Perhaps five feet across, the path was little more than a game trail through the woodlands.
Not wide enough for horses, certainly.
He shook his head at the idiocy of the Romans who were riding down such a narrow track; the perfect spot for an ambush.
The men wore glittering mail shirts over tunics of white wool with crests, plumes and feathers rising from their decorative helms, riding without a care in the world, as though taking an afternoon trot across a family’s estate.
Praetorians… cavalry, too. It was hard to tell which unit without seeing insignia. They could be ordinary Praetorians, or possibly the Imperial cavalry guard, or even a unit of Speculatores. That would be the most likely reason for them being out here.
The creaking came again, and with echoes. Rufinus’ head snapped back to face directly ahead. There were more archers, lurking in the undergrowth at the far side of the track and poised ready to strike. A target of chance? Circumstances suggested otherwise.
His heart racing, Rufinus tried to settle on a course of action. To charge across the path at them was plainly suicide; their bows were already trained on the open ground, waiting for their mounted targets, and it would take little effort for them to drop their aim and turn him into a hedgepig. No heroics, then.
His glance returned to the riders, perhaps a dozen in single file. The one at the front was clearly an officer, his cuirass of burnished bronze bearing intricate designs, the white and purple pteruges hanging in twin rows at shoulders and waist, purple-bordered white cloak draped across the horse’s rump behind.
He could shout a warning, but that was a gamble in itself. If there were more hidden groups of archers it could cause them to act precipitously, and who knew what might happen then.
Taking a deep breath, his plan forming in his mind, Rufinus sheathed his gladius and shuffled as quietly as he could through the undergrowth to his right. Judging his position carefully, he pushed forward until he was almost at the track, offering up silent prayers to Fortuna that he was still sufficiently concealed. The archers were some five feet off to the left now, on the far side. The riders, led by the officer were less than ten feet away.
He took a deep breath, the clopping of the hooves on the frozen ground muted by the ever-present snow and the oppressive bulk of the forest, yet echoing round his head like the clanging of a warning bell.
The officer was almost here now. His boots were magnificent, enclosed and stitched with a wide tongue that bore a Medusa-head. His full-length Gallic-style trousers, unfashionable among officers but eminently practical for these conditions, were of pristine white wool. The scabbard hanging at his side was of purple leather and decorative silver with intricate designs.
From his low viewpoint, that was all Rufinus could see of the man, but also all he had time to see. Across the path a muted creaking told him that several bows had just reached full tension.
Now or never.
Taking a deep breath, Rufinus lunged from his hiding place and grabbed a tight hold of the officer’s leg just above the boot’s lolling tongue, the medusa flapping in distress. The Praetorian officer barely had time to register his surprise and glance downwards before Rufinus hauled, putting all of his considerable strength into the action. With an undignified squawk, the officer was wrenched from the saddle, collapsing in a crashing, metallic heap on top of his blood-soaked assailant.
As the man landed, driving the wind from Rufinus, arrows thrummed from the trees opposite, two driving deep into the horse’s rump, one thumping into the leather saddle, and two more hissing through the empty air where a moment before the Praetorian had proudly rode.
The officer’s helmet had slipped down over his eyes, the white plume muddied and wet, slapping and sticking to the steel of the cheek piece. As the man bellowed something unintelligible and muffled in a raging voice, Rufinus heaved him over onto his back, releasing himself from the dead-weight.
Suddenly the column was all activity. The nearest guardsman had been struck in the side by another arrow, the point smashing through the mail and ripping into flesh and organs within. The soldier stared down at the shaft in apparently mild surprise. Even as the men behind him were vaulting from their horses and drawing weapons, unslinging the shields from their backs, the dying guard slid slowly sideways and plummeted to the snow with a sigh.
Leaving the furious, bellowing officer floundering in the snow, wrapped in his cloak and with his helmet over his eyes, Rufinus leapt to his feet. The officer’s horse had bucked and reared in pain but as it dropped back to the ground Rufinus ran across, using it as cover and ducking beneath the frightened, injured animal, running low toward the undergrowth opposite, drawing both his blades.
As he tore into the frozen leaves and branches on the far side of the track, two more arrows hissed out, aiming for the white-clad guardsmen. Just two meant that the other archers had either dropped their bows and drawn melee weapons in preparation or, hopefully, had taken the opportunity to flee through the frozen woods as fast as their uncultured legs could carry them.
Again, brambles tore at his clothes and skin, ripping angry red lines across his face and limbs. Silently condemning the undergrowth that constantly threatened to trip him, and openly cursing the Quadi, the Marcomanni, and any tribe that valued plaited hair and mud over a heated bathroom floor, Rufinus burst through the flora and suddenly found himself on a slope, tumbling forth into a sunken clearing very similar to the one on the far side of the path.
Three men again, so there had to be more than one group on this side of the track, as there had been at least half a dozen shots in the initial volley but nothing he could do about that now. One man still held his bow, reaching down to the line of arrows jutting from the ground beside him. The others had already discarded theirs and drawn hand weapons.
A man holding a large axe ready by his side barked with surprise as a crazed, blood-soaked Roman burst out of the undergrowth at the top of the slope and fell directly onto him, knocking him to the ground and driving the air from his lungs.
Rufinus, instinct combining with training, made the most of his lucky landing, raising himself up from the surprised and winded barbarian and delivering half a dozen powerful punches from fists strengthened by being wrapped around the hilts of blades. The blows would leave bruised knuckles, but he felt the man’s nose and jaw break with the first two punches, the other four delivered for good measure and born from years of prize-fighting burly legionaries and not wanting them to get back up.
It was over in a few heartbeats, the man beneath him unconscious by the fifth blow, the axe falling away from his fingers. Rufinus looked up just in time to see another warrior, glinting sword in hand, lunging for him. Desperately, prone and at a disadvantage, the legionary tried to roll out of the way and barely made it, the barbarian’s sword carving a red line along his arm.
Hissing in pain and dropping his dagger from shocked fingers, Rufinus rolled away and came up into a fighting stance, hoping the archer wasn’t ready to put an arrow through his chest. Fortunately, the man had given up on his bow and had drawn a sword, advancing slowly and warily across the clearing.
Rufinus grimaced. His torn arm stung as his ragged breath plumed in the freezing air. The two barbarians shared a quick glance and rumbled something in their horrible tongue before closing in on him from two sides.
If he’d had a shield it would have been a fairer fight, but two healthy, well-armed men arrayed against him with only a gladius to defend himself was not the sort of odds Rufinus would wager on.