The blast of a battle horn rent the air, loosing a flood of shrieking barbarians. Lucius wrenched his sword from its sheath as the enemy poured from the trees like a raging river. One blue-faced demon lunged for Lucius’s reins. He skewered the apparition and it fell, howling.
“Orbis!” he shouted.
The soldiers fell into a circle around the horses, shields raised in a tight wall. Leaning, Lucius caught Marcus by the arm and hauled him off his mount. He dropped the boy on the road beside Demetrius, who had already flung himself to the ground. “Keep the beasts steady,” he commanded.
Marcus clung to his mare’s reins, for once without question.
Demetrius glowered his outrage. “I told you—”
“Later,” Lucius replied, dodging a spear. Mounted, he made a fine target, but he took a moment to gauge the enemy force before snatching his shield from its saddle hook and swinging from his stallion’s back. The Celts numbered, incredibly, more than fifty men. His best tactic was to stand firm and hack them to pieces, one body at a time.
He muscled into the orb formation between the centurion and one of the foot soldiers. The officer shot him a startled look. “Commander! You cannot risk yourself on the line.”
“I don’t mean to cower with an old man and a boy,” Lucius replied, thrusting his sword at a spike-haired wild man. Behind him, Demetrius rattled off supplications to an impressive list of gods and goddesses, both Greek and Roman.
Aulus floated above the melee, wringing his hands.
Barbarian shrieks mingled with curses and grunts as the battle wore on. Another Roman fell and the orb tightened. By Pollux! What the Celts lacked in armor, they made up for in fury. Lucius’s men were holding, but it was clear they couldn’t stand against the barbarians much longer.
The horses shied, causing Marcus and Demetrius to struggle with the reins. Worse, the orb was being forced toward a thatch of willows. The circle would break. Lucius swore under his breath and fought with renewed energy, the scent of blood in his nostrils and the sting of sweat in his eyes.
He ignored the ghost hovering above his left shoulder.
A Roman shout went up. Lucius swiveled his head and was greeted by the sight of Roman helmets at the bend in the road. Swords raised, the rear company charged into the fray.
“Break!” Lucius shouted. His men separated. Half joined the reinforcements in surrounding the largest group of barbarians, while the rest rushed the remaining wild men into the swamp. Lucius angled Marcus and Demetrius into a tight copse.
“It will soon be over,” he told the terrified boy.
Marcus looked up at him and nodded. Then his shoulders stiffened and his eyes grew wide, fixed on a point above Lucius’s head. A choking sound emerged from his throat. Too late, Lucius looked up to see a barbarian poised on the branch above.
He managed to deflect the Celt’s sword, though he staggered under the impact of the attacker’s leap. He tossed the man onto his back in the mud. He was a mere youth, with wild red hair and a beard not yet fully grown. Lucius lifted his sword, prepared to dispatch the young warrior to whatever barbarian god he held sacred.
Pain erupted in his hand, causing the sword to spin out of his grasp. By Pollux! An arrow had bitten the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Where in Hades had it come from?
He had no time to speculate, for the young Celt had used the distraction to regain his feet. The Celt’s sword glanced off the edge of Lucius’s curved shield. Lucius slammed the shield down on the barbarian, groping for his battle dagger with his free hand.
A second arrow whizzed by his right ear. He stumbled. The Celt youth danced away. The unseen archer’s third projectile struck Lucius on the back and glanced off his armor. The next grazed his forearm, drawing blood. Lucius uttered an oath as his dagger slipped from his grasp. The youth leveled his sword at Lucius’s bare legs. Lucius parried the blade with his shield and lunged for his fallen sword.
A dart hit his right buttock, sending him face-first into the mud. Merda! He recovered quickly, jerking the arrow from his flesh. At the corner of his vision, a flash of color disappeared behind the silver-green curtain of a willow frond.
The barbarian war horn shrilled. The signal must have been a retreat, for after a moment’s hesitation, the Celt warrior raced for cover. Lucius barely noticed the youth’s departure. Sparing a glance toward Marcus and Demetrius, he snatched up his sword and plunged into the forest, vowing to take down the hidden archer.
He paused in the shadows, listening. Long moments passed, measured by the angry rush of blood in his ears. At last the archer showed himself, scrambling toward a tree to his right. Lucius lunged toward the movement and swung. His blade glanced off the tree’s trunk, jerked, and hit flesh. The archer went down with a cry. Lucius raised his weapon for the killing blow.