The Multitude, стр. 40

CHAPTER 17

Later that day, in Virtus

The back of Quintus’s neck prickled. He slowed his horse and glanced behind him. Dust kicked up from the road, perhaps a league back. He tightened his grip on the reins.

He rode a mile east, turned, and waited. The small dust cloud didn’t appear again until a few minutes passed. Whoever was trailing him came on foot, not horseback. That ruled out a soldier. Unfortunately, anyone else could well be hostile—a savage, or a monk, perhaps—maybe a thief. Might be more than one.

One solution would be to outrun whoever approached, but the day’s shadows had grown long, and the immediate location was the best he’d seen all day for making camp. A bend in a creek cradled a bushy oasis just north of the trail. Rather than give that up, he waited to get a better handle on who he might be up against.

Quintus swatted at pesky flies and dwelled on the folly of traveling alone without a partner to help keep watch after dark. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, even without immediate danger. Now, he had possible hostiles to worry about. And a vulnerable woman to worry over. He cursed his poor judgment in not convincing Adala to travel with him. If she didn’t want to go all the way to the capital, she still could have ridden with him for quite some distance before splitting away at Navio or one of the other satellite towns when they got close.

After several minutes peering through his spyglass, he made out shapes in the shimmering distance and breathed a sigh of relief. A solitary man leading a pack mule didn’t pose the threat he’d feared. The rumor of a silver find earlier that summer had lured scores of prospectors into the frontier to chase their fortunes. Most gave up after a few weeks in the baking sun. More than likely, this traveler had been cut from the same cloth, a harmless man just looking to go home.

Let him. Quintus dismounted and gathered dead brush for a fire. He’d built a decent pile by the time the man and his mule arrived.

The gaunt stranger did wear the garb of a prospector. Rough leather trousers, a weathered shirt, and a wide-brim hat shading his prickly growth of beard. He owned the proper tools and weaponry, too—a pick-axe for digging and a rifle for shooting game. His shifty eyes were a worry, though. “Snared a rabbit back yonder, but I ain’t got no fire,” the man said.

Quintus kept his mind on his pistol and flexed his shooting hand, just in case. “I’ve got bread and beans. That’ll do for my meal.”

The man guffawed—a deep, throaty laugh that made him seem more trustworthy. “Ain’t no soldier gonna win battles living off bread and beans.”

Quintus set to the task of starting a fire with flint and stone. Sparks flew on the sixth attempt, and the dry kindling caught right away.

The man trudged past him, leading his mule to the creek. A few minutes and one rifle-shot later, he returned with a rucksack draped over one shoulder and a rabbit carcass over the other. “Name’s Gaius. We’ll skin her up and share a king’s meal, eh, partner?”

“Call me Quintus.”

“I’ll be happy to call you whatever gets me a go at that fire.”

Quintus gave in against his better judgment and decided to share camp with the man, the thought of cooked rabbit being the main selling point.

Gaius rustled through his rucksack. “Got a pan in here somewhere, for the beans, if you ain’t got one.”

“Uh-huh.” Quintus carried his own. What seasoned traveler wouldn’t?

“Picked up some other things, too, this morning in Portus, but mostly things a man ain’t got much use for.”

A prickle of concern raced down the back of Quintus’s neck. Portus lay well off the beaten track for prospectors, most of whom kept to themselves like hermits.

Gaius chuckled. “Drawing supplies. Worthless junk. The pitcher might fetch a price, though.”

Adala. Quintus’s blood ran cold. He had his pistol out in an instant.

Gaius dropped his rucksack to the ground and raised both hands. “Whoa there, partner.”

“We aren’t partners.”

“What are you waving that piece at me for?”

“Tell me again how you happened to come across that worthless junk of yours.”

“Steady.” The man eased his arms down. “Ain’t never told you in the first place.”

“Tell me now, then.”

“Saved a woman from crucifixion. Her pack was my reward.”

The grip of the pistol went slippery in Quintus’s hand, and a bead of sweat stung his left eye. He’d let Adala walk to Portus on her own, knowing full well the dangers of the frontier. “How exactly did you save her?”

“I shot her between the eyes. She would have suffered on that cross for two, maybe three days. They nailed her hands and feet, man.” Gaius was talking too fast to be believed.

A wave of dizziness blurred Quintus’s vision. “Who crucified her?”

“Monks.”

“And they let you just walk up and shoot her?”

“Shot her from a distance with my rifle.”

“Then how did you get in close enough to steal her pack?”

Gaius wouldn’t look him in the eye.

Quintus needed every ounce of willpower to keep from shooting Gaius cold. But he couldn’t take down an unarmed man. “What other tales do you know? I’ve heard plenty of stories about women being raped and murdered by thieves out here.”

“Hold on now. I won’t camp with anyone doubts my word.” Gaius bent to his rucksack and rummaged inside again. “You can have her things and I’ll be on my way.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them!” Quintus tried to stay focused despite a wave of guilt nearly buckling his knees.

Gaius pulled a gun out of the rucksack and dove to the side all in one motion. Quintus dove as well, and each got off a shot.

For a long moment, Quintus lay on the ground, waiting for some sign he’d been killed—a bright light in the