Semper Fidelis

Chapter 3

Victor struggled on into the deep shade of the woods, his head pounding with every step. His throat was sore. His legs felt like lead. He was torn all over by brambles. He stumbled over a root and went headlong, crying out at the jolt of the landing but knowing he was lucky: The rotting leaves had broken his fall. He lay still, trying to listen over the rasp of his own breathing. Nobody seemed to be following him.

He began to squirm, curling up into a position in which he might be able to reach the clasp knife they had not taken because they had not searched him properly. Whatever they had tied around his wrists was digging into his flesh. His fingers felt numb and clumsy. Slowly, patiently, he managed to tease the little knife out of its hiding place in the sodden sheepskin that lined his boot. Still listening for pursuers, he pried it open and tried to angle the blade against the binding without cutting himself. He could move it only a fraction of an inch at a time. He had no idea whether it was having any effect.

Suddenly the knife slipped out of his grasp. He yanked his wrists against the binding, but it felt tighter than ever. Groping for the knife amongst the leaves, he touched a smooth surface with the tip of one finger. He stretched out his hand. He had two fingers on the blade now, pressing down to get some purchase. It shifted, flipped away from beneath his fingers, and landed somewhere out of reach.

Victor lay back, exhausted. He was beginning to shiver. He thought: I could die here.

He dared not go back to Eboracum, but if he went home, what would he tell everyone? That he had run away in the fine army boots Corinna’s family had given him for a leaving present? Even if his people took him back, what if Geminus and his men came looking for him? Whole families had been known to be condemned as traitors. There was always room on the ships for more slaves to feed to Rome.

He couldn’t go to his own people. He wasn’t going back to the army. He couldn’t rely on hospitality from other tribes. There was only one place where he was wanted, and he definitely couldn’t risk being found there.

He had made a mess of everything.

That was when Victor, champion wrestler of the Dumnonii tribe for two years in a row, only the second Roman citizen in his family, proud recruit to the Twentieth Legion, father of one, almost able to read and write, laid his head on the ground and wept like a girl.