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.