tried to turn back, only to find Gritto there, pushing past, shield up and yelling imprecations in Latin.
The push went on. Another three times, four, five, and he had actually received a punch and a kick in the process, but had forged ahead through the mass of horsemen by sheer control of his horse and force of will.
Slowing for a moment, he risked rising above the shield and was both surprised and relieved to see the standard of Messirios bobbing about almost in front of him. The horses had already turned slightly off-course, heading for the infantry. Any moment now, the prince would give the command to go from a messy gallop to an unrestrained charge, and then it would be too late to stop them.
Even if the prince would consider listening to him, it was exceedingly unlikely that he would hear him in the din. A moment of undecided panic, and Gritto settled upon a course of action, somewhat regretfully dropping his shield and spear among the running horses where they were immediately trampled and smashed to pieces.
Driving his horse on for that standard, he elbowed aside a Gallic nobleman, who in return delivered him a sturdy kick to the thigh in anger. A push, a lunge, and suddenly he was next to the standard bearer. The Gaul, his drooping moustaches bouncing comically with his gait and the breeze, his head topped with a bronze helm that looked as though a metal seagull had impaled itself on the tip, had not even noticed he was there, too intent on watching the prince a few paces ahead, waiting for the nod.
Aware that he might just die for his presumption but seeing no other choice, Gritto reached out and delivered the hardest punch he could muster to the upper arm of the standard bearer. The Gaul let out a yelp, the blow - as intended - deadening his arm for a moment and causing him to lose his grip on the shaft. As the Gaul’s head swung round in a mix of shock and anger, Gritto grasped the shaft of the falling standard and raised it high, tipping it to the right once, twice, three times.
The course of the attack changed instantly, and after a matter of mere heartbeats Gritto found himself on the periphery of the force, along with the Mediomatrici prince, his standard bearer, and his personal cadre of noble warriors.
The standard bearer raised the sword he had held in his other hand ready to bring down on this sudden attacker, but faltered as he recognised the uniform of a Roman officer, the sword quivering in his shaking hand high above them.
Prince Messirios seemed to have realised that something was amiss, and had turned to look at the scene behind him, his eyes wide as he realised his army were veering off to the east, skirting around the enemy. His eyes, blazing, fell upon the Roman officer holding his royal standard and he barked something furiously in his own tongue.
Gritto felt his heart skip a beat, knowing that the heavy Gallic sword was poised to fall on the prince’s command and that when it did so, it would smash open his head like a ripe melon. He realised that he was probably ashen faced and gawping like an idiot and forced his open mouth shut, lowering his brows into an expression of arrogant defiance such as the one his father seemed to have permanently affixed to his face.
‘Indutiomarus!’ he snapped and, to try and make his point all the more obvious, used his free hand to mime a cantering horse (though in all fairness it probably more resembled a drunken spider) and then pointed over the enemy to the cavalry at the rear.
For a long moment, the prince of the Mediomatrici glared at him in anger and finally, showing no sign of letting up his fury for even a moment, nodded and turned his horse away, racing off to catch up with his men as they skirted the Treveri army.
The Gaulish standard bearer lowered his sword with a glance after his departing lord and punched the Roman heavily in the arm, retrieving his standard before riding off to join his compatriots.
Gritto sat for a moment rubbing
The push went on. Another three times, four, five, and he had actually received a punch and a kick in the process, but had forged ahead through the mass of horsemen by sheer control of his horse and force of will.
Slowing for a moment, he risked rising above the shield and was both surprised and relieved to see the standard of Messirios bobbing about almost in front of him. The horses had already turned slightly off-course, heading for the infantry. Any moment now, the prince would give the command to go from a messy gallop to an unrestrained charge, and then it would be too late to stop them.
Even if the prince would consider listening to him, it was exceedingly unlikely that he would hear him in the din. A moment of undecided panic, and Gritto settled upon a course of action, somewhat regretfully dropping his shield and spear among the running horses where they were immediately trampled and smashed to pieces.
Driving his horse on for that standard, he elbowed aside a Gallic nobleman, who in return delivered him a sturdy kick to the thigh in anger. A push, a lunge, and suddenly he was next to the standard bearer. The Gaul, his drooping moustaches bouncing comically with his gait and the breeze, his head topped with a bronze helm that looked as though a metal seagull had impaled itself on the tip, had not even noticed he was there, too intent on watching the prince a few paces ahead, waiting for the nod.
Aware that he might just die for his presumption but seeing no other choice, Gritto reached out and delivered the hardest punch he could muster to the upper arm of the standard bearer. The Gaul let out a yelp, the blow - as intended - deadening his arm for a moment and causing him to lose his grip on the shaft. As the Gaul’s head swung round in a mix of shock and anger, Gritto grasped the shaft of the falling standard and raised it high, tipping it to the right once, twice, three times.
The course of the attack changed instantly, and after a matter of mere heartbeats Gritto found himself on the periphery of the force, along with the Mediomatrici prince, his standard bearer, and his personal cadre of noble warriors.
The standard bearer raised the sword he had held in his other hand ready to bring down on this sudden attacker, but faltered as he recognised the uniform of a Roman officer, the sword quivering in his shaking hand high above them.
Prince Messirios seemed to have realised that something was amiss, and had turned to look at the scene behind him, his eyes wide as he realised his army were veering off to the east, skirting around the enemy. His eyes, blazing, fell upon the Roman officer holding his royal standard and he barked something furiously in his own tongue.
Gritto felt his heart skip a beat, knowing that the heavy Gallic sword was poised to fall on the prince’s command and that when it did so, it would smash open his head like a ripe melon. He realised that he was probably ashen faced and gawping like an idiot and forced his open mouth shut, lowering his brows into an expression of arrogant defiance such as the one his father seemed to have permanently affixed to his face.
‘Indutiomarus!’ he snapped and, to try and make his point all the more obvious, used his free hand to mime a cantering horse (though in all fairness it probably more resembled a drunken spider) and then pointed over the enemy to the cavalry at the rear.
For a long moment, the prince of the Mediomatrici glared at him in anger and finally, showing no sign of letting up his fury for even a moment, nodded and turned his horse away, racing off to catch up with his men as they skirted the Treveri army.
The Gaulish standard bearer lowered his sword with a glance after his departing lord and punched the Roman heavily in the arm, retrieving his standard before riding off to join his compatriots.
Gritto sat for a moment rubbing
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