Florianus rode for three days in the company of two hundred cavalrymen and a hundred hoplites. They marched through the steppe until he saw those yurts and banners, extending for a long stretch of land beneath the dark evening sky. A bizarre spectacle comparable to termites circling around a hill. He felt as if he were being thrown back twenty years when he first campaigned against the steppe barbarians. His heart pounded, and he could still hear the cries of his men, he could still smell the blood and see the dismembered bodies of the ones he cared about.

And there it was, as the sun set from whence he came, that was the land of the barbarians, the land of the wild men who bowed not to laws but to savagery and warfare. Two barbarian riders saw them from afar and raced back to their villages. He was sure some kind of defensive force would ride out to meet them. He, however, rode in the front, waving a banner of peace high.

Three delegates rode out, accompanied by two warriors with long halberds. They raised their right hands in a sign of peace, and Florianus slowed his trot and stopped to meet them.

“Good evening,” Florianus greeted. “Men of the steppe. We come here looking for fugitives who are said to be hiding among you.”

The barbarians looked at each other.

“Fugitives?”

“Yes! They fled from our land, we are coming in peace but require, on Imperial Orders, to retrieve them. They are dangerous and wicked.”

“You come in peace with an army behind you?” one of the men, with gray hair and old armor said.

“This is just in case the protocol is not kept. As I have told you, I am looking for these fugitives, so it is best for you to cooperate, give them to me, and we shall go in peace.”

“Sir, on behalf of my people, let me welcome you,” said another one of them. He wore no beard and had dark hair down to his shoulders. “We have those fugitives in custody, ready to be given to you.” He seemed so fat that it looked as if the mare he was mounting could collapse. He also looked familiar. Yes, Florianus had seen him months ago as an ambassador. He had done business with Larius.

The other man, however, narrowed his eyes.

“Excellent. Hand them over,” Florianus said.

“Indeed.”

“Excuse me for the misunderstanding, good sire,” said the one with the gray hair and armor. “But they are our prisoners. The council has to decide their fate, so let us welcome you in our village while we decide what to do.”

“Your prisoners? These men and women are wanted criminals in the Empire, and a hefty price is on their heads.”

“A price, you say?” said the fat one.

“Indeed, very high. So, if you have these scoundrels alive, we have a high price to pay. Now hand them over immediately, and we may honor that agreement.”

“No,” the one in the dragon armor protested. “This is not right. Sir, you wait for us, this shall be done according to our law.””Krenos,” said the fat one. “Do not be foolish. Let’s just give these men what they want and be done with it.”

“The council will not allow it,” that grey-haired Krenos fellow said.

The fat man pursed his lips and looked at Florianus with poisonous green eyes.

“Excuse us!” Ghabas exclaimed. “We will discuss it. I beg your forgiveness for making you wait like this, but we shall go back and inquire with our colleagues if you may. Let me assure you that they will come to the most correct conclusion; they just need some working.”

The man in the dragon armor coughed, covering his mouth with his gauntlet.

The other two looked at Ghabas with pale faces and clenched teeth, perhaps offended by the fact that he was inviting an Itruschian leader.

“Now what?” asked Julianus, reining in his horse, trying to control it.

Florianus took a deep breath and extracted a small hourglass from his pocket.

“Listen,” Florianus said. They looked at him attentively. “I will give them thirty minutes,” he said.

“Thirty minutes?”

“Yes.” He held the hourglass upright. The upper and lower parts were made of gold. He flipped it, and the sand started flowing slowly.

“And what will you do if we refuse?” Krenos, the troublesome one, said, raising his chin in defiance.

“That you will see. Now prepare, because time is already running.”

***

“What do you mean give it to them?” Hyrunne asked, hands on her waist, while the terracotta lantern shone inside the yurt. Six council members were gathered for an emergency assembly. Ghabas kept clenching his teeth; he had dealt with Larius, the previous Governor, only once, but that one was different. He seemed more unpredictable.

“They are fugitives, they’ve always been!” Ghabas said. “They broke the law of their lands.”

“Did you not just hear their story? They were oppressed and murdered without provocation,” said Krenos.

“The Empire doesn’t act without provocation,” Ghabas said, raising a shaky finger.

“Of course they do!” she said. “You’ve seen it again and again. Or, those children are right, you have betrayed us.”

