The shout is heard, but it's impossible to tell if it's actually understood by the little barbarian. Regardless of his understanding (or lack there of,) the boy doesn't slow. In fact, he only seems to speed up upon realizing he's being pursued like prey. He pants in exertion, and although he might be bigger than the other children Rome had stumbled upon, he still is tiny comparatively. It feels like three of Lusus's steps equals one of this feral beast of a man's, his heart pounding so hard in his chest the boy is sure they could hear it.
Lusus shows surprising dexterity, not only in how he'd handled the dart, but in how he ducks and weaves through these lands, each step practiced as if he'd run this path dozens of times. It only brings to mind the question once more of just how long he'd tailed these soldiers: days, weeks? Impossible to tell, but one thing is certain: that soldier back there was not his first kill. It was too easy for him, no hesitation on the child's part to rip the life out of some nameless soldier, nor fear to smite.
What was a human to Gods; Viriathus would ask him.
The man behind him is no human though, and Lusus curses himself for missing, for his own sloppy work. Even while in pursuit, all he can think of is how his father will react to the news: disappointment? Fury? The man's voice behind him is like a landslide in heavy rain, tumbling down from the very valley he runs towards. It's a voice that causes goosebumps on the boy's skin, causes those hazel eyes to dilate and his breath to speed up— a voice that carries like thousands speaking at once and hits the listener like a thunderclap.
The boy risks a glance back, a child's move. One should always keep their eyes forward in retreat, a lesson Lusus would learn the hard way on this day. It slows his steps to look back, and he's aware enough in that exact instant that he's made a fatal mistake. In an attempt to stay free, he tries to duck away from the large hand, but it mattered little again someone of Rome's stature and speed. A grip like iron grabs him up by the back of his tunic, and like a pup he's lifted right off his feet with a cry, legs kicking as his hands scramble on his person.
The boy finds what he's looking for quickly, and there's a flash of metal as he takes a swipe at the man, a sloppy one that is pure fear and desperation. A dagger, a pure iron of exceptional quality— double edged, clean, light. Whoever this boy belonged to, it was obvious they took their time with him, that they made him as equipped as possible just in case there was a situation like this, where the boy would need to defend himself.
It's clear in that moment, if not before, that this is not just a simple tribal boy that a nation would hope would survive themselves, one of many of the small congregations which may burn out in the blink of an immortals eye, but a legacy of someone far larger than himself, an investment.
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