Mightily relieved, Vespasian acquiesced. ‘Good man; we need to get up high enough so we can’t see the pass, then we’ll know that we’re above him and we’ll start to work our way back at different levels in pairs.’
Vespasian followed Artebudz up the treacherous incline. His teeth were chattering and his fingers numb; he was finding it very difficult to keep up with the nimble ex-slave as he expertly negotiated his way from one foothold to the next. As they climbed the wind grew stronger and buffeted him, tugging at his cloak, which billowed out like a loose sail, pulling him to his right and threatening to unbalance him. He gritted his teeth and forced the stiff muscles in his arms and legs to keep working as they pulled and pushed his body ever higher. Occasionally he risked a downward glance, past Magnus and Sitalces, but although the opposite bank was soon obscured the track down the middle of the pass stayed visible for what felt like an age; Sabinus had been right, it was easier to look down through a snowstorm. As he climbed, he marvelled at the skill of the Getic archers being able to hit targets below them with such a strong crosswind. Then he realised that it had been the crosswind that had saved him; the first arrow had been meant for him, not Tinos. He muttered a prayer of thanks to Fortuna for her continued protection.
After they had ascended a hundred feet or so the pass eventually disappeared into the white-out and Vespasian called a halt. ‘Right, that’s enough,’ he wheezed as he sucked in the razor-sharp, frozen air that his body craved after so much effort. ‘Artebudz and I will go up a little further and then start working our way back. Magnus, you and Sitalces stay on this level and keep slightly behind us.’
Magnus looked less than pleased to be left alone with the huge Thracian on a slippery steep slope. Sitalces picked up on it and grinned maliciously at him. ‘Don’t worry, Roman, you’re safe until this is over; besides, I might need you to grab on to if I fall.’
‘I won’t be able to help you if you do.’ Magnus smiled back innocently. ‘I’ve seen how quickly and heavily you go down.’
Sitalces grunted, trying not to enjoy the banter.
‘I can see that you’ll be best of friends by the time we’re finished,’ Vespasian observed, getting up stiffly. ‘Now let’s get going before our balls freeze off.’
With a monumental effort he followed Artebudz up another fifteen feet and then they started to make their way stealthily towards the ambush point. Artebudz held his bow ready drawn, continually pointing it in different directions as he traversed the sharp incline; his natural agility and obvious familiarity with hunting in mountainous terrain enabled him to keep his footing without the use of his hands; Vespasian, who was not so sure-footed, used his right hand to steady himself whilst holding his undrawn bow with a ready notched arrow in his left. He looked down behind him and could see that Magnus and Sitalces were having just as much difficulty negotiating the traverse.
After they had gone about fifty stumbling paces the wind suddenly started to drop and the snow became less horizontal; visibility began to clear so that the opposite slope and the dead bodies down in the pass soon became discernible. After a few more paces Artebudz stopped abruptly, squatted down on to his haunches and pointed to his nose.
‘I can smell him,’ he whispered excitedly. ‘He must be directly upwind.’
Vespasian signalled Magnus and Sitalces to halt and get down, and then sniffed the calmer air; he suddenly caught an unmistakable whiff of the same heady stench that had emanated from the dead Geta in the forest. ‘How far away?’
Artebudz pointed directly ahead. ‘What’s that there, about thirty paces away?’
Vespasian followed the line of Artebudz’s finger; at first he could see nothing through the now gently falling snowflakes, then he noticed a small movement as if the settled snow itself had twitched. After a few more moments he could make out, next to a large boulder five paces across embedded in the hillside, a smaller hump, about the size of a man, comprised of two different shades and textures of white, one of snow and the other, slightly darker, of white dyed wool.
Vespasian nodded at Artebudz; they took aim and released. The arrows flew directly at the centre of the hump and disappeared right through, dislodging most of the snow that had collected on it and exposing it as a makeshift shelter made of a white woollen blanket draped over an upright pole.
‘Shit!’ Vespasian spat; then, in a moment of clarity, he realised that they had just announced their presence to the unseen danger that must be lurking behind the boulder. ‘Down!’ he roared hitting the ground as the Getic archer, in a blur of motion, appeared over the boulder and released an arrow that disappeared into the snow just where Vespasian had stood an instant earlier.
Caught on the open slope with no cover Vespasian knew there was only one course of action. ‘Keep your bow aimed at where he appeared and cover me,’ he whispered to Artebudz. ‘I’m going forward.’ Leaving his bow on the ground, he eased his gladius from its scabbard and, signalling to Magnus and Sitalces to skirt around below the boulder, started to make his way, at a crawl, towards it.
By the time he was halfway his clothes were soaked with freezing slush and his bronze breastplate felt like a huge lump of ice sucking what little warmth remained in him out through his chest. Vespasian was close enough now not to be seen by the archer unless the man stood up, exposing himself to Artebudz’s bow and certain death; so he risked a slouched run for the last fifteen paces. He reached the boulder as a double twang of bowstrings told of another exchange of fire between Artebudz and their quarry. Magnus and Sitalces were ten paces below and almost level with him, they drew their bows and slowly crept forward to try for a clear shot behind the boulder. The wind had now completely stopped and the hillside had descended into the eerie silence that accompanies gently falling snow. The stench of the Geta was overpowering. Vespasian held his breath and started to inch his way silently downhill around the huge rock. At the point of rounding the boulder he paused, mentally preparing himself for close combat. He tightened his grip around his sword hilt and nodded to Magnus and Sitalces; they leapt forward, releasing two quickly aimed shots before throwing themselves down into the snow. An instant later the Getic archer’s bowstring thrummed in reply; Vespasian hurtled around the corner and pounced on the man just as he was pulling another arrow from his quiver. With no time to go for his dagger the Geta thrust the barbed tip of the arrow at Vespasian’s chest. It connected with his breastplate and, as Vespasian pushed himself forward so that his weight forced his sword up under the archer’s ribs, the arrow slid off the metal and embedded itself in his left shoulder. A violent shiver of pain rushed through Vespasian’s body as the razor-sharp arrowhead struck bone but he pressed home his attack, driving his sword on up and into his opponent’s heart, which exploded with a rush of hot blood over his sword arm. The archer let off a gurgling scream, his rank breath clouding Vespasian’s senses as they fell, coupled by iron, to the ground.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Magnus puffed as he and Sitalces pulled Vespasian off the dead Getic warrior.
‘Apart from this thing in my shoulder, yes, I think so,’ Vespasian replied as Artebudz joined them. He examined the arrow and then gave it a sharp tug. It came out easily, but not without pain; the bone in his shoulder had prevented it from burying itself deep enough for the barb to have become entangled in flesh.
Blood seeped gently from the wound. Artebudz took a handful of snow. ‘Hold that there until we get back down and I can dress it properly,’ he said, pressing it on the opening. Vespasian did as he was told and for the first time that day felt comforted by the snow as it took the heat out of the wound and gradually numbed the area, easing the pain. He looked down at the stinking, dead man at his feet. His sea-grey eyes stared sightlessly up at the falling snow; snowflakes settled on his eyelashes; his lips, just visible through a long and bushy black beard, had already started to turn blue. Over his clothes he wore a white blanket, now stained with blood, with a hole cut in the middle for his head; the circular waste material had been stitched on to his cap, camouflaging him almost completely.