The road inland from Tarraco led through a landscape that seemed to exist between civilization and wilderness. Olive groves gave way to cork oak forests, and those in turn to rolling hills dotted with stone farmsteads and shepherds' huts. The clear air of the Middle Sea gave way to the smell of earth and pine. Mountains rose in the distance, still hazed with afternoon light on the first day, but closer by evening.

Lucian rode easily at first, enjoying the change of scenery and the feel of the mare beneath him. Although they moved not much faster than he could have walked, he didn't have to carry anything, and the mare's steady gait allowed him to focus on the scenery, rather than where he must next place his foot.

They stopped by a creek after a couple of hours for a break. Lucian dismounted, but his legs immediately protested. "Oh, my gods!" he exclaimed, sinking to a rock and rubbing his thighs.

Mari, having dismounted with ease, looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. "I did warn you!" she reminded him.

After finding bushes suitable for relieving themselves, and giving the horses a chance to drink, they mounted again and continued. But now Lucian's entire lower body was screaming silently. The mare was steady, as Mari had promised, but the hours in the saddle were a revelation of pain he hadn't anticipated. Every muscle in his legs, his back, his buttocks protested with each step. Demetrios rode slightly ahead, his face set in grim determination. Neither man spoke much. There seemed to be no energy for words.

Mari rode ahead and behind them in turns, always watching the road, always alert. Once, when they crested a hill and the landscape fell away to show a distant valley, she pointed. "Pompelo is two days ahead of us," she said. "We'll rest there before we start into the mountains."

By late afternoon, the landscape had begun to change again. The cultivated fields and groves gave way to wilder country. The hills grew steeper, the forests thicker. And as the sun began to slip toward the western mountains, Mari led them off the main road onto a smaller track.

"We camp here tonight," she said, indicating a small clearing near a stream. "Water, shelter from the wind, and far enough from the road that we shouldn't have any unwanted company."

First Camp

Lucian and Demetrios discovered new dimensions of pain as they dismounted. Their legs buckled. Their knees refused to straighten. They had to sit on rocks, breathing heavily, while Mari moved with practiced efficiency, unsaddling the horses, hobbling them for grazing, and setting about preparing the camp.

The tent went up smoothly—a large canvas structure that Mari had clearly assembled many times. She showed them where to lay their bedding, where to place the pack animals' feed. Then she built a fire and produced a simple dinner: bread, cheese, dried meat, and water from the stream.

"Tomorrow will be easier," she said, though Lucian couldn't imagine how anything could be harder. "Your body is learning. By the third day, you'll be seasoned horsemen!"

They ate in silence as the sun faded and the forest around them grew dark. The night was cool but not cold. An owl called somewhere in the distance. The fire crackled, and the horses moved peacefully at the clearing's edge.

The stars shone brilliantly overhead. But near the eastern horizon, big cumulus clouds gathered. Lucian saw Mari glance up at them, but she said nothing. She took the first watch, sitting by the fire with her sword across her lap. Lucian and Demetrios stumbled into the tent and collapsed onto their bedding fully clothed, too sore even to remove their boots.

The Rain

Lucian woke to the sound of rain on canvas and the realization that every muscle in his body had stiffened during the night. The pain was worse now than it had been yesterday. When he tried to sit up, his body refused to cooperate. Demetrios lay beside him, groaning softly.

Outside the tent, Mari was already working. She had their leather jackets and the wool cloaks laid out, and she was methodically soaking the wool in olive oil from one of their supply containers.

"Get up," she called, without sympathy. "The day waits for no one."

They emerged from the tent moving like old men, joints creaking, every step an exercise in will. Mari handed them their oil-soaked wool, now shiny and slick.

"This makes it waterproof," she said matter-of-factly, as if soaking clothing in olive oil was the most natural thing in the world. "You'll stay warmer and drier underneath your leather. Always dress in layers—linen against your skin, oiled wool next, leather on top. That's how you survive traveling in weather like this."

They dressed as she instructed, the oil-slicked wool feeling strange against their skin but immediately warmer. The leather jackets went over everything, and Mari handed them each a heavier cloak.

