Fields of Blood

Chapter II

Outside Placentia

In the initial panic after the defeat at the Trebia, Quintus and his father had been but two of the hordes who had fled to the safety granted by the town’s walls. Sempronius Longus, the consul who had led the Roman army into battle and who had brought ten thousand legionaries clear of the slaughter, had arrived not long after. So too had Publius Cornelius Scipio, the second consul, whose ability to command in the field had ended after he sustained an injury in an earlier clash at the River Ticinus. Placentia had rapidly been filled to bursting point. After only two days and amid much consternation, Longus had ordered the gates to be opened. The consul had held his nerve. Nearly all of the men within had been marched outside. Under Longus’ personal direction, half his men had stood guard while the remainder constructed a large marching camp. As one of the few cavalrymen who had made it back, Quintus had promptly been sent on patrol. His job had been to warn his comrades about any Carthaginian troops in the vicinity.

The first day had been the worst by far. He, his father Fabricius and about two score riders — stragglers from many units — had scouted five miles and more to the west of Placentia, territory that was now under enemy control. His mind still full of the carnage caused by Hannibal’s army, Quintus had been jittery; some in the patrol had been terrified. Fabricius had been the exception: calm, alert, measured. His example had been an inspiration to Quintus and, after a while, it had rubbed off on the others too. The fact that they’d seen no enemy cavalry had helped. Word of Fabricius’ leadership spread, and in the days that followed, every Roman rider to reach Placentia placed themselves under his command. He had been tough with them, insisting on twice-daily patrols as well as hours of training. Quintus had received no special favours. If anything, Fabricius had been harder on him than the others. Extra duty details had become Quintus’ norm. He assumed that it stemmed from his father’s disapproval of his release of Hanno and his own unapproved journey north to join the army, so he gritted his teeth, did what he was told and said nothing. This morning, Fabricius had unexpectedly been called to meet with the consuls, which meant a welcome break from Quintus’ and his comrades’ daily drudgery. They would have to go on patrol, but not until the afternoon. Quintus decided to make the most of it.

Together with Calatinus, a sturdily built man and the only one of his friends to have survived the Trebia, he ambled into Placentia. They soon lost their good humour, however, and their appetite for adventure wasn’t long following. The majority of the troops might now be living outwith the walls, but the narrow streets were as packed as ever. From the ordinary citizens to the officers and soldiers who shoved their way through the throng, everyone they saw looked miserable, starved or angry. The shopkeepers’ cries had a sour, demanding note that jarred on the ear, as did the incessant bawling of hungry babies. The beggars’ numbers appeared to have doubled since the last time Quintus had been within the walls. Even the half-clad whores who leered at them from the rickety steps up to their wretched apartments were charging double their normal rates. Despite the cold, the smell of piss and shit was all pervading. Some foodstuffs had run out; what remained was being sold at extortionate prices. Wine had become the preserve of the rich. Rumour had it that supplies would soon start arriving up the River Padus from the coast, but that hadn’t happened yet. Chilled, ravenous and irritable, the pair abandoned the town. Avoiding their tent lines in case Fabricius had returned, they made for the southern edge of the encampment that now housed Longus’ battered army. If nothing else, they would stretch their legs crossing the huge area.

They took the shortest route, the via principalis, or central track that bisected the camp. Every so often, they had to move out of the way as a century of legionaries marched out from their tent lines and headed south. Calatinus grumbled, yet Quintus cast sly but admiring looks at the foot soldiers. He had always looked down on infantry before. Not now. They weren’t just the earth-digging, foot-slogging fools that cavalrymen referred to. The legionaries were the only section of the army that had given a good account of themselves against Hannibal, while the cavalry had much to do in order to regain the honour that had been lost at the Trebia.

The central area that housed the consuls’ headquarters faced on to the via principalis and was marked by a vexillum, a red flag on a pole. The ground before the group of sprawling tents was a hive of activity. In addition to the normal guards, there were messengers on horseback arriving and leaving, small groups of centurions deep in conversation and a party of trumpeters awaiting orders. A couple of enterprising traders had even managed to set up stalls selling fresh bread and fried sausages, the price of their entry no doubt a decent contribution of their stock to the officer in charge of the gate.

‘No sign of your father.’ Calatinus gave him a broad wink. ‘He’ll be deep in conversation with Longus and the other senior officers, eh? Plotting our best course of action.’

‘Probably.’ Quintus’ humour soured even more. ‘Which I’ll hear nothing about until the time comes to implement it.’

‘Same as the rest of us!’ Calatinus gave him a reassuring thump on the arm. ‘Things could be worse. Hannibal’s left us alone for weeks now. Our position here is strong, and the ships will start arriving up the Padus soon. Before you know it, we’ll have reinforcements as well.’

Quintus made an effort to smile.

‘What is it?’ Calatinus cocked his head. ‘Still worried about your father forcing you to return home?’

A nearby soldier gave them an inquisitive glance.

‘Not so loud!’ muttered Quintus, increasing his pace. ‘Yes, I am.’ When he’d been reunited with Calatinus after the Trebia, their friendship had reached a new level. They had talked a great deal, and he had revealed everything about Hanno, and Fabricius’ anger at Quintus’ unexpected arrival not long before the first clash at the Ticinus.

‘He’s not going to make you leave. He can’t. We need every man we can get!’ Calatinus saw Quintus flush. ‘You know what I mean by that. You’re a trained cavalryman, and they’re like hen’s teeth right now. Whatever crime you might have committed in your father’s eyes is irrelevant at this moment in time.’ Calatinus blew out his chest. ‘You and I are valuable material!’

