The four companions rode at a steady speed down the valley as they had done for many hours now, through the night and on into the dawn. They had ridden hard past the Imperial way station at the head of the valley in case enough of the garrison remained on alert to hinder them, though not a sound issued from the walls as they thundered past. Likely a skeleton staff remained there at best.
Salonius glanced across at Petrus with a curious look on his face, something of a mix of awe and horror. The disfigured ex-soldier had dispatched the man at the edge of the village with such awful violence and swift simplicity. The young soldier had given the combat as wide a berth as the road would allow but had been unable to avoid seeing the mess that had been the man’s face. Petrus had only delivered two blows, but Salonius would have bet good money that the guard had been dead before the second one landed. He realised he was staring and, focusing, realised that Petrus was looking directly back at him with his one good eye.
“Something the matter, lad?”
“No.” Salonius tried to control the shiver as he thought once more of that guard’s jaw, hanging loosely from one side of his face.
“You ever been in a fight, lad?”
Salonius ignored the question and sat silently for a moment before turning back to him.
“I don’t like the idea of having to kill Imperial soldiers, no matter what the reason. It just seems wrong.”
Petrus hauled on his reins and pulled alongside his young companion. Salonius turned once more to face forward. Were they not riding hard to stay ahead of potential enemies from the Saravis Fork fort and headed to Vengen to denounce a traitor in the army, he could have enjoyed this ride. The day was turning out bright and warm, accompanied by the constant hum of bees and chattering of birds and the smell of fragrant wildflowers. The valley was widening all the time as they descended toward the northern plains. Varro and Catilina had peeled off a short while ago and were riding together on the other side of the valley, deep in conversation, leaving the scarred veteran and the young soldier to ride together. At this proximity, Salonius became once more aware of the faint aroma of stale beer that clung to Petrus.
“Try getting screwed and left for dead by them,” the scarred man said flatly. “I think you’ll change your tune.”
“Huh!”
Salonius knew he was being unfair to his new companion. Petrus had every right and every reason in the world to mistrust and hate. The man had lived in hell for a decade because of these traitors. He had been a senior sergeant in the army and was cousin to Varro; a man with a position of power and responsibility. And yet there was something about him that Salonius couldn’t quite put his finger on but didn’t like; something that made him uneasy. Oh, Petrus wasn’t a part of Cristus’ conspiracy, for certain; nothing like that. But he was too quick to act with violence, perhaps? A risk? A loose blade that could damage anyone around him? He became aware that Petrus was watching him with that one piercing eye and turned to meet that gaze.
“I know you’ve been betrayed and hurt by your own. I understand that you must feel hollow and vengeful and I can see why you’d turn to your cousin for help. But I also know that people who are driven by revenge and blood can be dangerous to be around. Varro will tell you a bit about that when we stop, I’m sure, but just remember that when you throw a stone, you cause ripples. And if the ripples are big enough they sink ships.”
Petrus continued to stare at him, but the look about his eye had changed; softened somehow. Salonius gave him a sad and weary smile.
“Be careful you don’t sink your friends.”
Petrus’ one eye bored into him for a moment longer and then he turned away.
“Varro was right to choose you, lad. I knew you were strong when I saw you, but you’re sharp too.”
He scanned the valley as he had done every few minutes since they’d begun their ride and then turned back to Salonius.
“Are your eyes as sharp as your mind?”
“What?” The young man started.
“Behind us. A couple of miles, perhaps?”
Salonius craned his neck and peered into the distance.
“Shit!”
“How many d’you see?” the older man asked, his voice low.
“A dozen at least.”
Petrus frowned and turned again.
“You are sharp! I’d only seen one group. So: two groups of six riders. One on each side of the valley. And that likely means there’ll be more coming behind them on the road. These are just outriders to hem us in.”
Salonius nodded.
“I know what they’re doing. They’ll try and outpace us in the next hour or two.”
He pointed to the river rushing and gurgling along to their right.
