to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
‘In here! In here!’ shouted Spartacus. He took aim and let another arrow fly. ‘Loose as fast as you can,’ he roared. ‘We have to make the scumbags think that there are plenty of us.’
Hiss! Hiss! Hiss! The trio released shafts as fast as they could.
Two more horsemen went down. A steed that had been struck in the chest reared up in agony, unseating its rider. The man immediately behind could not react fast enough, and with a massive thump, the horses collided. Carbo’s delight at this faded as a yelling cavalryman closed in on the second fugitive, delivering an almighty blow to his right side. The slave stumbled and cried out, but incredibly he kept running. Carbo took a little satisfaction as his next arrow took the Roman rider in the groin, below the bottom of his mail shirt. Hiss! Hiss! Two more shafts scudded out, striking another pair of riders.
The wounded slave’s gaze scanned the trees. He’d seen their arrows. He shouted something at his companion, and they changed direction slightly, aiming for where Spartacus and the others were standing. Carbo stared at the man’s face, twisted with effort. ‘Paccius?’ he whispered. Disbelief filled him. It couldn’t be the Samnite who had been his family’s best slave, and who had trained him to use a sword and shield. Could it? Then the man staggered and almost fell, and one of the nearest Romans whooped with triumph. Before Carbo knew what he was doing, he was sprinting out of the cover of the trees. Into the open.
‘What are you doing, you fool?’ Spartacus yelled.
‘Come back!’ Navio roared. ‘You’ll be killed.’
The taste of Carbo’s fear was acid in his throat, but he kept running. He nocked an arrow to his string. ‘I’m coming, Paccius. Hold on!’
A cavalryman closed in on the injured fugitive and Carbo swore. There was no way that he could loose accurately as he ran. Zip! Something flashed past him, striking the Roman in the chest. The shaft punched through his mail shirt, throwing him backwards off his mount. Another arrow shot by, hitting a horse and causing it to stumble. Its rider did well not to be unseated, but he was still out of the fight. Carbo felt a surge of gratitude towards Spartacus and Navio.
The first slave was now only twenty paces or so away. His mouth gaped open with the impossible effort of trying to outrun horses.
‘We’ve got to help your friend,’ Carbo yelled, gesturing madly. ‘Go back and help him.’
The slave looked at him as if he were mad, but he obeyed.
Things were not good. The Romans had split up. Three were coming at him from the left, and four from the right. The remainder were aiming for the injured slave and his comrade. Carbo felt nauseous. What had he done? There was no way that he could release enough arrows to kill, or even injure, all his opponents. Even if he took down a few of them, the rest would slice him up with ease. I’m a dead man. His conscience spat back at once. At least you tried to save Paccius.
That was when the wounded slave looked straight at him. Carbo realised with horror that while he bore more than a passing resemblance to the Samnite, he was a different man. I’m going to die for nothing. Carbo sucked in a ragged breath. He prepared to sell his life dearly. The cavalrymen on the left were nearest. He tugged out an arrow, put it to the string and loosed in one smooth movement. Instantly, a horse was riderless. His next shot missed, however, and his third glanced off a rider’s helmet. Nonetheless, the Romans’ charge checked a little. The injured man, helped by his companion, limped past Carbo towards the trees. He risked a glance to his right, and his gorge rose. Four riders were thundering down on him. Maybe the slaves will reach cover before I’m dead. It was a faint hope, but it was all Carbo had as he aimed at the lead horse.
Hiss! Hiss!
Two arrows flew by him. The front rider was struck in the leg, and he pulled up, screaming blue murder. The other shaft missed. Nonetheless, Carbo’s spirits rallied. He let fly, hitting the first Roman himself, this time in the arm.
‘You fucking idiot!’ Spartacus came hammering in on his right side, bow at the ready. ‘If you want to live, run! In twenty paces, stop, turn and shoot one shaft. Then run and do the same again.’
Filled with awe, and the screaming hope that he might survive, Carbo obeyed. Ten paces on, he saw Navio. The Roman’s face was twisted into a terrible rictus of concentration. He had arrows gripped in the same fist that held his bow, and was drawing and loosing with incredible speed. ‘Run!’ he shouted. ‘Run!’
