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.