“That river crosses to the other side of the valley a few miles ahead in a little village. There’s a bridge in the square and that’s the only safe place to cross unless you ride up the slope. If they can get there ahead of us, they can stop us at the bridge. We won’t have time to turn back and get up the slope and that other bunch that you’re talking about will come up on us from behind. I thought we were staying way ahead of them, but they’re playing us into a trap.”
Petrus grumbled and snapped his head round to glance back once again.
“That could work both ways, though.”
“What do you mean?” Salonius frowned.
“If a dozen of them try to stop us at the bridge, they’d best be good. They may have us pinned down, but we’ll have them all in one place too.”
“Are you mad?” Salonius glared at him. “I’ve just got through telling you not to put people in danger!”
Petrus growled and fixed him once again with that unnerving cyclopean stare.
“They’re already in danger, boy, and you know that. But Varro and I are good at what we do, and I have a feeling that you are, too. And at a bridge they lose their advantage in numbers. I’m guessing they’ll not be able to get more than four on the bridge at a time. And if they’re just following orders, they’ve more to lose than us, so we gain the advantage, you see?”
Salonius glared at him for some time and finally, with a sigh, he nodded.
“You’re right, of course. Unless we swing out and go up the sides of the valley ourselves.”
Petrus shook his head.
“No point. We’d only stay a little ahead of them and they’d still be chasing us. We need to deal with this bunch before any more get here.”
He placed his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Salonius stared at him.
“They’ll hear you!”
“No they won’t,” the scarred man replied, wiping his fingers on his tunic. “They’re riding horses a couple of miles away, and it wasn’t that loud.”
Across the valley, Varro and Catilina had turned their horses and were making for the road at the centre. With a nod to Salonius, Petrus did the same. The four riders converged a few hundred yards further on, just as the floor of the valley crested and took a sudden dip. Laid out before them perhaps five miles away was the village with the narrow stone bridge. An involuntary shudder went through Salonius as he remembered the events that took place there a few days ago.
“Pursuit?” Varro’s voice was flat; a statement, not a question. Petrus nodded.
“We reckon about a dozen for now. The lad thinks they’re going to cut us off at the village and that more will be coming down from behind.”
Salonius bridled at the slight condescension implied by the phrase ‘the lad’ but kept his tongue. This was not the time for argument.
Varro shaded his eyes and peered back up the valley.
“He’s right. There’s more than those dozen outriders. Half the damn cohort’s coming!”
They followed his pointed finger and squinted into the sun. The two small groups of riders were pushing their mounts hard and were close behind. Given the quality of their cavalry steeds against the four stolen horses, they would easily pass them over the next two miles. But the sight that chilled Salonius’ blood was the rising cloud of dust further up the valley; the sort of dust cloud that could only be kicked up by a sizeable cavalry unit travelling at speed.
Varro grunted.
“We’re going to have to deal with this lot at the bridge pretty quickly.”
Petrus glanced at Salonius and raised an eyebrow provocatively. The younger man ignored him and frowned.
“That cavalry won’t take long to catch us. If we survive that, we’re going to have to find a way to block the bridge and slow them down.”
“I’ll block it with bodies!” rumbled Petrus. Varro smiled.
“Salonius’ll figure it out. You just concentrate on the fight ahead.”
The four of them kicked their horses and raced off toward the village. As they travelled, throwing up clouds of dust, Varro and his companions kept an eye on their pursuers. The outriders, realising they’d been seen, had given up any hope of subterfuge and were racing along the sides of the valley. Quickly it became apparent that their horses were of far superior quality to the civilian steeds the four fugitives had taken from Saravis Fork. In little over a mile, the ambushers were already level with their prey. They would have ample time to position themselves at the bridge.
As they rode, Varro drew his heavy Imperial blade from the sheath by his saddle. A moment later Petrus and Salonius followed suit. As Catilina moved to draw a sword from her pack, however, Varro shook his head.
“Not you!”
Catilina, her hair streaming behind her dramatically, flashed an angry look at him and drew the sword defiantly.
“Your father will kill me anyway if I get you harmed. Put it away!”
