Under a bright, waxing moon, Gallus sped down the scree-strewn hillside, clutching the grey gelding’s sweat-lathered neck, the wind of the ride roaring in his ears. The gelding rasped as it went, and Gallus knew the creature had run its last for now. As it galloped onto the flat ground at the foot of the hill, he sat up, tugging on its reins. ‘Easy,’ he said in a soothing voice, drawing it to a gradual halt.
A deathly silence descended then, interrupted only by the occasional croaking cricket. A sigh escaped his lips: the relentless thudding of chasing hooves that had dogged him all the way from the Fort of Mars was absent. He slid from the saddle and led the horse towards the bole of a spreading oak. It was an ancient tree, and offered a canopy of unspoiled blackness that would disguise them from watching eyes. He tethered the mount to a branch, stroked its muzzle then uncorked his last water skin, pouring half into the wooden bowl that he had found within the haircloth sack and setting it on the ground for the beast to gulp at. He swigged at the rest himself, pacing back and forth around the tree, looking in every direction.
Where are you, you bastard? Have I shaken you off at last?
The cool, silent night offered no answers.
This stretch of land was no place for a rider to be, and his pursuer would know that well. The mean-eyed speculator, Scaevola, who had been trailing him ever since he had escaped from the Fort of Mars a fortnight ago had been unremitting. No matter how swiftly Gallus rode, he could never bring the horizon between himself and Scaevola. More, the agent had drawn close – too close – more than once, each time just long enough to herd Gallus away from the imperial highway. The Via Militaris would take him directly to Adrianople, where Emperor Valens and his army were supposed to be heading, but the speculator had driven him into these cursed hills, where his mount struggled to traverse the long stretches of rockfall or steep valleys. Some days it was all he could do to circle back in an attempt to shake off his shadow, but to no avail. With this cur in dogged pursuit, he would never make it back to Emperor Valens and the XI Claudia.
He took a piece of smoked fish from the sack and chewed on it absently – irked at his hunger but knowing he had to eat something to stay alert. He took a handful of barley from the sack too and held it for the gelding to eat from his palm, all the while his eyes were combing the dark land. Suddenly, they locked onto faint, white wisps of smoke, just over the brow of the next hill. Instantly, he dropped into a crouch. Checking the horse was well tethered, he stalked from the shadow of the oak and crept across the moonlit land and up the hill. The hilltop was thickly forested in younger oaks, but he saw, through the woods, a glade. A small campfire crackled within this clearing, and a single horse was nearby: a black mare. Scaevola! Gallus realised at once. His eyes dropped to the slumbering form by the fire. The cur tires at long last!
He stole through the trees, cat-soft on his feet, instinctively reaching for his absent swordbelt then whispering a curse that Merobaudes had given him no weapon.
A faint, muffled snort sounded from behind him, down under the old spreading oak. Gallus swung round, but saw nothing in the blackness there. The gelding was no doubt skittish at being left alone so suddenly.
He turned back to the glade, emerging into the clearing and edging towards the campfire. I can take his horse and speed away from him at last. I can lead my gelding too and relay the beasts. But another, darker voice added: You have to kill him. He’s one of them.
He halted, looking down on the sleeping form, wrapped in a black cloak and hood.
He picked up a fist-sized rock and beheld the sleeping agent. Just a man, he thought, helpless and heedless of the killer standing over him. He saw the two doors in the darkness. Tartarus or Elysium?
‘Not another step,’ a cold voice split the night air, bringing with it a pungent waft of stale breath.
Gallus froze, hearing the faint zing of a blade being drawn from its sheath and then feeling it between his shoulder blades.
‘I expected better from you,’ Scaevola said, reaching a leg round to kick the hooded cloak – stuffed with blankets – away from the fire. ‘Like a moth to a candle, you were. I watched you sneak up on me. I stole down in your wake and cut your horse’s throat, just to be sure you wouldn’t get away this time.’
Gallus thought of the stifled snort he had heard. The poor creature had deserved better. He fell to his knees before the fire, dropping the rock, and bowed his head.
‘I knew I would be the one to break you,’ Scaevola chuckled behind him, positioning the blade over the nape of his neck.
‘Do as you will, Speculator,’ Gallus spat.
‘As you wish,’ Scaevola purred.
Gallus heard the intake of breath behind him as, for a trice, the tip of the blade lifted for the death blow. Like striking asps, he shot his hands into the fire, snatching up handfuls of the searing coals and glowing ash, then scooped them up over his shoulder and into Scaevola’s face, before rolling clear.
Scaevola’s screams were shrill and sickening, but the agent was stunned for the briefest of moments. Within a heartbeat, he was lurching for Gallus, face furiously red and bubbling where the coals had struck, his sword lifted for a death strike. Gallus leapt clear of the sword tip as it drove into the dirt floor of the glade, then bounded over to the speculator’s horse. He sprang for the saddle, but a small javelin beat him to it, whizzing into the horse’s chest. The beast reared in agony, hooves flailing.
‘You’re not getting away on my horse, dog,’ the speculator growled.
Gallus staggered back, seeing Scaevola stalking forward again.
‘On horseback, on foot, I will not stop until I have this blade between your ribs,’ he grinned, then lunged.
Gallus spun clear of the strike, then stumbled to the treeline. A moment later he found himself loping through the woods, hearing the armed speculator just paces behind him, feeling Scaevola’s blade hack and slice through his wake.
He burst clear of the woods and tumbled down the hillside, before righting himself and breaking into a feverish run. The wind of the chase struck up again. He ran and ran, Scaevola in close pursuit. His legs became heavy and his lungs grew fiery. Every fibre of his body willed him to stop. Every beat of his heart willed him on.
On, until I see the standards of my emperor and the sweet, red banner of my legion.