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The crack of the musket seemed so loud and unexpected that all Francisco could do as his companion tumbled into the roadway was stare in surprise. A second musket ball whipped through the air inches from his face and that drove some awareness home to him and, even as he looked toward the distant trees, he saw smoke drifting across a small ridgeline much closer to him, his horse already turning in response to the pressure of its riders knees. 

"Cavalry!" The shout came from the third man of the patrol, Beppe Renzi, who was dragging his carbine free of its holster and pointing back the way they had come. A small squadron of lancers, their weapons glittering threateningly in the sun, were trotting out of the low ground that had been hidden them from Francisco. Five lancers, and an unknown number of persons firing muskets. Ten seconds had passed and Francisco was already trying to decide which way to run.

"Romans!" He managed to croak out, recognizing the white jackets worn by the infantry. The lancers wore the same white but with blue facings denoting their regiment. Fifteen seconds and Francisco's horse had finished its turn, he was now aiming directly for the lancers. 

Another pair of musket balls slapped the air near him but, in that moment, he realized that the infantry were to far to be any real threat, the first shot had been a lucky one. He leaned across the dead mans mount and drew the carbine from its holster. Now he had two shots. The terror he had felt so keenly seemed to cool as he measured the distance between him and Lancers and his training began to take over. 

The lancers had spread out and were trotting easily down the roadway toward them. To the West a small infantry squad had sprung to their feet and was quickly retreating away, their hands and backs heavy with gods knows what. A forage party! Francisco twisted his gaze back to the Lancers who were closing quickly now so that he could make out individual moustached faces beneath their glittering helmets, teeth bared in savage snarls. 

"Wait, wait until they charge!" Francisco called as Beppe raised his carbine. The Lancers were still out of accurate range for the carbines and if they wasted their shots, they were be dead men. They had one chance, and only once chance. The two Byzantines began to walk their own horses forward and, just as the Lancers touched back their spurs to charge, the two fired. Francisco's target gave a scream and dropped his lance, clutching at his shoulder and wheeling away. Beppe's target jerked back in his saddle, sagged, and then collapsed sideways so that his body remained upright in the saddle, jerking like some gruesome marionette doll with every motion of his horse. Francisco threw down the carbine and the Dragoons kicked their horses into a gallop.

The three remaining Lancers checked for a moment at the sudden loss of two of their number, long enough for Fransisco to draw his sword. Then the Lancers were on them, the long blades reaching for his chest. He did as the drill instructor had told him to, barely managing to brush the lance point away so that it tore his uniform sleeve and he hissed in pain as it cut his arm. Then he was past the point and swung his heavy sword backwards with a scream that seemed to release all the terror he had been harbouring. The blade, new and as sharp as he could make, and driven by the strength of an Iberian farm boy, smashed into the Lancers back and cut through the wool uniform, severing skin, and tendon until it grated on bone. The Lancer gave a high pitched scream and arched his back until he fell from the saddle and crashed into the hard packed roadway. 

Francisco screamed in triumph. He had killed. He had become a soldier! He sawed at his reins, savagely forcing his horses head around as he turned to see the other two Lancers trying to turn their mounts as well. Beppe was down, he had been taken clean out of his saddle by one of the Lancers, the wicked point tearing into his waist and out the other side. He lay on the roadway near the Lancer Fransisco had killed, hands clutching at his side where his intestine was trying to escape the savage wound that began in his belly.

The Lancers managed to turn to face Francisco and then one screamed as a Francisco shot him with the second carbine he had not yet fired. The bullet, fired in a hurry, struck the Lancer in the neck and blood fountained across the white mane of his horse. The Lancer clapped a hand to the wound and wheeled out of the fight, dropping his lance and spurring off the roadway. That left one Lancer, his long moustache marking him as a veteran horseman. 

Fransisco threw down the carbine, he would never have time to reload it, and took a grip on his sword, reassured by the weight of the steel. The two men were sitting at a standstill now and both looked about them at the carnage on the roadway. Beppe and one of the Lancers still moaned piteously in the dust. A bloodied blue jacket showed where Francisco's other comrade lay, his head tucked beneath his body at an impossible angle. The Lancer Beppe had shot was still hanging in his saddle, his horse, no longer interested in the fight, was eating grass some hundred yards away, the body hanging comically askew, still trapped in the saddle. The man Francisco had shot in the shoulder was watching the two from distance away, his face twisted in pain, his good hand holding a bundled spare shirt to his bloodied shoulder. 

A small wind blew from the ocean across the two remaining combatants, gently brushing at the manes of their horses and pushing the carbine smoke away. Both men flinched as a crash announced the collapse of the man Fransisco had shot in the neck. Blood had soaked the white tunic and the Lancer, unable to remain erect in the saddle, had finally collapsed into the ditch beside the road. His fingers still attempted to slow the flow of blood but the movement slowly weakened and Francisco watched with a detached curiosity as the man gave a hiccuping gasp, his body twisting for a moment as if he was trying to stand, and then sagging into the ditch, his blood pooling beneath him. 

The small movement of the remaining Lancers hooves brought Fransisco's head back up and he watched as the Lancer measure the distance between the two of them. He was shocked to see fear mirroring his own in the hard eyes that stared at him. Moments ago he the two men would have been trying to kill each other but the killing mood had come and gone. Almost hesitantly, Fransisco raised his bloodied sword in a salute. To his amazement a small smile broke out on the Roman's face and returned the salute with his own curved blade. 

"Well fought! May we never meet again!" The Lancer called out in Latin and Francisco found himself also smiling despite the situation though he did not reply as the Lancer turned his horse and spurred back down the road, his wounded comrade hurrying after him. Fransisco watched them until they passed over a small rise and he was alone, the master of his little battlefield.

For a long minute he sat still in his saddle, bloodied blade resting on the pommel of his saddle. The smell of gun smoke was still strong and the scent of fresh blood crisp to his senses. Beppe's moans had died away and Fransisco looked down to realize that the man was dead, his guts slowly sliding out of his stomach and onto the roadway. 

Nothing else moved around him. The wind picked up enough that the horse hair plume of his helmet began to tickle his face and his horse moved beneath him, one of his hooves making a "tocK' sound as it struck a rock. He was alive. He had done it. He had killed, he had become a soldier. 

He kicked his foot free and dropped from the saddle to retrieve his carbine which he reloaded and slid back into the holster. He went to the downed men and, remembering the advice from his instructors, went through their pockets and purloined any valuables he could find. This was his battlefield and he would take what he could from it. 

It took him considerably longer to round up the dead mens horses but he managed, his time on the farm certainly useful enough at that moment. The one with the dead Lancer still in the saddle evaded him and galloped after the two Lancers who had ridden away. As the horse topped the same small rise the body finally came free and vanished into the long grass. Fransisco was not going to go looking for that one and he was certainly not going to wait around for the enemy to come back in strength.

The enemy dead remained where they fell; Fransisco taking the time to drag his two dead comrades into the ditch and hastily pile rocks and dirt over them. It was hardly a grave and scavengers, already circling above, would be at the flesh before he was out of sight. He pulled himself into his saddle and took a last look around. He was still very much alone in the wide open space. Incredibly, for the first time since he had joined the Dragoons, he did not feel afraid. 

He turned his horse and, with his fallen comrades mounts and two captured Roman horses in tow, he rode back toward the bridge.