“No!” She gritted her teeth. “I need to be able to defend myself anyway, you cretin!”
Varro blinked in surprise and then let out a short laugh.
“Then stay as out of the way as you can, my love!”
Salonius smiled to himself. It was the first time he’d heard Varro refer to the relationship that was clearly blossoming once more between them. He’d have to pray to the Gods that Scortius could find some sort of cure for this incurable poison.
Brandishing their swords, the four rode on, bearing down on the village.
“I’ll take the right side” shouted Petrus over the drumming of their hooves. “Peripheral vision problems!”
Varro nodded. “You take the left!” he shouted at Salonius, before turning to Catilina. “And you stay at the back and watch that lot behind us.”
Salonius frowned and allowed his horse, currently out front by a neck, to drop back a little until he rode alongside the defiant-looking lady with her blade held low.
“My lady?”
She turned to look at him and raised her eyebrows.
“How’s your aim?” he enquired.
The eyebrow dropped into a frown.
“Good. Why?”
Salonius grinned.
“Because I have a sling and a pouch of shot in my bag. For hunting coneys.”
She returned his smile.
“Never used a proper slingshot, but I’ve had plenty of practise with home-made slings and catapults.”
Clutching his reins with his sword hand and keeping his eyes on the road ahead, Salonius reached round into a saddle bag and rummaged among its contents. Concentrating, he dug deep through his travelling gear until he finally found what he was looking for and his fingers closed on a leather strap. Hauling it out, the heavy bag of shot came with it, tied to one loose end. Extending his arm, he proffered the weapon to Catilina, who gave it an appraising glance and then sheathed her sword before taking it.
“Heavy stones,” she said. “They’ll hurt.”
“They’re not stones,” Salonius replied. “That’s the proper lead shot that gets issued to all engineers. You can kill quite easily with a well placed blow. But be really careful with where you aim.”
“Oh I shall.” She replied with a smile, and began to untangle the strap from the fastening on the pouch as she rode. “Believe me, I shall.”
As they passed the first houses of the village, it was clear that the population had dispersed the moment they saw trouble approaching. The open space at the centre of the settlement was empty and, Salonius noted, there was no sign remaining of the gruesome mess they had left a few days ago. Even the wooden rail had gone from between the trees. His attention was drawn back to the bridge ahead.
A group of Imperial soldiers from the Saravis Fork garrison blocked the far end of the bridge, four of them standing in front of that same wooden rail that had now been placed across the thoroughfare and wedged in at both ends where the men had bashed out chunks of mortar between the stones. With a smile, Salonius filed that thought away. The other men were gathered behind them, some at the bridge end, the rest to one side, on the top of the steep bank.
“Stop!” a voice called from the bridge, laden with authority. “I’m under orders to take you four to the captain.”
Varro reined in his mount, having ruled out the possibility of attacking or evading on horseback. Riding them down would have been a dangerous option at best, but in close combat in such a confined area being mounted would present too many vulnerable spots to the enemy and so many additional risks for the rider. And, of course, the horses would be too tired after travelling speedily through the night to even attempt to jump such a large crowd of people. He nodded at his companions and handed his reins to Catilina. She took them and tied them to her own before reaching out and gesturing to the others.
Salonius and Petrus dismounted and handed over their reins, hefting their swords. Petrus gave his a practise swing, clutching his shoulder where the muscles were not used to such exertion these days.
“Put down the swords and we’ll not harm you” the leader of the soldiers called from the bridge.
Varro smiled at Petrus, shrugged, and the two broke into a run, Petrus’ slight limp not hampering him at all, and becoming unnoticeable at speed. Salonius gave a startled squawk and then raced after them, veering off to the left as planned.
The dramatic effect of the sudden charge was visible on the faces of the enemy as the running men drew closer. Clearly they had expected this to end without a fight. Some hadn’t even unsheathed their weapons yet.