“Listen,” Ghabas panted. “This is what’s best for our people. We cannot let them go empty-handed. Please, I just do not wish to provoke them.”

“What if we issue a bargain?”

“He said thirty minutes!” Ghabas said. “Please, let us give them the prisoners and be done with it.”

“A bargain? We cannot let our pride be trampled like that,” Krenos said.

Ghabas knew he should have acted faster. He should have focused his efforts on eliminating them. If he was the only one to survive, he would be the de facto leader. They did not know that the only way to be at peace and guarantee the survival of their tribe was through deals with the Empire.

“Fine,” Ghabas said, breathing out. “What’s the bargain?”

“Donations!” an old council member said. “Of cattle.”

“You don’t understand, they need our cooperation,” Ghabas pleaded.

Ghabas shook his head and turned his back, grabbing one of the lanterns.”Ghabas? Where are you going?” asked Krenos.

He did not answer. He rushed through the tents, running as fast as he could, heart pounding, and noticed the two youngest council members were chasing him. He had to get there first. Then, out from the main camp, he saw the tent where the prisoners were held, surrounded by soldiers.

“Soldiers!” he exclaimed, gasping for air. “Gather the prisoners, we’re taking them outside of the village.”

The soldiers looked at each other, confused.

“And where should we take them, sir?” said one, with an old rusty helmet on his head, illuminated by the fire behind him.

“Quickly!” Ghabas clapped their hands, and the soldiers acknowledged the order, marching inside the tent. Ghabas followed.

Inside, the prisoners sat cross-legged on the grassy floor, still alive, although he had hoped the poison had already worked. They turned toward the guards. The light of a few oil lamps illuminated the inner walls, and the prisoners looked at them with awe in their eyes.

They were not shackled, but the warriors’ spears gathered them in the center of the tent.

“Get up,” Ghabas said.

“What is happening?” the tall boy with the green eyes said, standing up.

“We’re marching you out,” Ghabas said. “Taking you where you belong.”

“What are you talking about?” the woman with almond-shaped eyes and scarred arms asked. Her tunic had been partly torn on the back.

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“The Itruschian Empire is looking for you.”

“Stop!” Rushed steps echoed in the tent, and two young council members entered. “Do not move those prisoners. Gather your weapons and leave only one soldier. We have to defend the village.”

The soldiers stared in confusion.

Then, when no one was looking, the black-haired woman sprang like a leopard and snatched away a soldier’s halberd. Soon, she was smashing it against the warrior’s skull. Her victim collapsed to the ground.

It was too late when the woman pulled out his dagger and passed it to another fugitive.

***

Florianus stared at the hourglass, its white grains depositing in the bottom, its upper half almost empty.

“Get the riders ready,” he commanded. “We’re coming in.”

“Senator?” Julius raised an eyebrow and pulled on the reins of his horse.

“Listen to me!” He faced his cavalrymen. “These men have disobeyed our orders and defied our Sacred Empire. They favor and protect the fugitives that have caused so many problems in our land. Ares is our witness that we offered them peace and time to prove their loyalty. Now, we shall purge the earth of their putrid stench. Stay close to me and wait for my signal. If they attack, kill, women and children notwithstanding. But the prisoners, whom you know well, you shall take alive.”

Florianus raised his sword and spurred.”Advance!” he spurred hard. His horse galloped toward the field, all of his men following closely aligned and at a high speed. They were not yet halfway to the camp when a buzzing alarm horn rang. Florianus laughed on his steed. For an instant, he thought the Varalkians would send their noblemen to kneel and beg for forgiveness. But they wished to die, and so it would be.

Soon, they rode through the first yurts, where their residents scrambled, some running inside their pathetic tents, others trying to reach the plains. The women, with their colorful robes, ran with children in hand.

The defensive units came out, too late, as Florianus could have ordered an attack and murdered half the village in the time it took him to go. He pulled the reins of his horse, raising his hand so that the cavalry could assemble, in a phalanx formation, with some of them posted in between yurts.

The enemy started forming, disorganized, mounted, with bows and arrows and armor as old as their horses.

“Where are the prisoners?” Florianus screamed, taking off his helmet as a sign of peace. He was going to give them a last chance. “Where are your leaders?”

A unit of Varalkian soldiers formed on the opposite side, about thirty riders with recurve bows and javelins.

