘Are they looking for us?’ Calatinus’ lips were by Quintus’ ear.
‘No. They’re hunting. D’you agree?’
‘Aye. The whoresons are relaxed.’
Quintus studied the hunters with care. No more had appeared, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more coming through the trees on the far bank. Already the first man was climbing towards them. His nerves jangled. ‘We can’t stay.’
‘I know.’ Calatinus’ lips twitched. ‘The count must be nearing six hundred
by now.’
Walking backwards until they could no longer see the stream, they stole away for perhaps a hundred paces. Then, after a look back towards where the warriors would emerge, they began to run. Hard.
‘What in Hades should we do?’ asked Calatinus. ‘They’re blocking the way back to the camp. That was the only ford we found.’
‘We could try to go around them.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘It’s that, or we ride straight at the bastards. And pray that there aren’t twenty others taking up the rear.’
Frost crackled beneath their feet as they ran.
An attack was risky, thought Quintus, but it was the best option. Trying to avoid the Gauls seemed cowardly, especially when they were so few. ‘I say that we attack,’ he said, willing his heart to slow down.
‘Me too,’ muttered Calatinus. ‘I want revenge for what happened at the Trebia.’
Quintus gave his friend a fierce grin. United, they had a better chance of convincing their comrades.
They made it back just as the others were riding away. Quintus’ low, urgent cry caught their attention, and they wheeled their horses about as the pair charged up. A few looked ashamed that they’d not waited, but Villius’ lip curled. ‘Can’t you count?’
Quintus gave him a withering stare. ‘We’ve just seen a party of Gauls.’
Villius’ next comment died in his throat. Everyone’s gaze focused on the trees behind the friends. ‘Gods above! How many?’ demanded one man.
‘We saw only four,’ replied Calatinus.
‘Are they tracking us?’ asked Villius, shifting on his horse’s back.
‘I don’t think so. They seem to be hunting,’ said Quintus.
Relieved glances all round.
‘There could be more, though, eh?’ suggested Villius.
‘Of course, but we didn’t have time to wait and see,’ retorted Quintus acidly.
Villius scowled. ‘I say we give them a wide berth. Ride around them.’
A few riders nodded, but Quintus was having none of it. ‘We could get lost by doing that. What if there isn’t another ford across the stream? We’ll end up riding through terrain that we know even less than this. And if the snow gets worse, we’ll run the risk of getting lost.’
‘What he’s suggesting’ — Calatinus butted in — ‘is that we attack the sheep-fuckers.’
‘Even if there are more than four, they won’t be expecting us,’ urged Quintus. ‘If we ride down there hard and fast, the dogs will get the surprise of their miserable lives. We’ll be gone before the ones that aren’t dead even know what’s happened.’ His eyes roved from man to man. ‘Who’s with me?’
‘I’m not,’ snarled Villius.
‘Let’s have a show of hands,’ said Quintus before Villius could say any more. He raised his arm. Calatinus did likewise.
Ignoring Villius’ foul expression, two men copied them. With a shrug, another rider lifted his right hand. He was quickly joined by a sixth. The instant that happened, three of the remaining men followed suit. Quintus clenched his fist in triumph.
Villius shot him a poisonous glare. ‘Fine. I’m in.’
Quintus was already halfway to his horse. ‘Let’s move. They’ll all be on our side by now. We go five men wide, two deep. Those with bows are to ride at the back.
‘Cut down anyone you meet. Stop long enough to retrieve your spears, but that’s all. It’s every man for himself. Cross the stream and ride like the wind. Regroup where we entered the woods.’
Men nodded, made grunts of assent. Looped their reins around their left hands. Gripped their spears tightly with their right. Two of the more confident men even nocked shafts to their bowstrings. Villius wasn’t one of them. They moved off, urging their mounts into an immediate trot. Quintus took the centre; Calatinus rode to his right. Villius was directly to his rear. No one had brought a shield. Quintus felt naked without his. The Gauls had spears and arrows and would be good shots. He’d have to trust in the gods that their charge panicked the warriors, that any missiles they launched would miss. He shoved the thought from his mind. Stay focused. They had covered half the distance to the stream now. Through the trees, he caught sight of a cloaked figure. A heartbeat later, the warrior stiffened as he saw Quintus. Perhaps a hundred paces separated them.
‘Charge!’ Quintus shouted, urging his mount on. ‘Remember our comrades who died at the Trebia!’
A swelling cry of anger from the other riders. Calatinus was swearing and throwing insults at the tribesmen. ‘Roma! Roma!’ roared a voice.
As the air filled with the thunder of hooves, the Gaul vanished behind a beech. Blood pounded in Quintus’ ears. He readied his spear and prayed that at least one warrior came within his reach. This was the third occasion that he had charged an enemy and, for the first time, he felt no fear. Just a mad exhilaration that he had engineered the attack and that, in some small way, retribution might be gained for what they had suffered at the Trebia.
Quintus caught a glimpse of the stream. Then another. His heart leaped. One, two, three, four figures were sprinting down the slope towards the water. ‘They’re running!’ he yelled. ‘Charge!’ Low branches whipped past his head as his horse reached a full gallop. At the edges of his vision, Quintus could see two other riders, one of whom was Calatinus; the noise to his rear told him that someone — Villius? — was still there.
In his excitement, Quintus forgot that there might have been more than four Gauls. The next thing he knew, a figure was darting in from the protection of a tree to his left. He glanced down in horror, saw the spear heading straight for him. It was pure luck that the blade rammed into his horse’s flesh rather than his own. It struck the beast high in the shoulder, just in front of Quintus’ thigh. The horse’s near foreleg dropped, and its charge came to a convulsive halt. Quintus was unable to prevent himself being thrown off. Air whistled past his ears. There was a jarring impact as his left side hit the hard ground. The pain was intense; he suspected that a couple of his ribs had broken, but he kept rolling, managing to come to his feet with his spear still clutched in his fist. The world was spinning. Shaking his head, Quintus hissed in dismay. His horse — maybe his only way out of here — was staggering down the slope. He had no time to dwell on his misfortune. The Gaul was on him already, a big bear of a man, snarling in his guttural tongue and sweeping an unpleasant-looking dagger at Quintus’ belly. He rammed his spear at the warrior’s face, forcing him to back off.
A torrent of abuse followed.
Quintus went on the attack, and the Gaul had to retreat. He did not seem scared, which Quintus found odd. A man with a knife had no chance against an enemy with a spear. An instant later, he almost missed the flash of triumph in the other’s eyes. Almost. Quintus threw himself the only way he could. Down, and to his left, on to his bad side. As the pain from his ribs surged through him, he heard a familiar sound. Hiss. An arrow shot through the space he’d just vacated, and the Gaul cursed. Quintus clambered up, shooting a glance to his rear. Thirty paces away, among the trees, stood a warrior with a bow. He was already fitting another shaft to his string.
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 hi
s 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.