The front line of defenders prepared themselves for a charge in the traditional manner; shields locked in front, four abreast and with the wooden rail supporting them behind. Had they been facing an ordinary foe in a normal military situation, it would have stood them in good stead. Their attackers, however, were far from an ordinary foe.
As they reached the bridge itself, Salonius hefted his sword again, and then noticed with surprise that Varro and Petrus had flipped their swords around so that they were pointing out behind and had turned their bodies slightly to the left so that they were both almost facing him.
Varro winked.
A flash of understanding burst across Salonius’ face and he almost laughed as he followed suit, flipping his sword around and turning his body just in time as the three of them, at full speed, ploughed into the shield wall. The sheer force of the blow snapped the rail in the middle, along with the backs and ribs of the two central defenders, who fell away, broken and flailing on top of the men behind, who were widely spaced, not expecting a breach so easily.
The soldier on the right showed a deal more foresight as he ducked out of the way at the last minute and pressed himself against the wall of the bridge. His relief was only momentary, as Petrus’ sword, angled perfectly as his charging weight pulled him forward and down, sliced out and caught the man in the narrow gap between his upper body plates and the heavy armoured leather strops that covered his pelvis. He clutched at his middle and gasped as glistening purple tubes started to slide out of his torso. The defender on the left, however, took the full brunt of Salonius’ massive and powerful shoulder. The blow lifted his feet from the ground and, as the young man barged him out of the way, he scrabbled desperately at the stone parapet for a moment before disappearing over the side and into the foamy torrent with a diminishing scream.
Two of the men behind the front row immediately collapsed under the falling weight of their fellow soldiers, and a space opened up before the three panting renegades as they turned in unison to face their enemy, changing their grip on their swords menacingly.
Varro surveyed the scene. Four dead and two down had already halved the effective resistance and they were now almost at a ratio of one to one. He smiled the particularly unpleasant smile that Corda used to refer to as his ‘tiger smile’. The nearest defenders backed away nervously.
“Ok you bunch of treacherous, cowardly bastards!” he shouted. “Who wants to go shake the Gods’ hands first?”
The two downed men began to pick themselves up from the floor, pulling themselves back from this crazy man as fast as they could. The wounded soldier, still trying to hold his innards together, and gasping with horror, fell silent as Petrus reached out with his twitching free hand and pushed him over the parapet and into the churning water.
The enemy soldiers edged forward together, brandishing their swords and began to slowly advance on the renegades, keeping their eyes locked on them.
There was a sudden ‘crack’ and the rear-most soldier, standing by the steep bank of the river, collapsed like a sack full of rocks and rolled down the slope into the water. Salonius smiled as he heard the telltale ‘whoop, whoop, whoop’ of the sling readying for a second shot. Catilina was right; she was a good shot.
The advancing men faltered momentarily and Varro and Petrus shared a look. The captain turned to Salonius, who nodded soberly.
“The fat one’s mine” grinned Petrus, and the faltering soldiers stopped altogether as their attackers stepped slowly forward, Petrus’ limp becoming pronounced once more at this inexorable and deliberately slow speed. The whooping noise from behind stopped, and the enemy soldier on the far bank furthest from the combat ducked desperately, barely avoiding a skull-shattering lead missile. As he stood straight again with relief, Catilina’s third shot caught him on the chin, breaking his jaw and throwing him back to the ground with a ‘crump’.
Petrus stepped around the two groaning broken men lying on the bridge amid the shattered remains of the wooden rail, pausing briefly to allow his blade to drop heavily into the throat of the nearest wounded man, granting him release from his pain. Varro displayed less compassion, walking across the other man and treading heavily on his throat, crushing the life from him with hobnailed boots.
Salonius glanced over the side of the parapet with interest as he stepped forward to fall in line with the other two. The three walked steadily forward, leaving the two dying men behind them silent.
As they neared the remaining five men who, Varro thought, were doing well to retain a disciplined front in the face of such a brutal onslaught, the single man behind his four compatriots called out.
“We still have you outnumbered. You can still surrender.”
