A branch tore a bloody gash across Raimund’s cheek, causing him to stumble and fall into the muck. He grunted as the impact reopened the wound in his side, a gift from a Roman gladius. A flare of pain surged through him, forcing him to stifle a scream.
He lay face down in the mud, heart pounding, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Just a short rest, he thought and closed his eyes.
Behind him, the sound of hooves on the cobbled road snapped him back to awareness. The horses slowed, and a fierce voice barked orders in the hated language of the invaders. Raimund had not learned Latin, defying his father, a minor chief of the Bellovaci Gauls.
“The Romans are the future, Raimund. We can no more stand against them than a tuber to a boar.”
Raimund had spat at his father’s feet that day, denouncing him as a coward. Now, as the legions of Caesar approached Samarobriva, the last free city in Northern Gaul, a surge of bile rushed up Raimund’s throat.
Were he not weak from starvation and blood loss, Raimund would have disappeared into the shadowy forest within moments. But injured as he was, the Romans would find him, and any chance of warning his people would end with his capture.
A harsh yell split the air behind him, and the nearest legionnaire dismounted and rushed into the brush. The man crashed through the undergrowth like a lumbering oaf. Raimund cursed himself for his cowardice and stupidity. Caught in the wilds of his homeland by an uncouth city dweller was an insult Raimund could not abide.