"The rain won't stop today," she said, looking up at the gray sky. "It'll be cold and wet, and you'll hate it. But the mountains are close. We push through."

The rain was indeed relentless—not a downpour, but a constant, chilling drizzle that seemed to come from every direction. The road became mud. The landscape dissolved into gray. Trees emerged from the mist and disappeared behind them. The mountains, which had seemed distant yesterday, now loomed closer but remained veiled in cloud.

Lucian rode in a haze of misery. The oil-treated wool did help—he was warmer—but the dampness found every gap, every seam. His sore muscles, already screaming from yesterday's riding, protested even more bitterly today. Every step the mare took jarred through his body like a blow. His hands were numb on the reins. The rain never stopped, just continued, steady and patient and utterly indifferent to their suffering.

They didn't stop for a midday meal, eating bread and cheese while riding. Mari kept them moving, pushing deeper into the foothills. The road grew worse—less a road than a muddy track winding through increasingly wild country. They passed a few farmsteads, their inhabitants wisely staying indoors. They passed a shepherd's shelter, smoke rising from it into the rain. Otherwise, they saw no one.

By afternoon, Lucian had stopped noticing individual pains. Everything hurt equally. His thighs, his back, his shoulders—they had all merged into one continuous ache that filled his entire body. Demetrios rode ahead, equally silent, equally miserable.

"I don't even know how you can stand it," Lucian said to the horse. But the mare, perhaps wisely, made no reply.

As the light began to fail, the rain seemed to intensify slightly, though it remained steady rather than heavy. The mountains were very close now. Mari led them around a bend in the track and into a narrow valley. The walls of the valley rose steeply on either side, covered in dense forest.

"We'll camp here," Mari said, nodding to herself. "The valley will shield us from the wind. There's a stream, and shelter."

Second Camp

If the first camp had been relatively easy, the second was misery. Setting up the tent was agony. Lucian's pride wouldn't let him make Mari do it all, as she had the night before. So he and Demetrios did what they could. But every movement of their exhausted, sore bodies felt like it might split them open. Demetrios could barely grip the tent poles. Lucian's hands shook as he tried to secure the ropes.

Mari worked with her usual efficiency, but even she seemed affected by the relentless rain and the difficult day. The fire was harder to build—everything was damp—but she managed it, using her fire kit of flint and steel, and the dry tinder she'd packed.

Dinner was the same as the night before: bread, cheese, dried meat. But this time, neither Lucian nor Demetrios had much appetite. They ate mechanically, numbly, thinking of nothing but sleep.

The rain continued, steady against the canvas. Inside the tent, the air was thick with moisture and the smell of damp wool and leather. Mari took the first watch, sitting outside the tent under a leather shelter she'd rigged. Lucian and Demetrios lay in their bedding, still fully clothed, their muscles singing with pain.

Neither of them heard the first sounds of the bandits.

The attack came around the middle of the night. A shout. The sound of running feet. Lucian jerked awake, confused and disoriented, his body so stiff and sore that it took him several long seconds to understand that something was wrong.

"Out!" Mari's voice cut through the rain and confusion. "Out of the tent, now!"

Lucian and Demetrios stumbled from the tent, their muscles screaming in protest, moving like men twice their age. In the firelight—or what remained of it, as figures moved around the camp—Lucian could make out six bandits, rough-looking men with weapons, advancing toward them through the rain.

He reached for his sword, his numb fingers finding the hilt. Beside him, Demetrios did the same. Neither man had any real idea what they were doing.

The first two bandits came at them together, pressing their advantage. Demetrios managed to raise his sword in a defensive posture, but he was slow, hampered by pain and stiffness. One of the bandits swung at him, and Demetrios barely parried the blow. The impact of sword against sword sent a jolt of pain through his arm.

Then Mari moved.

She didn't run at the bandits so much as flow between them, her sword a blur in the firelight. The first bandit—the one pressing Demetrios—never saw her coming. She swung the flat of her blade at the back of his skull with expert precision. He dropped like a stone, unconscious before he hit the mud. She pivoted, still moving, and caught the second bandit with the same move on the other side of his head. He fell beside his companion.