“Get out of our land!” a Varalkian soldier fidgeted nervously with his rusted lance, pulling the reins of his horse, trying to keep himself in check.

“This is the last time, give us the prisoners,” Florianus said. “Your leaders promised me they’d be back in half an hour, we’ve been waiting for so long.”

Then, Florianus saw the overweight leader running and trying to catch his breath, his hands reaching to his knees, looking up at Florianus from a distance.

“Sir, I beg your pardon, please. I had intended to bring the prisoners...”

“Where are they?” Florianus asked.

“I have brought five of them, the others have... Some of them escaped.”

“Escaped?” Florianus spurred furiously, trotting toward the Varalkian leader, who fell on his knees, dropped on his own sides, and curled his body like a baby. He held his head between his hands.

“I’ll bring them to you, please,” the leader bowed meekly and turned around. Florianus raised his hand to keep his men formed. In the meantime, the Varalkian cavalry assembled more soldiers around him, holding onto their lances and aiming them at Florianus. Their cheap, rusty lances with poles that could be broken in seconds. Florianus coughed. Five soldiers emerged from a tent, surrounding chained men and women. The ones he was looking for. He trotted toward them and identified six women and the mute boy. The half-blood traitor, the black-haired woman, and the pregnant one were missing.

“The three most important ones are missing,” he said, looking up at Ghabas.

“We will find them,” Ghabas cried. “You may take these seven prisoners while we look for the others.”

Florianus took a deep breath.”Very well,” he said, and he pulled the reins. He pushed his horse to raise on two legs, when suddenly he heard a thud and felt something fly close to his temple. His head tilted forward involuntarily. Then, he felt warm pain surging in the cartilage of his ear. He reached his hand and felt the warm liquid pouring from his side.

He turned his horse. Julius and the soldiers around him stared in shock.

Florianus held onto his spear.

“Who did that?” he cried, feeling his heart pump up and his anger surge like an erupting volcano. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

As he put on his helmet again, another thud burst by. He felt vibration and glanced at the arrow bouncing off his segmented armor.

Another one hit Julianus in the neck. Florianus turned, as the centurion’s head bounced like an accordion, the red crest of his helmet shaking. He fell on the side, falling off his horse, his foot still attached to the stirrups of his saddle.

“Sir?” Ghabas said, in shock. His face had become as pale as hemp paper.

Florianus lifted his lance.

“Look for that bastard!” he commanded. “Whoever shot that arrow, bring him to me.”

For an instant, he felt fear creep up his spine. Fear was his friend. He had to use it wisely.

“It was not our men!” the Varalkian leader cried. The defense line of the Varalkian cavalry stared at each other and murmured in confusion.

But his men feared him more. Florianus knew what was coming. He saw the fear in their eyes, the furtive glances around. And his eyes also looked around the yurts, but the night enveloped them like a beast stalking its prey.

“I want the man who did that to come out, if he doesn’t want a bloodbath,” Florianus said. “I want him to yield himself in one . . .”

It was time.

He raised his arm, in an unmistakable figure, and spurred on.

The Itruschian cavalry barrier assembled quickly in a close formation. Florianus raised his spear, keeping his triceps parallel to the floor, and threw it as a javelin. The recipient saw it and tried to spur it to move away, but it was too late. It penetrated the Varalkian soldier’s solar plexus, and his momentum pushed him back. The horse kept running, but its rider fell down with the spear through his thin armor.

The Varalkian men held onto the reins, their faces white in terror when staring at their dead comrade.

Another arrow flew by, this one hitting Florianus’ horse. It rose on two legs, under control.

What had they done to that poor horse? Who was firing those shots?

Those people were savages.

Florianus’ uncovered ear was bleeding, the pain was growing, but it only made him more angry.

Florianus had enough.

In that moment, as they rode through the tents, Varalkians charged against them. They had short range, little space to gather speed, but they screamed like banshees, angry for the death of their comrade.

Florianus’ horse was out of control. The arrow had hit the horse precisely in the skull, but who? Who was hiding in the dark? Where? As his horse collapsed on the side and he jumped, holding his shield high, he looked into the darkness, through the yurts. There, he saw movement behind the curtains of a tent. From the faint light of a lantern within, he recognized the shadow of a recurve bow projected from inside its walls.

Above him, the two groups had already clashed, and the victory of the Itruschians was immediate.

“We surrender!” cried the tribal leader, raising his hands, pale with an expression of pure cowardice.

