Free The King's Cavalry by Paul Bannister Page B

luck, Maxentius’ men might not come across it for weeks, if ever.
    Ashore, I took stock. Judging by the time I had been sailing, I was probably 20 miles north of Mainz. I’d been captured southwest of there at Vallis, where my cavalry troop under Grabelius would have returned to find me missing. They would deduce from witnesses to the attack that Maxentian’s Romans would have taken me either to Mainz or to Colonia, which was still a distance north of where I stood. It was reasonable to assume that Grabelius would send patrols cautiously towards each place, in hope of finding where I was held, so I resolved to head back south and west, to intersect the line between Vallis and Mainz. At best, I could meet a patrol of my men, second best was that I could return the entire way to Vallis. I did not contemplate the worst case, I had no intention of being recaptured.
    For equipment, I had the drayman’s cloak and straw hat, his boots, which fitted passably well, his knife and a hammer, plus the man’s purse with its few small coins. I’d been worse equipped, I’d been better equipped, it would have to do. At least the hat and cloak provided some disguise, although my size, scarred face and bad limp would make me recognisable to any official, should word go out in the coming days. Maybe by that time, I would be safe somewhere. I shrugged, glanced at Sol to take a bearing and set off southwest. Within a few hundred paces, I came across the military road, checked for sight or sound of patrols or traffic, crossed it cautiously and stepped into the woods.
    The going was conveniently good. The land was wooded, interspersed with agricultural and grazing lands, so it was easy enough to move across in fair concealment. At dusk, I came across a small settlement, slipped into a chicken coop, lifted a drowsy bird without too much clucking and was quietly out and away into the woods without even a single dog barking. I kept my fire concealed, roasted the fowl and slept well in my cloak, fed and warm. I was under way again before dawn.
    On the third day, I felt confident enough to make contact with a villager who gave me a supply of dried, smoked pork in exchange for the hammer. He was a rat-faced, gotch-eyed villain and he eyed my dagger with cupidity, though it was a poor weapon, but we concluded the transaction peaceably and I moved on. Something alerted my instincts and I looked back once or twice, sensing that someone was following me, but saw nothing. A half hour later, as I was sitting with my back to a tree, eating some of the pork, the fellow tried to kill me with his axe. I heard something creak behind me and moved just in time to avoid the swing of it, then I was on my feet, dagger out and punching an upthrust under the axeman’s ribs.
    It was the gotch-eyed villager. The blow lifted him off his feet and I was close enough, face -to-face, to smell his onion-scented breath. I was holding him impaled. I lowered him to his toes, and he gasped in pain. “What?” I said.
    “The knife,” he said, a bubble of blood on his lips. “I wanted the knife.”
    It seems harsh to tell it now, the way it happened, but I have been a soldier all my life. I saw my father slaughtered by sea raiders, my comrades have died around me, in ambush and battle, and some were executed in cold blood. My twin brothers vanished and are dead or slaves not so far from that place where I had the robber on my blade. Life is hard and can be cheap, so when he said he was willing to kill me for a poor blade like that, I had no mercy. “You want the knife?” I repeated. “Well, have it now.”
    I twisted and thrust up deeply, giving the killing stroke that bursts the heart. I felt the warmth of the blood gush on my wrist and pushed the thief away. He was dying as he slumped into the leaf mould. I spat the remains of the pork from my mouth, onto his body, wiped my knife and hands on his tunic, checked to see if he had a purse at his belt – he had none –