Salonius sneered, remembering his own cohort in battle. When the Second went into combat, Varro stood in the front line and Corda only a row or two back. That was how to motivate men, he thought. Lead by example, not like this idiot, cowering behind his men. He almost bit off his tongue as a lead bullet whizzed through the air between him and Varro, so close he felt the faint vibration on his ear.
The enemy commander opened his mouth to make another fatuous demand and disappeared instantly from view with a ‘crack’. Salonius grinned as he heard Catilina fumbling in the bag for another lead shot. Varro’s eyes were wide with shock, the bullet having almost clipped him and Salonius, and having been aimed exquisitely between the helmets of two men in the front line. A shot like that would make a professional hunter green with jealousy.
The four men, again to their credit, set their shoulders and brandished their swords. Varro, Petrus and Salonius fell on them like a tide of bloody fury. The defenders’ blades lashed out desperately from between their large shields but the three attackers, unencumbered by heavy armour and large shields, easily avoided the flashing blades. Salonius bent to his left, parried two blows from the end soldier and one from the man next to him, and ducked back out of the way for a second. As the innermost of the two men became distracted once more by Varro’s furious onslaught, the end man momentarily looked away. Taking advantage of the pause, Salonius dropped his sword and leapt at the man, diving onto him, far too close for the man to use his sword. As the man’s eyes widened and he struggled to stay upright under the weight of the bulky young man, Salonius grasped the man’s neck defender with one hand and chin strap with the other and twisted with all his might.
The crunch was audible even over the sounds of steel on steel and, increasingly often, steel on bone. Varro glanced across in surprise, almost falling foul of a well-placed blow, and saw the helmet wobble backwards as the neck broke inside and Salonius and his victim disappeared to the ground with a crash and a cloud of dust.
Moments later, as Salonius stood once more, brushing down his tunic, and went to collect his sword, Varro and Petrus delivered the final blows to the only remaining combatant and turned to survey the scene.
Catilina had tied the slingshot and pouch back together and was leading the horses towards the bridge with a disturbing grin.
The captain gestured wearily at Salonius and the young man wandered over to him.
“We need to do something with this bridge.”
Salonius nodded sagely, watching with unhappy fascination as Petrus, in the background, went about the grisly business of dispatching the wounded enemies. Trying to ignore the unpleasant sounds and the death rattles, he tapped the parapet where the wooden rail had been inserted with his forefinger.
“This bridge has been here a long time.”
“Solid, then” remarked Varro with a sigh.
“Yes and no” replied Salonius with a thoughtful look. “It was pretty solidly constructed a few hundred years ago, probably by the army when that outpost at the top of the valley was built, but it’s not been maintained by the military and I’d assume the locals either don’t know what to do or don’t care.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well“, Salonius continued in a tutorial manner, “this was built with mortar and not cement or concrete and it’s a fairly basic arch bridge with a keystone.”
“And?” Varro sounded frustrated.
“Mortar is not as strong as cement or concrete. That’s why we use them now. And with an arch and keystone, all the weight of the bridge rests on the keystones. The more weight, the better the arch, in fact. But the weather up here in the mountains has eroded a lot of the mortar. That’s how they could wedge the wood across the bridge, you see? The mortar’s so old, you can pull it out with your fingers.”
Varro bit his lip. “So you’re saying we can loosen the keystones and collapse the bridge?”
“I’m saying it’s possible.”
“But it could be dangerous. How long will it take, if we can do it?” Varro scratched his chin thoughtfully.
”I honestly have no idea.”
“The rest of the garrison are about ten minutes behind us at most, Salonius. Can we do it?”
The young engineer shook his head.
“No. Not enough time.”
“Then mount up. We’ve got to go. You can see their dust through the trees now. “
Salonius blinked.
“Come on!” Varro barked, turning and making for Catilina and the horses.
Salonius jogged along behind him, slowly raising his eyes and catching up as the captain left the bridge.
“Rope.”
“What?” Varro grumbled? “What rope?”
“Get lots of rope. We can bring this beech down on the bridge.”
Varro sighed and pointed up at the branches.
