I heard a scream from the other boat and saw that one of the archers had been struck by an arrow in his shoulder. He lost his balance and fell into the water. I hoped our pursuers would turn about, but they left the man's rescue to the boat that followed behind them.
We drew closer and closer to the port. A crowd had gathered on the quay to watch, cheering like spectators at a race. Gazing up from the bottom of the boat, I caught glimpses of the archers who trotted along the parapet, keeping up with us. They hooted and laughed whenever they paused to notch an arrow, take aim, and fire. They were above harm, in no danger of return fire from our pursuers. To them the exchange was a lark, a diversion. How different it felt to me, hunkering down in the boat, watching arrows fly overhead.
A hornet's buzz was followed by a splintering crash, and I felt something tickle my nostrils. An arrow had pierced the side of our boat and stopped just short of splicing my nose.
Suddenly the skiff gave a lurch. We abruptly slowed and angled about. My first thought was that Tiro had been struck and had lost control of the sail, but he was still upright, almost on top of me. Then I saw Fortex. He still gripped the oars, his knuckles fish-belly white, but he had stopped rowing. His eyes were open. His lips trembled as if he wanted to speak, but all that emerged from his mouth was a bloody cough. An arrow had pierced his neck clear through. The metal point protruded from one side, the feathered shaft from the other.
Tiro was frantically working the sail and unable to see what had happened. "Row, Fortex!" he yelled. "Row, damn you!" The oars, dipped in the water and held rigidly in place by Fortex's grip, acted as rudders, causing us to spin. Tiro cursed. A moment later the boat struck something with an impact that rattled my teeth. Tiro tumbled overboard. The splash stung my eyes and sent cold water up my nostrils.
I heard cheering, and realized it was the quay we had struck. I blinked and peered over the bow. Our pursuers had kept up the chase until the last possible moment. Now they turned about and headed back. A final, double volley of arrows followed after them, as the archers on the wall were joined by more archers firing from the quay.
I had reached the port of Brundisium, unscathed.
XX
Everyone in the crowd around us seemed to have an opinion.
"He'll probably die if you pull out that arrow."
"He'll die for sure if you leave it in!"
"Are you certain he's still alive?"
Fortex lay flat on his back on the boardwalk, his eyes open and unblinking, his beard thickly matted with coughed-up blood. More blood coated the shaft of the arrow protruding from either side of his neck. His body was absolutely rigid, every muscle quivering with tension. His fingers remained curled in a white-knuckled grip. It had been a struggle to pry them from the oars. It had been a greater struggle to lift him out of the boat and onto the quay. The front of the tunic was smeared with blood.
I stood at his feet, gazing down, unable to take my eyes off him. Tiro stood beside me, shivering and soaking wet.
"What do you think, Gordianus?"
"He's your man, Tiro." We were in Pompey's domain now. I saw no point in maintaining the charade that Tiro was my slave.
Tiro replied in a whisper, his teeth chattering. "The merciful thing might be to put him out of his misery."
Fortex gave no sign that he heard. His wide-open eyes stared up at heaven. The tension in his body was excruciating to witness, as if every muscle were defiantly clenched. Was it fear, or bravery, or simple animal instinct that caused him to hold on so desperately to life?
We had called for a physician, but none had come. I looked at the arrow and wondered what we should do about it. If we cut off one end, the shaft could be removed. But would that only cause more bleeding? Perhaps the arrow was the only thing preventing his jugulars from spurting fountains of blood onto the boardwalk.
It was impossible to watch him quivering in silent agony and do nothing. I made up my mind to remove the arrow. I reached for my dagger. I gritted my teeth, trying not to envision the mess I might make of it.
Before I could move, the crisis ended. The tension in Fortex's body abruptly subsided. His fingers uncurled. His eyes rolled upward. A sigh escaped his lips, like a low note from a flute. He crossed his own Rubicon and departed for the River Styx.
The crowd relaxed with a collective murmur of relief. People went about their business. A living man with an arrow through his neck was something to see. A dead man was not.
"Funny," said Tiro, "how sometimes a man lives precisely as long as he needs to, and no more."
"What do you mean?"
"Fortex. It was his task to get me safely to Pompey. If he'd been shot a minute sooner, we'd never have made it to the quay. You and I would have died in the boat with him. Instead it happened just so, and here we are. As if the gods decreed it."
"You believe every man has a destiny, then? Even slaves?"
Tiro shrugged. "I don't know. Great men have a destiny. Perhaps the rest of us have one only insofar as we cross their paths and play a part in their destinies."
"Is that what makes you so brave, Tiro? Belief in destiny?"
"Brave?"
"On the mountain, facing Otacilius. In Antony's camp. In Caesar's tent. In the boat, standing up to work the sail, with arrows whizzing past your nose."
Tiro shrugged. I looked past him, to the gates that opened from the boardwalk into the city. A determined-looking centurion and a company of soldiers were marching directly toward us.
"This journey we've taken together, Tiro- did I facilitate your destiny, or did your facilitate mine?"
"It would seem to have been mutual."
"And the role of Fortex was simply to get us here?"
"What else?"
"I wonder if Fortex would have seen it that way. What about that nameless wagon driver?"
"He got us over the mountains, didn't he? It all worked out for the best."
"Not for him. Still, if you're right, the gods have seen us safe thus far. If they intend for me to accomplish what I came for, then I shall live a little longer, at least. I shall try to be as brave as you've been."
Tiro gave me a puzzled frown, then stepped forward to meet the soldiers. The centurion asked his name.
"Soscarides. I expect you've been briefed to look for my arrival."
"Quite a show, from what the archers tell me." The centurion was a grizzled veteran with a big homely face and a tight little smile.
"I'm to report directly to the Great One himself and to no one else," said Tiro.
The centurion nodded. "Who's the dead man?"
"A slave. My bodyguard."
"And this one? Another slave?"
Tiro laughed. "Hold up your hand and show your citizen's ring, Gordianus. Centurion, this man is also known to the Great One. He'll come with me."
The centurion grunted. "Well, you can't report to the imperator as you are- you soaking wet, and this one with blood all down his tunic. I'll see what we can do about a change of clothes."
"There's no time," said Tiro. "You must take us to Pompey at once."
"Castor and Pollux, hold your horses!" The centurion scanned the loiterers on the boardwalk and pointed to a well-dressed civilian. "You there! Yes, you, and your friend. Both of you, come here!" When the two men hung back, the centurion snapped his fingers. Soldiers ran and fetched them by force.
The centurion looked the two men up and down. "Yes, you both look about the right size. And your clothes aren't too shabby. Strip!"
The men's jaws dropped. The centurion snapped his fingers. The soldiers assisted the men in taking off their clothes.
"Not so rough!" yelled the centurion. "Don't tear the tunics. Which one do you prefer, Soscarides?"
Tiro blinked. "The yellow, I suppose."
"Good enough. You who were in the yellow, take off your loincloth as well. Go on! My friend Soscarides here is wet to the balls and needs a dry one." He turned to Tiro and me. "Go on, fellows, take off those things you're wearing and put on your new clothes."