Two down. Four to go.

The third bandit seemed to realize, belatedly, that he was fighting someone far more dangerous than he'd anticipated. He lunged at her anyway, his desperation overriding his sense. Mari sidestepped, spinning as she did, her blade finding the fastener of his cloak with surgical precision. The cloak fell away, binding his arms, leaving him flailing uselessly.

The fourth bandit turned to run. Mari was faster. She didn't kill him—she cut his belt with a swift, controlled stroke. His tunic fell to his ankles, hobbling him completely. He stumbled forward, tripped over the fabric, and fell into the mud.

The final two bandits looked at each other. They looked at Mari. They looked at their four companions, two unconscious, two incapacitated. Without a word, both men dropped to their knees, hands raised.

"Mercy," one of them gasped. "Please. We were hungry. Just hungry."

Mari turned to Lucian and Demetrios. "What do you want to do with them?"

Lucian and Demetrios exchanged a look. They were standing there, soaked in rain, sore beyond measure, having barely participated in their own defense, while a woman half their combined size had dispatched six armed men in fewer than 30 seconds.

"Strip them," Demetrios said quietly. "Take their weapons. They can't hurt anyone else if they have no weapons and no clothes. Send them back the way they came."

Mari nodded approvingly. "Good thinking. We'll tie them up for the night, let them sit in the rain. Make sure they understand the cost of banditry."

The work of stripping six muddy, resentful bandits in the rain took longer than the fight itself had. But by the time it was done, all six were bound to trees around the clearing, naked and shivering in the cold drizzle. Their weapons were piled by the tent. Their clothes—such as they were—lay in a wet heap.

Lucian and Demetrios went back into the tent and collapsed on their bedding. Outside, Mari sat by the fire, her sword across her lap again, watching the rain and her captives.

Morning

The rain had finally stopped by dawn, though the sky remained gray and the world dripped with moisture. Lucian and Demetrios emerged from the tent to find Mari already preparing breakfast—bread, cheese, dried meat, and hot water for tea.

The six bandits remained tied to their trees, miserable and thoroughly humiliated. One of them, braver or more desperate than the others, called out.

"Please! We mean you no harm now! Please let us go!"

Mari looked at Lucian. "You want to release them?"

"Feed them first," Lucian said. "We want to teach them a lesson, not destroy them. If we send them back starving, their families might seek revenge. But if we feed them, show them mercy after taking everything else... that teaches a different kind of lesson."

Demetrios smiled slightly. "That's good thinking. A man who's been shown mercy, even after being defeated, is less likely to come back for revenge than one who's been merely humiliated."

Mari brought food to each of the bandits, still tied to their trees, still naked in the morning chill. She untied them one by one, watched them eat quickly and desperately, then tied them again. It took time, but she was patient.

By mid-morning, they were ready to move. Mari untied the bandits one final time.

"You know the way back to the road?" she asked. They nodded mutely. "Go. Tell your families, tell your villages, tell anyone who will listen: there are worse things than hunger. There are women in these mountains who are faster with a sword than you could dream of being. Stay off these roads. Find honest work. Because if I see you again, I won't be as merciful."

The bandits didn't need to be told twice. They gathered what was left of their dignity and vanished back down the valley, moving quickly for men who'd spent the night tied to trees.

Mari broke camp with her usual efficiency. They loaded the horses, packed the tent, and were mounted and moving within an hour. Behind them, the clearing was empty except for muddy footprints and the ashes of the fire.

"Pompelo is a day's ride from here," Mari said as they emerged from the valley and turned toward the mountains. "The city is Roman, but they know Vasconi come through. They're used to us. We can rest there, buy fresh supplies, and then move on toward home."

Lucian and Demetrios rode in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Behind them, carried by the pack animals, were the bandits' weapons and clothes—trophies of a night in which two Greek travelers had learned, perhaps for the first time, what it meant to be truly out of their depth.

And ahead of them lay Pompelo, and beyond that, the mountains where Mari's people waited.