But Florianus had something else in mind. He scrambled to the side, on foot, with his shield and sword now in hand. He heard murmurs behind the curtains and panels, and he saw his men scramble out of the main battle, through the spaces between the tents. He rushed and knelt behind the tent in question and pushed through the curtains. Inside, he saw a decrepit old man holding his wife and young daughter. Where was the fighting spirit of the Gadalians? Had they become too sick to continue fighting? To continue living?

He drew his sword, and the noise of metal and leather seemed to instill fear in the child.

“Damn you!” said a voice, and when Florianus turned, an old man lunged at him, brandishing a sharp butcher’s knife. Florianus’ blood boiled. He stepped back, parrying the knife, aiming at the man’s hands, but the man was quick to evade. He passed the knife to his left, closed the distance with a quick step, and tried to stab Florianus on the side.

Florianus was not quick enough to use his shield. He felt a push in his cuirass, but the armor prevailed. He turned, wielding the sword in his left hand, and swung at the man’s head. The old man ducked, passing the knife again with surprising mastery.

Then, Florianus felt a blunt pain on the back of his head, his helmet absorbing part of the blow, but his head rattled inside.

Pieces of clay dropped to the floor. He ducked and turned and saw the woman of the house. The grotesque vision of a fighting woman almost made him snicker.

Florianus stepped to the side, waving his sword in his hand, then pressing forward. He still had the advantage. He feinted an attack at the man’s head. He recoiled, then thrust the sword into the man’s belly. The daughter’s screams pierced the air behind him.

The woman, now wielding an old rusty sword in two hands, attacked him. Florianus blocked with his shield. She swung her blade again, and Florianus parried. With a quick whirl, Florianus cut the woman’s head with one blow, as the child’s screams became louder.

He took a last look at the little girl. Her dress was cyan, now stained with her mother’s blood, the whole outer panel of the yurt stained in crimson. Then, in the girl’s green eyes, he saw the rage being born again. It would start over; it was the children, the children would do it all again.A little girl was innocent enough, but it was necessary. A necessary evil.

He was more sure than ever, so he walked to the side and pushed the encased lantern. The flame spread, licking the panels, blankets, and curtains as he walked out.

Outside, the soldiers now patrolled, checking inside every yurt. From there, he could see the prisoners kneeling next to three mounted soldiers.

“Men of Itruschia!”

“Hail, Florianus!” they said, raising their swords.

“Listen to me, for Ares, for your people. Please listen to my words. They will fight on until the last man is gone. So kill them, kill them all. Leave no child alive, leave no yurt untouched. Only our prisoners, we will take.”

The soldiers said aye.

“No!” He heard a voice behind him, like a she-tiger’s roar. Standing there was a woman with a recurve bow and arrows, the same black arrows that had grazed his ears and bounced off his cuirass. The little girl hid behind her back, and the woman’s ruddy skin seemed to sparkle like bronze beside the fiery tent. Her eyes were dark and slanted, her hair long and unkempt from the prison and pain. Her clothes were partially torn, with only chainmail covering her sensual, muscular, and scarred body. She dropped the bow and unsheathed a long sword from her belt.

She was one of them, he had seen her in Larius’ prison. But now, even without her former warring glory, he could see her warrior spirit. She was a daughter of Ares, one of the seed he had to eradicate.

“Leave her to me!” he screamed at a soldier who was aiming his javelin at her. Before he could catch his breath, she was already three feet from him, whirling her sword. Her first attack was noteworthy; he knew that as a left-handed warrior, his defense was perfect on the right side, and he was good at parrying with his left. But she leapt to his right side, lunged like a dancer, and went for his knees. Florianus stepped back, narrowly avoiding the blow to his shin.

In the blink of an eye, she was behind him. Florianus twisted quickly, catching her sword with his shield. Then she was on his left, thrusting her blade too close for him to parry.

And yet, his cuirass absorbed the blow. He waved his shield inside, trying to punch her, but he missed her like a hare dodging an arrow.

She thrust her sword forward in different directions and at different heights. It was too hard to let it continue.

He raised his hand, that was the sign.

As she faced him, she collapsed on one knee. The javelin was now through her thigh.

Still, she raised her sword and threw it at him. He blocked it with his shield as she grimaced in pain.

The soldiers advanced and shackled her hands behind her back.