“It’s a young tree; not very heavy. It won’t collapse the bridge, Salonius!”
“No,” the young man replied, “but it’ll block it completely; and it’s small enough that four horses should be able to pull it over.”
Varro blinked and a slow smile crept over him.
“That’d stop them alright. And the valley’s too steep and covered in scree here to get a horse up. They’ll have to go back a few miles to get round. Hang on… what’s to stop them pulling it back out of the way?”
Salonius smiled. “Firstly, they’ll only have access to the delicate, easily breakable branches at the top of the tree. And secondly, we’ll drag it at an angle and wedge it.”
Varro narrowed his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “Petrus!” he shouted at the disfigured veteran, limping toward them from the bridge.
“What?”
“Ropes! We’re pulling the tree over.”
“Good idea.”
As Varro unhooked a length of rope that had been with the saddle when he stole it, and began to unwind it, fastening it to his horse, he frowned.
“Enough here for me, but that’s the only rope we have.”
Petrus pointed along the river to a solid looking building on the edge of the village.
“That’s a mill. Mills have rope,” the scarred veteran shouted.
As Varro ran over toward the mill with him, Salonius unhooked a leather roll on his horse’s flank and turned to yell after the others “Just get one. One’ll be enough!”
Varro gave him a questioning look for a moment, but shrugged, turned and ran on. Salonius was the engineer, after all.
As the leather roll unfurled, Catilina saw an array of tools; military engineer’s tools.
“I wondered what that was for. You always seem to be carrying so much.”
“Always be prepared” grinned Salonius as he untied a three foot long shaft from the roll. Examining it for a moment, he grasped it by the narrower end and Catilina realised the haft tapered slightly. Placing the wider end on the ground, he untied a heavy axe blade from the roll and placed the hole in it over the shaft, allowing it to drop to the bottom, where it wedged against the thicker wood. Stamping on the blade with a foot to force it as far as it would go, he lifted his axe and walked over to the tree.
Catilina allowed her attention to wander away from the sound of the axe biting into the young wood, noticing for the first time the frightened eyes of the villagers where they peered out from windows and doors.
And, of course, the growing cloud of dust not far from the village. If she strained she was sure she could hear hooves.
“Hurry up” she said, though quietly and to herself.
By the time Petrus and Varro came running back across the grass with a large coil of rope, Salonius had stopped cutting and was leaning all his weight on the tree with an experimental push. Nodding in satisfaction, he smashed the top of the axe head against the bole a couple of times until the blade began to slide back down the shaft. Dismantling it, he wandered over to his horse and neatly returned it to its place. He tutted in irritation before selecting another instrument; a small hand-pick.
“What’s up?” Catilina asked.
“I hate putting it away without cleaning and oiling. That’s no way to treat a good tool.”
He carefully and neatly rolled up the leather container and fastened it under the lady’s faintly amused gaze, while Petrus tied the second rope to his own steed and mounted.
“So, engineer… how best do we do this?” the scarred veteran enquired.
Salonius led his horse over to Catilina, casting a professional eye over the tree and the ropes as he walked.
“Take her across with you,” he asked Catilina. She nodded and took the young man’s reins, leading the horse ahead and over the bridge.
Salonius turned back to Petrus.
“Catilina and I need to get out ahead. Then you both need to walk forward onto the bridge until the ropes are taught; they’re obviously different lengths. Once they’re tight, start stepping forward very slowly and in unison. Try not to jerk too much. Very slow but very steady. Constant pressure’s what we want. I’ve given you a good start low on the trunk, so once you reach breaking point, the whole thing will come down very, very quickly.”
Petrus and Varro shared a look.
“The ropes are long enough” Salonius went on, “that you’ll be well out of the way on the other side of the bridge by then, but you need to stop the moment the tree comes down, or you might drag it into the river or even across the bridge. Got all that?”
“Slowly forward, stop when it goes bang. Think I can just about master that” grumbled Petrus.