‘I suppose.’ Quintus wished he felt so sure. Yet, lifted by Calatinus’ good humour, he managed to put the matter from his mind.

Reaching the camp’s southern edge, they clambered up a ladder to the top of the earthen ramparts, which were ten paces high and half a dozen deep. The wall’s outer face had been lined with sharpened branches; a deep defensive ditch lay beyond that. The fortifications were robust, but Quintus had no desire to see them put to the test. The memory of their defeat at Hannibal’s hands was yet raw. Morale was fragile, not least his own. Brooding again, he studied the horizon with great intensity. No enemy forces had been sighted for days, but that didn’t mean today would be the same. To his relief, Quintus could see no life on the broken ground that ran from the town down to the thick silver band that was the River Padus. On the road that snaked off to Genua and beyond, a few boys were herding sheep and goats to pasture, and an old man with a mule and a cart full of firewood limped towards the main gate. The flatter area to his left was full of legionaries being drilled. Their officers roared, blew whistles and waved their vine canes. Part of Quintus would have liked to study the foot soldiers. But mostly he wanted to forget about fighting and war, for a few hours at least. He glanced at Calatinus. ‘See anything?’

Calatinus shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I’m glad to say “no”.’

All was as it should be. Satisfied, Quintus studied the mounds of ominous-looking clouds that were scudding overhead. A biting wind from the Alps was speeding them southwards, and more were following in their wake. He shivered. ‘There’ll be snow before nightfall.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ Calatinus said irritably. ‘And if it’s as bad as it was the other day, we’ll be stuck in the damn camp for a couple of days afterwards.’

A sudden devilment took Quintus. ‘Let’s go hunting then, while we have the chance.’

‘Have you lost your wits?’

Quintus poked him. ‘I don’t just mean you and me! We’ll gather up ten men or so. Enough of us to make it safe.’

‘Safe?’ Calatinus’ voice was disbelieving, but he punched Quintus back. ‘I’m not sure that there is any such thing as “safe” any more, but a man can’t live in fear forever. What are you thinking — a deer, maybe?’

‘If Diana aids us, yes. Who knows? We might even spot a boar.’

‘Now you’re talking.’ Calatinus was already halfway down the ladder that they’d used to climb up to the rampart. ‘With enough meat, we can barter for wine.’

Quintus followed, his spirits rising at that thought.

Some time later, Quintus was wondering if his idea had been rash. He and his companions, ten men in all, had ridden several miles through the woods to the east of Placentia. Finding a fresh game trail had proved far harder than he had anticipated. Despite the cover granted by the mixed beech and oak trees, the harsh weather had frozen the ground to one great block of ice. There were old tracks aplenty, but in many places it was impossible to see any newer marks made by passing wild animals. They’d had one sighting: a couple of deer, but the startled creatures had fled long before any of the men with bows could let off an accurate shot.

‘We’re going to have to turn around soon,’ Quintus muttered.

‘Aye,’ said Calatinus. ‘Your father will have our heads on a plate if we’re not back in time for our patrol.’

Quintus grimaced. He tugged on his mount’s reins. ‘We might as well go now. Diana isn’t in a good mood. I don’t think that’s about to change.’

There were grunts of agreement from those who were within earshot; shouts rang out, calling in those who had been riding further away. No one disagreed with Quintus’ suggestion that they return to Placentia. Everyone was chilled to the bone, and eager not to miss the hot meal that would be served before their afternoon patrol.

The narrow paths meant that they had to ride in single file. Quintus took the lead; Calatinus came next. The idle banter that had filled the early part of the hunt had died away to an occasional lament about how cold and hungry a particular man was, or about how much he wanted to spend a night in an inn by a fire, drinking until dawn. If there was an attractive whore to take him upstairs as well, all the better. Quintus had heard such talk a hundred times, so it went in one ear and out the other. His horse seemed to know the route to take, allowing his mind to wander. He thought of the letter that Fabricius had written, to which he had added a footnote, and hoped that it had reached his mother. His sister Aurelia might grieve the death of Caius Minucius Flaccus, her betrothed, but at least she’d know that he and their father were alive. That they would return one day.

Feeling happier, he lapsed into a pleasant daydream about home, near Capua. He and his father were there with Atia, his mother; so too was Aurelia. The family were reclining on couches around a table piled high with dishes of succulent fare. A side of roast pork. Mullet fried with herbs, and bream that had been baked in the oven. Sausages. Olives. Freshly baked bread. Greens. He could almost reach out and touch the food. Quintus felt saliva pooling in his mouth. An image of Hanno walking into the room with a platter of fowl in a rich nut sauce popped into his mind, and he blinked. Was his mind playing tricks? With the gods’ help, he would dine with his family again, but Hanno would not be present. The Carthaginian had honoured his debt, but he was now one of the enemy. Quintus had little doubt that Hanno would kill him if he got the chance. He, Quintus, would have to do the same if it came to it. He sent up a prayer that that day never arrived. It wasn’t too much to ask that he never met Hanno again.

These dark thoughts made his brief good mood vanish. A sour squint to either side, and Quintus judged that they were about halfway back to the camp. The time will go by fast, he told himself, but his ploy wasn’t convincing. There was a good distance to go yet. His feet were frozen in his sandals. The brazier in his tent at which he might thaw them out before the patrol seemed half a world away.

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 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 then.

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.