land.
Someone was approaching through the trees. In the dark, Menophilus gazed to the side of the figure, the better to see.
The soldier passed by closer than a child could throw a stone. He went down and stood on the riverbank, fumbled with his belt and trousers.
Softly humming a tune – an old marching song – Menophilus stepped out from behind the tree trunk. He made no attempt to be quiet as he walked down.
The soldier half turned; a stream of piss arcing in front.
‘Ave,’ Menophilus said.
‘Ave,’ the soldier grunted, and returned to concentrate his aim into the water.
Menophilus unsheathed the blade, and had it at his throat in one movement.
‘No noise.’
‘Please, no. Please, do not kill me.’ The soldier spoke quietly, fighting his terror.
‘Death is your last concern.’
‘Please …’
‘Answer my questions. No one will know. It will be as if this never happened.’
‘Anything …’
Menophilus was aware of Barbius nearby, but hanging back.
‘What other troops are with the 10th Legion?’
The soldier hesitated.
Menophilus let the edge of the blade slide over the soft flesh.
Any resolve broken, the man started to talk. ‘Detachments of all the other three Pannonian Legions; about four thousand swords.’
‘Who commands?’
‘Flavius Vopiscus.’
‘Where are Maximinus and the rest of the field army?’
‘Still on the far side of the Alps.’
‘Where?’
‘At Emona.’ For his life, the soldier would volunteer anything he knew. ‘They will not march until they get word the pontoon is ready. Supplies are short. Better the forces are separate.’
Menophilus calculated distances, rates of march. If the bridge was finished tomorrow or the day after, another day for a messenger to ride post-haste to Emona, perhaps four more days for the main force …
The blow took him unawares. He doubled up, clasping his stomach.
The soldier was off, crashing through the undergrowth, clutching up his trousers.
Menophilus dragged air into his chest, tried to get enough to shout at Barbius to stop the soldier.
The young equestrian was rooted, like some autochthonous warrior half-emerged from the soil.
‘Enemy in sight! Spies!’ the soldier was yelling as he ran.
Menophilus got his breath. Too late. He straightened up, hissed at Barbius: ‘Run!’
Barbius was off like a hare.
Menophilus, sword still in his right hand, gathered up the scabbard in his left, and set off after.
Roots clutched at his feet. Branches whipped his face. The hot sting of blood on his cheek. A searing pain in his chest.
Barbius was in front, a little higher up the bank.
They fled south.
From behind came the ring of a trumpet sounding the alarm, the bark of orders.
Menophilus burst out onto the track. No time to look up at the farm. Too busy watching his feet. Barbius already gone into the trees beyond.
Once Menophilus stumbled, almost fell. When he looked up, there were two soldiers ahead off to the right, indistinct in the gloom. The men watching the farm? No, there were too many, four or five.
‘This way!’
Menophilus angled away from the soldiers.
Barbius ran straight towards them.
‘This way, you fool.’
A sword cut from nowhere. Menophilus blocked awkwardly. The hilt slipped from his grip. He grabbed the wrist of his assailant’s sword arm. The man had him by the throat. They wrestled, boots stamping for purchase. An ungainly, macabre bout.
Slammed back against a tree, Menophilus’ fingers closed on the dagger in his belt. He tugged it free, punched it into the man’s flank.
The soldier went down, cursing, hands plucking at the embedded blade. Not dead yet, but no further threat.
Menophilus was free. Unarmed, but free.
Through the wood, he could see Barbius. The youth was ringed by soldiers.
Menophilus scrabbled across the forest floor, hunting his sword.
Barbius had dropped his blade, was sinking to his knees, begging.
The metal pommel, the worn leather back in Menophilus’ hand. He looked across at Barbius. Five to one; no hope in those odds. Menophilus stood, irresolute. The life of the youth, his own life, weighed against the cause.
Barbius’ eyes were bright with terror. He stretched out his hands in supplication. It did him no good. A soldier hacked down at his head.
Menophilus turned, and ran.
A lightning-blasted tree, shimmering white.
‘Decus,’ came the challenge.
‘Tutamen,’ Menophilus gasped the response.
Strong hands helped him into the clearing. Most of the troopers were in the saddle. The Optio gave him a leg up.
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The junior officer was good.
‘Aquileia,’ Menophilus said. ‘Not the way we came. Due west, across the open countryside.’
Once clear of the treeline, there was no imminent danger. The enemy had no horsemen. They went at a canter, skirting orchards, clattering between the pruned-back lines of vines and the huge, round empty barrels. It was near dawn. The stars fading.
Barbius was dead. Menophilus would have to tell his father. There were practicalities to consider. The father had charge of the walls of Aquileia.
The youth was dead, because Menophilus had abandoned him. Another thing on his conscience, another repulsive stain on his soul. There were more than enough already. Gordian had ordered him to kill Vitalianus, the Praetorian Prefect. He had gone so much further. On his own initiative he had murdered Sabinus, the art-loving
