'If we do not come back, I think we will be past caring about that,' Ballista had replied in the same tongue.
Ballista prepared himself. He took off his helmet, mail coat and the two decorations on his sword belt – the mural crown and the golden bird that had been a parting gift from his mother. He tied his long fair hair in a dark cloth and, as he always wore black, had only to rub his face and forearms with burnt cork. Maximus took rather longer. He gave the many ornaments which festooned his belt to Demetrius, with a graphic threat of what he would do if the Greek boy lost any of them. As his tunic was white, he stripped it off and got help darkening his torso, heavily muscled and much scarred. With a minimum of fuss they stepped through the gate.
The two men stood just outside for a while, letting their eyes become accustomed to the light of the stars and the sliver of moon. Ballista punched Maximus softly on the shoulder. The Hibernian gently punched him back, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. A path, paler than the rock around it, snaked away down into the ravine.
With no words, they set off, Ballista in the lead, Maximus falling into step behind. They had known each other a long time; there was no need for any discussion. Maximus knew that, as was the custom among the tribes of Germania, Ballista on reaching puberty had been sent to learn the ways of a warrior with his maternal uncle. He had been a renowned war leader among the tribe of the Harii. Since Tacitus had written his Germania, the fame of the Harii as night fighters had spread far beyond the forests of the north. By preference, they fought on pitch-dark nights. With their blackened shields and dyed bodies, their shadowy and ghoulish appearance struck fear into the hearts of their enemies. Tacitus went so far as to claim that 'no enemy can endure a sight so strange and hellish'. Maximus knew that there were few more dangerous men in the dark of the night than his dorninus and friend.
After a time the path turned to the right towards the plain and, still descending, ran along the flank of the ravine. Now Ballista and Maximus were among the tombs of the Christian necropolis. Above and below the path were the black entrances to the natural and manmade caves where the worshippers of the crucified god buried their dead. Ballista stopped and made a signal with his hand. Together they climbed up the side of the ravine to the nearest mouth of a cave. Some three feet in, the tomb was sealed with a wall of mud bricks. Still without speaking, the two men squatted down, leaning their backs against the wall. They listened and watched. Twinkling watch fires could be seen at the top of the far side of the ravine. Now and then sounds wafted across, so low as to be at the limit of hearing. From the floor of the ravine nothing could be seen or heard. The sounds of tunnelling had disappeared.
After what to Maximus seemed a very long time, Ballista rose to his feet. Maximus followed suit. Ballista turned to the wall, fumbled with his clothing and urinated on the wall.
'Do you not think it might bring bad luck, pissing on their tombs?' The Hibernian's voice was very quiet.
Ballista, concentrating on missing his boots, was slow to answer. 'Maybe, if I believed in their one god. But I would rather piss here in the darkness than out there in the open.' He rearranged himself.
'If I was frightened I would not do this,' said Maximus. 'I would go and till the soil, or sell cheese.'
'If you do not know fear, you cannot know courage,' replied Ballista. 'Courage is being afraid but doing what you have to do despite it – you could call it male grace under pressure.'
'Bollocks,' said Maximus.
They set off again down to the path.
Just discernible in the dim light, other narrow paths ran off to either side. Ballista ignored the first two to the left heading downhill. He stopped at the third. After looking all around to try to judge how far they had walked, he took the left-hand turning. They were still descending but were now travelling back towards the river. As they neared the bottom of the ravine, Ballista stopped more frequently. Eventually, he signalled that they were to leave the path and climb straight down the face of the ravine.
Maximus's boot dislodged a small avalanche of stones. Both men froze. There was no alarm. Far off in the distance a jackal barked. Others of its kind joined in. Ballista had judged the risk of making a noise while climbing on hands and knees, swords slung behind their backs, less than that of walking straight down one of the paths. If he had been in command of the Sassanid guard, he would have placed a watch where the paths reached the floor of the ravine.
They reached the bottom with no further incident. Without pausing, Ballista set off to cross to the southern wall of the ravine. There was no time to lose. They already knew that Persians carrying no lights sometimes patrolled here. Holding their swords away from their bodies, they moved at a slow jog.
As soon as they reached the opposite side they began to climb. The cliff face here was steeper. They moved slowly, searching for handholds. They had not been ascending long before the gradient lessened. Ballista signalled a halt. They lay on their backs, looking all around, listening hard. There it was again, coming from their left, from further up the ravine towards the plain, the chink, chink, chink of pickaxes on stone.
Crabwise they crawled along the cliff face, taking the greatest care where they put their hands and feet. Without being told, Maximus could appreciate Ballista's thinking. The entrance to the mine would be in the north face of the ravine, tunnelling towards the wall of the town. The attention of any sentries should be directed the same way. By crossing the ravine Ballista had in effect put them behind the enemy lines. With luck, no one would notice them as they approached from an unexpected direction.
Maximus was concentrating so hard on not making a sound that he failed to see Ballista's signal and bumped into him. There was a grunt from Ballista as a boot kicked him in the calf and a sharp intake of breath from Maximus. They made no other noise as they waited.
With infinite caution Ballista half turned and gestured down and across the ravine. Equally carefully, Maximus turned. The entrance to the Persian siege mine was about halfway up the northern face of the ravine. It was lit from within by torches or lamps. In their glow the black silhouettes of miners flitted back and forth, casting grotesquely elongated shadows. The sound of pickaxes was clear. Men working pulleys and winches to remove the spoil could just be made out at the lip of the mine. Instantly, Ballista's mind was full of memories of the distant north, stories of dwarves scheming mischief deep in their rock-hewn halls. He wondered what thoughts were in Maximus's mind. Probably what was usually there – women and drink. The men toiling at the pulleys ceased work and, abruptly, some form of screen was pulled across the mouth of the tunnel.