Salonius gave him what he hoped was an infuriatingly condescending smile and walked ahead of them onto the bridge. He stopped at the centre, shaded his eyes and carefully judged the length of the ropes, the size and angle of the tree trunk and the location of the cut he’d made. Hoping beyond hope that his calculations were correct, he leaned down low and selected one of the largest stones mortared into the bridge parapet around half way up.
Giving the mortar around the stone an experimental prod, he was pleased to see that a mere poke with a finger brought a flood of crumbled mortar like sand in an hourglass. Quickly and efficiently, he dealt a dozen blows with his pick, removing the mortar around the stone. Satisfied, he leaned out over the parapet and, quickly locating the outer face of the stone, he repeated the process there.
Hanging the pick on his belt, he gave the great stone a heave and grinned as it smoothly slid out of the bridge wall and disappeared into the rushing water with a deep and resounding splash.
Running across the bridge he saw Catilina more than twenty yards from the bank, staying well back. He jogged across to her and, retrieving his reins, vaulted onto the horse. Catilina gave him a friendly smile and then turned to watch the cousins slowly manoeuvring onto the bridge, the ropes raising from the floor behind them and slowly tightening.
Salonius sat fidgeting, tapping his fingers nervously on the pommel of his saddle. He began to worry that the ropes would be too old and weak, or his cut in the tree not deep enough. Perhaps the tree was tougher than he’d anticipated, or the horses too tired. Perhaps…
‘CRACK’.
The break came so suddenly and crashed to the ground so noisily that all four horses started. As Salonius and Catilina steadied their startled mounts, the young man watched in mild panic as Petrus and Varro tried to stop their horses bolting, still attached to the tree that lay, still shaking and vibrating on the grass eight feet from the far side of the bridge.”
“Shit!” Varro wheeled his horse, bucking and thrashing.
Petrus was having more luck, his horse now merely snorting and the eyes rolling as it craned its neck to see the rustling tree it was still attached to.
“For Gods’ sake get him under control!” yelled the young engineer.
“Salonius, look!”
Catilina pointed at the tree and Salonius narrowed his eyes, trying to discern what it was she was indicating, when his eyes refocused and he realised she hadn’t meant the tree. She was pointing between the branches at the shapes of riders cresting the hill on the far side of the village.
“Oh, shit!”
He kicked his horse and rode over to the two cousins. Varro had finally stopped his horse bucking and was stroking its mane soothingly as the eyes continued to roll.
“Company!” he yelled, pointing past the tree.
“Alright, the next part needs to be done quickly but just right! Varro? About fifteen feet forward and cut the rope! Petrus, you need to keep going until you feel it pull so tight you can’t move any more.”
He wheeled his horse and quickly stepped to where he estimated they would need to stop and then pointed at the ground next to him.
Varro and Petrus slowly and soothingly goaded their frightened horses into walking forwards. The few steps seemed to take forever, accompanied by the creak of rope and the scraping and rustling of the tree as it dragged and rolled from the open space into the bridge’s aperture and a third of the way across.
Varro reined in his horse and quickly severed the rope. He nodded at Petrus and Salonius and then rode on ahead to join Catilina.
Petrus walked his horse on slowly.
“More…” Salonius encouraged, unnecessarily.
“Further…”
He looked up and, as he saw the look on the older man’s face, lowered his own head and voice, though continued to encourage under his breath.
He turned to watch the slow progress of the felled tree across the bridge. With one rope cut, the tree was slowly turning. Trying desperately to ignore the sound of dozens of drumming hooves that were now disturbingly close, he watched with a satisfaction that only an engineer would understand, as the severed beech trunk slid neatly into the hole left by the missing stone in the bridge wall.
“Pull it ‘til it’s too tight to move.”
Petrus glared at him again, but said nothing as he urged his horse forward amid the tremendous straining noises of rope and wood. Finally, with a crunch and a shower of mortar, the tree wedged in the bridge. The figures of horsemen were visible at the far end of the village square beyond the wavering, willowy treetop branches. Salonius grinned at them and then turned the grin on Petrus, who reached around and cut the rope, his horse sidestepping freely, grateful to have the anchor removed.
