Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

At the last moment something flew past Marcus’s head, thudding into the nearer man’s chest and pitching him prone on to the dark road. A moment later a spear arced out of the trees, forcing the other rider to twist in his saddle in desperate evasion, his horse hesitating as the trees’ shadow loomed. As the rider wrestled with his mount’s reins a powerful figure stepped swiftly past an amazed Marcus, swinging a heavy sword in a single brutal blow at the animal’s legs. With an awful scream the animal fell to its knees, hurling its rider untidily on to the ground, where the horse’s assailant finished him with an efficient thrust to the throat. Another blow silenced the animal’s agony in a steaming flow of its blood. The silent attacker stepped back into the trees, vanishing wraith-like into their dark shelter.

The third rider trotted slowly out of the slowly departing night, an arrow ready to loose from his taut bow. The arrow’s point arced slowly across the bloodied scene in search of a target. Marcus shrank back towards the trees, Rufius pulling him into the shield’s inadequate protection, but the archer saw their movement while they were still a good ten feet from the deeper shadows. Straightening in his saddle, he swung the bow to bear on them, bending the bow the last few inches before loosing its arrow. With a berserk howl their rescuer broke from the trees again at a dead run, throwing himself into a forward roll as the mounted archer loosed the arrow at him in a split-second reaction. As the rider’s left hand plucked another arrow from his quiver his attacker rolled out of his dive and sprang forward with his sword, gutting the horse with a single turning thrust. The rider went down under his screaming, dying mount, trapped beneath its dead weight. The massive figure stepped over the dying animal’s trembling neck, lifting his sword for the final kill.

‘Dubnus! No!’

The sword froze in mid-strike, and then withdrew. Tiberius Rufius strode across to the man, slapping him on the back in congratulation.

‘Excellent work, man, worthy of celebration by mighty Mars himself! What a sacrifice you have made to him! Marcus, come and renew your acquaintanceship with my good friend Dubnus!’

Marcus walked across the road to where Rufius and his companion stood over the fallen horse and rider. The other man turned to face him, one hand exploring the muscle of his forearm, and the arrow shaft that protruded from it.

‘The Tungrian…?’

‘Indeed it is. And isn’t he magnificent? I told you that this was a man who knew how to fight, but I had no idea that he would be so good!’

Marcus looked into the Briton’s eyes, seeing there a wary expression, but one lacking the hostility he’d noted there previously.

‘You’re wounded.’

Dubnus shrugged impassively.

‘It didn’t hit anything important, or there’d be more blood.’

He grasped the arrow and adjusted his big fingers experimentally around its shaft, taking a steadying breath. A swift push tore the arrow’s head, narrow but evilly barbed, through the undamaged skin at the back of his arm, the arrow protruding from both sides of the limb. The Briton growled at the pain, a rivulet of blood snaking down his arm to drip from the spread fingers. With a casual twist of the shaft, the arrow broke into two easily removable halves.

‘I wiped… the point… with my shit…’

All three turned to look at the fallen horseman, panting for breath as the injuries inflicted by his dead horse’s weight tightened their grip on his life. Dubnus laughed at him, pulling a bloody finger across his throat.

‘You’re a dead man, I’ve already killed you. I can clean this wound, use herbs and maggots to remove any poison, but your leg is broken. Badly broken, probably bleeding inside. I’ve seen it happen before, takes an hour or so. Perhaps I should help you to die?’

‘Fuck you… blue-nose.’

His eyes found Marcus, widening with recognition.

‘You… traitor…’

Marcus stepped forward, the long cavalry sword still hanging from one hand.

‘You were sent to kill me.’

‘Would’ve… been easy… except for him… keep looking… over your shoulder… no hiding place… for you.’

Rufius gently pushed Marcus to one side.

‘Dubnus, do what you must to make your wound safe for travel. We have to be away from here in ten minutes, no more. Take him with you.’

He squatted down next to the trapped horseman.

‘I need a few minutes with my friend here…’

He waited until the Briton had shepherded Marcus away before slipping an ornately handled dagger from its sheath, and addressing the fallen rider in a quiet conversational tone.

‘Yes, we’re old friends all right. I’m the “officer” you were shouting for those blue-noses to kill yesterday on the North Road. And in fact for a long time I was an officer, and a good one too. I spent several very nasty years patrolling the Tava valley, up past the northern wall, before you idlers gave up our hard-won ground and moved back south to old Hadrian’s Wall. One of the things I learnt to do with complete expertise during my time in that forsaken place was to persuade the local tribesmen we captured to tell us the things they didn’t want to tell us. And now, before you die, I’m going to share that skill with you. So, where shall we begin…?’

Dubnus dropped a heavy hand on Marcus’s shoulder, pulling him farther away from the scene.

‘You don’t want to see that. Stay here and watch my pack.’

He drew his sword and walked to the closest of the fallen horses, pausing to wrest his throwing axe from the chest of his first victim before turning to the man’s horse. Practical necessity overrode any qualms he might have felt about either the man’s death or the use he was about to make of the dead horse. From the moment he’d agreed to do what the former officer had asked of him he’d been working out how to make good their escape, once the Roman was safe from the threat of murder. The veteran officer had disturbed his sleep earlier that night with the request, one that had made him laugh out loud with its audacity once his irritation at being awakened before the dawn call had worn off.

He’d stopped laughing when a bag full of gold had landed on the bed in front of him. The former officer, it seemed, was determined to have his help, and was willing to pay handsomely. It was enough money, Tiberius Rufius had told him, to buy every man in his cohort a decent coat of mail. He’d stopped laughing all right, but the look on his face had made it clear enough to the veteran centurion that he wasn’t going to pick the money up from where it had landed, at least not without a good reason. Which Rufius had proceeded, with a half-smile that signalled how well he understood the Briton, to matter-of-factly provide.

His task complete, Dubnus returned to find Marcus waiting where he had left him. He stuffed the carefully wrapped bundle into his pack and then led the way deeper into the copse, searching in the half-light until he found what he was looking for. The plant glistened in the grey light.

‘Woundwort. Good.’

He ripped a handful of the plant away from its stem, squeezing it hard in a straining fist until a milky fluid dribbled from between his fingers on to the arrow punctures, then reached into his pack, hidden at the foot of a tree, for a strip of cloth.

‘The juice will help to stop the bleeding. Help me to tie it.’

Dubnus wound the cloth around his bulky forearm and allowed Marcus to knot it. A slow red stain seeped through the layers.

‘Tighter… good.’

A shrill scream made Marcus start. The soldier shrugged, regarding the temporary bandage with a professional scrutiny from beneath his heavy eyebrows, a slight smile crossing his face.