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.’