before I saw it. Before I could even react it had thunked into the side of the cart, a mere hand’s breadth from Diotima’s right leg and right in front of me. If I’d taken one more step before it came in, I’d’ve been a dead man.
I shouted, “Ride!”
I kicked Blossom so hard up the behind even he got the message. Or perhaps he’d heard the fear in my voice, because Diotima was a target, high in the cart. Either way, the donkey took off as fast as a donkey can while pulling a protesting woman in his wake. I screamed, “Stay low!” at her rapidly disappearing back, and then took my own advice and flattened myself on the ground. Diotima pulled on the left rein, and the cart sped around the curve and out of sight on the road to the sanctuary. She was no longer a target. I breathed a sigh of relief. I would just have to hope there was no one waiting around there for her.
The attack had come from the right, from a copse of trees a hundred paces away, at the point where the road forked, and that was probably what had saved us. The ground between the road and the trees was clear of all but barley plants, knee-high, not nearly tall or thick enough to hide a man who must stand to shoot a bow. The trees were the closest a shooter could approach. Thegood news was I couldn’t see a band of brigands. If it had been highway robbers, they would have rushed me, and I wouldn’t have stood a chance. This had the look of a single assassin.
I was in the middle of a road, with no cover about me and a bowman within range. I considered running away, but rejected the idea. It would expose my back to a lucky shot, and besides, I wanted to know who was trying to kill us, and why.
I felt beneath my exomis for my knife. It was the only weapon I had. I could have borrowed my father’s spear and shield and short sword before I left home, but who goes armed to find a missing girl?
There’s a technical term for a man who charges a bowman wielding only a knife. The term is
corpse
. I couldn’t run away, I couldn’t charge without being hit, but I could crawl. I dragged myself off the road, in the direction of the trees, flat to the ground, until I was by the roadside amongst the first of the barley. Here I had some minimal cover. Another arrow flew overhead, in the right direction and barely above me. That would change in a moment, when he found his range. I dragged myself, I hoped out of sight, not forward or backward, but sideways, parallel with the road and going back in the direction of Athens. I moved slowly, careful not to make the knee-high plants sway against the breeze. I’d moved five paces when an arrow embedded itself in the ground, exactly where I’d been hiding. I moved farther to the right. Carefully.
A few more shots came in, falling in a cluster about where the shooter had seen me disappear into the grass, and I thought myself lucky that he and I were on the same level. If he’d been higher—on a hill, for example—I’d’ve been totally exposed.
If he were on a hill. Or if he were up a tree. And the bowman was hiding in woods.
At that moment the shooting stopped.
What were the odds my attacker was climbing a tree? If he got a decent purchase on a high limb then I was a dead man. Butwhile he was climbing, he couldn’t shoot at all. He might not even see me if I rushed him.
I prepared myself to run, then was assaulted by fear: What if he wasn’t climbing? What if the shooter was merely waiting to see what I did? I’d take an arrow through the head the moment I raised it.
Which was he doing: climbing or waiting?
I had to do something. No decision was worse than guessing wrong.
If he was climbing, then my only chance to survive would be gone within heartbeats.
I grabbed a handful of the local dirt in my left hand—it was gray, dry dust that I scraped from the surface—because there’s nothing a bowman hates worse than grit in the eyes. Then I took a deep breath, tensed my legs, and pushed off.
I ran
I shouted, “Ride!”
I kicked Blossom so hard up the behind even he got the message. Or perhaps he’d heard the fear in my voice, because Diotima was a target, high in the cart. Either way, the donkey took off as fast as a donkey can while pulling a protesting woman in his wake. I screamed, “Stay low!” at her rapidly disappearing back, and then took my own advice and flattened myself on the ground. Diotima pulled on the left rein, and the cart sped around the curve and out of sight on the road to the sanctuary. She was no longer a target. I breathed a sigh of relief. I would just have to hope there was no one waiting around there for her.
The attack had come from the right, from a copse of trees a hundred paces away, at the point where the road forked, and that was probably what had saved us. The ground between the road and the trees was clear of all but barley plants, knee-high, not nearly tall or thick enough to hide a man who must stand to shoot a bow. The trees were the closest a shooter could approach. Thegood news was I couldn’t see a band of brigands. If it had been highway robbers, they would have rushed me, and I wouldn’t have stood a chance. This had the look of a single assassin.
I was in the middle of a road, with no cover about me and a bowman within range. I considered running away, but rejected the idea. It would expose my back to a lucky shot, and besides, I wanted to know who was trying to kill us, and why.
I felt beneath my exomis for my knife. It was the only weapon I had. I could have borrowed my father’s spear and shield and short sword before I left home, but who goes armed to find a missing girl?
There’s a technical term for a man who charges a bowman wielding only a knife. The term is
corpse
. I couldn’t run away, I couldn’t charge without being hit, but I could crawl. I dragged myself off the road, in the direction of the trees, flat to the ground, until I was by the roadside amongst the first of the barley. Here I had some minimal cover. Another arrow flew overhead, in the right direction and barely above me. That would change in a moment, when he found his range. I dragged myself, I hoped out of sight, not forward or backward, but sideways, parallel with the road and going back in the direction of Athens. I moved slowly, careful not to make the knee-high plants sway against the breeze. I’d moved five paces when an arrow embedded itself in the ground, exactly where I’d been hiding. I moved farther to the right. Carefully.
A few more shots came in, falling in a cluster about where the shooter had seen me disappear into the grass, and I thought myself lucky that he and I were on the same level. If he’d been higher—on a hill, for example—I’d’ve been totally exposed.
If he were on a hill. Or if he were up a tree. And the bowman was hiding in woods.
At that moment the shooting stopped.
What were the odds my attacker was climbing a tree? If he got a decent purchase on a high limb then I was a dead man. Butwhile he was climbing, he couldn’t shoot at all. He might not even see me if I rushed him.
I prepared myself to run, then was assaulted by fear: What if he wasn’t climbing? What if the shooter was merely waiting to see what I did? I’d take an arrow through the head the moment I raised it.
Which was he doing: climbing or waiting?
I had to do something. No decision was worse than guessing wrong.
If he was climbing, then my only chance to survive would be gone within heartbeats.
I grabbed a handful of the local dirt in my left hand—it was gray, dry dust that I scraped from the surface—because there’s nothing a bowman hates worse than grit in the eyes. Then I took a deep breath, tensed my legs, and pushed off.
I ran
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