As Valerius burst from the mist a single glance took in the scene. Serpentius’s horse was down with a spear in its ribs and the Spaniard’s leg trapped beneath its heaving body. Around the dying beast at least half a dozen of their ambushers slashed at the former gladiator with spears and knives. The only reason he still lived was that the others had been diverted by the pack horse he’d led, more interested in booty than in blood. From the corner of his eye Valerius saw the spear shaft that flicked out to trip his mount and that split second’s warning allowed him to kick himself free as she went down. The fall took him into a tumbling roll that carried him towards the stricken Spaniard, though every revolution was a torment of crushed and torn flesh. Half stunned, he stumbled his feet, sword in left hand, and chopped down a bearded figure who stood between him and Serpentius.
‘Fool.’ The gladiator lunged at a spearman who tried to take advantage of the distraction, drawing a howl as his sword hacked away a careless finger. ‘You were free. You should have ridden on.’
‘If we’re going to die, we die together.’ Valerius slashed wildly at two snarling figures who were manoeuvring to take him in the flank.
‘I don’t intend to die.’
But both knew the decision was not theirs to take.
More bandits appeared from the mist, until the two men were surrounded by twenty or thirty feral figures: an entire tribe of mud-streaked men and women with wild hair, hungry eyes and screaming, gap-toothed mouths. Male or female, they were all armed, and they blocked the road to north and south. With Serpentius at his side Valerius could have cut his way out and spilled enough guts to discourage pursuit. But the Spaniard remained trapped, and unless he could find some way to free him they were both dead. Already, a hulk of a man, previously occupied with plunder, was beating his compatriots forward with his spear butt, urging them to slaughter the two interlopers. Serpentius kicked desperately at his fallen mount, at the same time hacking at enemies who were becoming ever more confident. For every bandit they killed, two took their place. Valerius found himself fighting on three sides and only lived because of the speed of a sword arm that was tiring fast. He cried out and fell back as a spear ripped the top of his shoulder and he found himself lying beside Serpentius as the eager blades sought out their throats.
The Spaniard’s hand clutched at his wooden fist and he knew it was over.
Then the trumpet blew.
XXVI
‘You were foolish to travel this road alone.’
Valerius stayed silent, still uncertain whether he could trust the grave young man who had saved their lives. Foolish or desperate, the end would have been the same if the auxiliary cavalry squadron hadn’t arrived to scatter the bandit tribe screaming into the mist.
‘There was no point in following them,’ the soldier went on. ‘The swamps are their rats’ nest. A fool to tempt them, but a bigger fool to fight them on their own ground.’
Massaging the leather stock where his wooden hand met the stump of his wrist, Valerius nodded to acknowledge the truth of the second statement and the admonition in the first. He could still feel the sting of the spear point slicing the flesh of his shoulder, but the wound had turned out to be superficial. The auxiliary unit’s medicus had cleaned it thoroughly and thought it unlikely to mortify, which was little short of miraculous given the festering source of the weapon that caused it. They sat by the open fire while the young man’s troopers bedded down eight to a room in the cramped accommodation offered by the mansio. A few paces away Serpentius lay back on a couch covered in a blanket with his injured foot raised. His eyes were closed, but Valerius knew the Spaniard would be listening to every word. The officer’s eyes said he knew it also.
‘You are a man of few words for a merchant. I usually find them somewhat garrulous. And then,’ his gaze drifted to Valerius’s sleeve, ‘there is your wooden hand; the mark I was told would identify the man I sought.’
The words were casual enough, but both men understood the threat they contained. Valerius kept his expression blank, but inside his heart hammered at his ribs like a wild beast trapped in a pen. He saw Serpentius tense beneath the blanket. Fight or flight. The appraising glint in the cavalryman’s eyes told him bluff wasn’t an option. In fact, the officer appeared remarkably relaxed for someone who had just passed what could be a death sentence on two very dangerous men. The troopers’ insignia identified them as a turma of the Ala Siliana, the Thracian auxiliary unit Valerius had been told had already rejected Otho’s claim to the purple. These men were paving the way for Aulus Vitellius’s army to march on Rome. Why save the lives of two dangerous enemies? The answer was simple and likely to be very painful. Valerius had counted the Siliana’s commander Tiberius Rubrio a friend, but with an Empire at stake friendship meant little, and if Rubrio wanted information he would go to any lengths to get it. Fight then, Valerius thought wearily. Better to go down like a lion than a lamb.