Petrus sighed and returned the smile.
“Let’s just get out of here”
Salonius nodded and, turning his horse, they trotted off to join Varro and Catilina, leaving the soldiers on the far side of the river milling uncertainly and shouting conflicting orders at one another.
“Well done!” Varro commended him as they reined in. “That should give us a few hours’ grace.”
“Go!” shouted Petrus.
Varro turned in surprise and recognised the telltale hiss just in time to duck. The arrow whizzed through the space where his chest had been a moment before. Petrus had already kicked his horse into action and raced ahead. Salonius and Catilina joined Varro as they rode swiftly to escape the range of the enemy archers.
As they thundered past the barn, Salonius glanced across, remembering the assault they’d made when they first entered the valley. As he realised what they’d managed to get through, he smiled to himself. His eyes wandered across to Catilina, hunched over the horse’s neck, riding like the wind.
His smile slowly turned sour as he saw the shaft of the arrow protruding from her back and the red stain running down her cloak. She slipped sideways slightly and her arm dropped and swung freely.
“Oh Gods, no!”
Desperately, he pulled his horse alongside her and grasped her reins, slowing both beasts to a walk and then a complete halt. The quiet thud of arrows some way back indicated that they must now be out of range and safe. He turned his full attention to the lady beside him.
Reaching up, he placed his fingers on her neck below her ear and the jaw line. He almost collapsed in relief. She had a pulse. A little erratic as far as he could tell, but strong enough. The most his medical knowledge could tell him was that she was alive. With a sigh, he craned to look at her back. The arrow was deeply embedded, and had punched through her shoulder blade. Racking his brains, he pictured the charts he’d seen in Salonius’ room. Thank Gods he took an interest in things like this. The blow would be too high to have gone near her heart, but might have got her lung.
Heaving her across as gently as he could with his huge, muscular arms, he settled her in front of him, turned slightly so that the arrow couldn’t be jogged by anything. He suddenly became aware of Petrus and Varro hovering over him, a looked of horror pasted across the latter’s face.
“Don’t panic sir. She’s wounded, but not badly.”
‘I hope’ he added silently to himself.
Varro opened and closed his mouth a couple of times but no sound emerged.
“We have to go, Varro,” said Petrus, tugging at his sleeve. “It’s no good buying extra time and then wasting it feeling miserable. The lad’s solid and clever and he’s got her.”
Varro continued to stare.
“She’s still with us!” insisted Petrus as he grasped the reins of the now riderless horse. “Now go!”
He grabbed a handful of Varro’s shoulder material and hauled him around so that he was face to face with the stricken captain.
“Just go!” he yelled into Varro’s face, flecks of spittle dancing on the captain’s cheek.
Startled out of his shock, Varro turned and rode off, picking up speed. Petrus turned and locked Salonius with a commanding glare from that one frightening eye.
“Take good care of her and make sure she’s alive when we get to Vengen. Varro likes you, so he’ll just mope, but I don’t know you well enough yet not to break your nose.”
Salonius glared back at him. So many retorts flittered around the edge of his consciousness, but his head was filled to bursting point with thoughts of Catilina, some of which he wasn’t prepared to admit even to himself. Swallowing hard, he nodded and settled the delicate wounded lady in front of him and set his horse off to a trot so they could catch up with Varro, who had reached the crest of the next undulation in the valley floor.
As he and Petrus rode up to meet Varro, the great, wide scene of the lower valley opened up before them, gently sloping down in the morning sunshine and opening out to become the northern plains. Somewhere in the distant haze, among vineyards and private estates, would be Vengen, fortress of the Northern marshal, home of Sabian, and safety.
But between it and them almost a thousand men filled the valley floor from side to side, green tunics bright in the sun and laminated armour flashing brilliant white, all marching with imperial precision.
“Oh, shit!”
Varro nodded, turning toward them, his face hollow and empty.
“The ram and lightening.” He waved at the army. “Cristus brought the Fourth after us!”