The next few moments passed by in a blur. Carbo ran and shot, shot and ran. He had no time to see if any of his arrows hit their targets. All he knew was that there were still enemies attacking them and that he was nearest cover, while Spartacus and Navio were the most exposed. When he’d reached the relative safety of the tree line, he looked around. Dismay tore at him. ‘Spartacus, look out!’
Fifty paces out, Spartacus knew that he’d made a grave mistake in deciding to try and rescue Carbo. It had been an unconscious choice, spurred partly by his regard for the young Roman and partly by the devilment that had made him intervene against the horsemen in the first place. A small part of him wanted to prove that he was even braver than Carbo. But now, with an enemy charging in from both left and right, he knew that the Rider had deserted him at last. Good cavalrymen worked in unison, and he did not have time to release two arrows. By the time he’d loosed at one, the other would be cutting him in half. Navio was busy with his own opponent, and Carbo’s aim left something to be desired.
This is not the way I wanted to die.
But he wouldn’t go without a struggle. He made an immediate decision which rider to shoot. The nearest one. Closing his ears to the hammering of hooves and the Romans’ war cries, Spartacus took aim at the rider, who was less than fifteen paces away. At this range, he could not miss. He didn’t even watch the arrow fly. The instant it left the string, he let go of his bow, and flung himself to the ground. The blade that would have decapitated him scythed overhead. There was a shouted curse, and Spartacus rolled to his right, away from where he thought his enemy’s horse would go. He ripped free his sica. With it gripped in his hand, he felt a fraction better.
‘Die, you whoreson!’
Spartacus flung his arm up and met the downward swing of the Roman’s long sword. Sparks flew as the two lengths of iron scraped off each other. He slid away again, desperate to get to his feet. The rider guided his horse back a step and, leaning over, drove the point of his weapon at Spartacus’ stomach. With a lunge to the side, Spartacus prevented it skewering him to the ground. As it was, it shredded the side of his tunic and cut a flesh wound in his side. Pain flared, and he groaned. Great Rider, help me! His opponent’s comrades would soon be on them.
‘Hades is waiting for you!’ cried the Roman.
With the strength of sheer desperation, Spartacus came up on to his knees. He met another blow with a savage overhand parry that caught the rider off guard. Before the man could bring down his blade again, Spartacus leaped up and grabbed his nearest foot with his left hand. With a great heave, he wrenched the Roman’s leg upwards, unbalancing him. Arms flailing at the air, the man toppled off the other side of his horse.
Spartacus had no chance to savour this tiny victory. Three more riders had nearly reached him. It was pointless running. The trees were still too far. ‘Gently,’ he muttered, gripping the horse’s mane with one hand and balancing his right fist and sica on its haunches. He threw himself up on its back just in time to see the closest cavalryman take an arrow in the belly. That left two men who were about forty paces from him. Spartacus tensed as they rode forward, but to his delight, another shaft almost struck one of their horses. Cursing, they reined in.
Spartacus didn’t wait to see what happened next. He aimed a hefty kick at the Roman he’d unhorsed, sending him sprawling to the dirt again. Then he dragged his steed’s head around and, drumming his heels into its sides, aimed it at the trees. Navio gave him a fierce grin as he rode up. ‘Grip the mane,’ Spartacus ordered.
Navio had never run with a horse before, but he knew of the Iberian skirmishers who’d fought for Hannibal. They often went into battle in such a manner. Coming in close, he grabbed a handful of the thick hair and as the beast trotted off, let its momentum give him extra speed.
As they reached the tree line unharmed, Carbo loosed an arrow. He shouted with pleasure as it sank into a horse’s rear. The rider lost his seat as his steed bucked and kicked with the pain of it.
Spartacus threw himself to the ground. ‘Quick! Get under cover.’
Throwing glances over their shoulders, they ran into the trees. The horse trotted off aimlessly.
‘Stop. Ready an arrow.’
Chests heaving, they stared out at the Romans, of whom five or so remained uninjured. The cavalrymen
