As Atretes listened to the rising sound, he knew he had made a mistake, possibly a fatal one. They were standing in a small glen with no protection. “Over there!” he shouted at Rizpah, shoving her hard toward a fallen log. “Get down and stay down!” He stepped into the open road and raised his arms, the gladius in one hand, the other a fist, and shouted louder. “I am Chatti!”
“It’ll do no good,” Theophilus said and drew his sword. The war cries brought back memories of long-ago battles. He knew what to expect, and his heart fell. The contest wouldn’t last long, and if they survived at all, it would be by the grace of God.
The roar abruptly stopped, and they could hear the pounding of heavy, running footsteps. “They’re coming,” Atretes said.
Theophilus listened, grim faced.
German warriors surged into the road ahead and behind. Arrows and spears flew. Dodging a framea, Atretes sliced through the first man to reach him. Bellowing his war cry, he charged over the fallen man. Caleb was screaming. Atretes plowed into two warriors, not even feeling the point of a sword graze his side as he cut them down.
Theophilus blocked blows and used the hilt of his gladius to down one of his attackers. Ducking sharply, he narrowly missed being decapitated as a sword swished over his head. He brought his fist up into the solar plexus of the younger warrior.
Atretes snatched up a framea from the ground and threw it. It went through a warrior who was coming at Theophilus from behind. The man let out a harsh cry and went down.
As quickly as the attack came, it ended. The Germans melted into the forest and silence fell again.
Atretes was breathing hard, his blood on fire. He gave a jeering shout.
One of the young warriors Theophilus had dropped moaned as he regained consciousness. Atretes strode toward him, face flushed and sweating from exertion, his intent clear. Theophilus stepped in his path. “There’s been enough killing.”
“Get out of my way!”
Theophilus blocked Atretes’ gladius with his own. “I said no!” he shouted into Atretes’ face.
“They’re Mattiaci.” Swearing, he rammed Theophilus with his shoulder and made another swing. Theophilus blocked him again and hit him in the side of the head with his iron fist.
“I cracked your skull once,” he said as Atretes staggered. “God help me, I’ll do it again.” He clamped an iron hand on Atretes’ throat. “I didn’t come to Germania to kill.” He shoved him back. “Or stand by and watch you do so!”
The hot blood pounding in Atretes’ head slowed and cooled. Breathing heavily from the battle, his lungs still burning, he faced the Roman. “I should’ve killed you when I saw the Rhine,” he said through his teeth. He stepped forward. “I should kill you now!”
Theophilus slammed him hard in the chest, knocking him back. He took a fighting stance. “Go ahead and try if you think you have to. Go ahead!”
Caleb’s screaming penetrated Atretes’ haze of rage. Frowning, he stepped back, lowering his gladius. “Where’s Rizpah?”
“You told her to get down behind that log.”
When Atretes couldn’t see her, he strode toward it, wondering why she wasn’t seeing to his son. Was she cowering behind that log in fear? Had she run off into the forest, forgetting the boy and leaving him behind?
“Rizpah!”
Putting his hand on the log, he swung himself over. He landed with perfect balance.
Caleb sat in Rizpah’s lap. He was covered with blood and screaming. Atretes’ heart gave a sharp flip. “How bad is it?” he said hoarsely as he saw Rizpah touch the child’s face in an effort to calm him. “Where’s he wounded?” He stepped over and lifted his son from her lap.
It was then he saw the arrow protruding from her chest and realized it was her blood covering Caleb. The child was unharmed.
Theophilus heard Atretes’ guttural cry and left the two Mattiaci where they lay. He sprinted across the small clearing and came around the log where he saw Atretes on his knees, face ashen, touching Rizpah’s cheek tenderly. He was speaking to her in German. Stepping closer, Theophilus saw the wound. It was a mortal one.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said softly.
Atretes put his left hand against Rizpah’s chest, bracing her as he extracted the arrow with his right. In shock, she made little sound. Blood poured from the wound as he tossed the arrow aside. He pressed the heel of his hand against it to stop the flow, but it did little good. Gripping Rizpah’s white face with his bloodied hand, he pleaded with her. “Don’t die. Do you hear me? Don’t die.”
She rasped for breath, blood bubbling from her parted lips and trickling from the corner of her mouth.