Ballista looked away into the darkness towards the river until his night vision returned. Then, using the faint chinks of light which escaped from the screen and the looming dark outline of the town defences, lit by just a few torches, he tried to estimate the exact position of the mine. He took great pains over this; distances are harder than ever to judge at night. He could sense that, beside him, Maximus was eager to go, but he took his time. There would be no second chance. Eventually, he patted the Hibernian's arm and signalled their withdrawal.
Crabwise again, they inched back along the cliff the way that they had come. Ballista was taking extravagant care. He feared that the relief of being on the homeward journey might lead him into a false move. When he judged that they were roughly where they had climbed up, he signalled to Maximus and they descended. This time, on reaching the floor of the ravine they waited, their senses probing the darkness. Across the void the great southern wall of Arete stood out black against the skyline. It was lit here and there by a torch. Their light and warmth beckoning, the massive solidity of the wall and towers gave Ballista a pang to be safe inside once more. He shrugged it off. Inside, his war was one of endless bureaucratic book-keeping, list after list of men and supplies. Out here in the darkness was the true way of the warrior. Out here his senses were fully alive, stretched to their limits.
Nothing threatening could be seen
on the floor of the ravine. Nothing heard, and nothing smelt. Ballista gave the sign. As before, they set off at a slow jog.
The two men were halfway across when they heard the approaching Sassanid patrol. They froze. The sides of the ravine were too far to make a run for it. There was nowhere to hide. The noises were getting louder: the crunch of stones under numerous boots, the slap of weapons against shields and armour.
Leaning very close to his bodyguard, Ballista whispered. 'There are too many of them to fight. We will have to talk our way out of this. You had better not have forgotten your Persian.' The Hibernian did not reply, although Ballista was sure that he was grinning. The Persian patrol was emerging from the darkness that lay down towards the river, a dim blur, darker than its surroundings.
Suddenly, without warning, Maximus stepped forward. In a low voice but one pitched to carry he called 'Peroz-Shapur.' A surprised silence succeeded the noises of the advancing Sassanids. The patrol must have stopped. It had not been expecting to be challenged at this point. After a few moments a voice, slightly uncertain, called back, 'Mazda.' Without hesitation, Maximus called in Persian, 'Advance and identify yourselves.' The noises of armed men moving resumed.
Now the dark blur began to be recognizable as made up of individual warriors. Ballista noted two on either side detaching themselves from the main body and fanning out. Admiring as he was of Maximus's bold stroke, he did not intend to trust his life to the Hibernian's talking. When the patrol was about fifteen paces away, Ballista stepped to the front and called, 'Halt there. Identify yourselves.'
The Sassanids stopped. The four on the wings had arrows notched, their bows half bent. There looked to be about ten in the main body.
'Vardan, son of Nashbad, leading a patrol of the warriors of the Suren.' The voice was one used to authority. 'And who are you? You have a strange accent.' I
'Titus Petronius Arbiter and Tiberius Claudius Nero.' At the sound of the Roman names the starlight glittered on the swords which the Sassanids drew, from the flanks bows creaked as they were pulled to maximum draw. 'Mariades, the rightful Emperor of the Romans is our master. Shapur the King of Kings himself decreed that his servant Mariades send men to reconnoitre by stealth the postern gate of the town of the unrighteous.'
There was silence for a while. Ballista could feel his heart beating, his palms sweating. At length Vardan replied. 'And how do I know that you are not deserters from the Great Emperor Mariades?' There was a wealth of scorn in 'Great Emperor'. 'Roman scum running to its own kind?'
'If we were fools enough to desert into a doomed town we would deserve to die.'
'There are many fools in the world, and many of them are Romans. Maybe I should take you back to camp to see if your story is true?'
'Do that and I will come and watch you impaled tomorrow morning. I doubt that the Mazda-worshipping Shapur, King of Aryans and Non-Aryans, will take kindly to his orders being countermanded by an officer of the Suren.'
Vardan walked forward. His men were clearly taken by surprise. They started walking hurriedly after their commander. Vardan held his long sword at Ballista's throat. The others closed round. The commander put his sword aside and peered closely into Ballista's face. The northerner returned his gaze.
'Uncover the lantern. I want to see the face of this one.' A Persian behind Vardan began to move.
'No. Do not do that.' Ballista put all his experience of command into his voice. 'The great King's mission will fail if you show a light. The Romans up on the wall could not fail to see it. Shapur will not get the information, and we will meet our deaths at the foot of that wall.'
There was an awful moment of indecision before Vardan told the lantern-bearer to remain as he was.
Vardan brought his face so close that Ballista could smell his breath; a waft of some exotic spices. 'Even in the dark with your face blackened like a runaway slave I can still see you well enough to recognize you again.' Vardan nodded to himself. Ballista did not move. 'If this is a trick, if you are in the town when it falls, I will seek you out and there will be a reckoning. It will be I that watches you writhe on the stake.'
'Mazda willing that will not happen.' Ballista took a step backwards, keeping his hands well away from his sides. 'The night is advanced. If we are to return by dawn we must be going.'
Ballista looked over at Maximus, jerked his head towards the wall and walked to the edge of the circle of Sassanid warriors. The two blocking his way did not move. He turned back to Vardan. 'If we do not return tell our master Mariades that we did our duty. Remember our names: Petronius and Nero.'
Vardan did not reply. But at his sign the two men blocking Ballista's way moved aside. Ballista set off.
It is very difficult to walk normally when you think that someone is watching you and even more difficult when you think that someone might try to kill you. Ballista forced down an urge to break into a run. Maximus, Allfather bless him, had fallen in directly behind his dominus. The Hibernian would take the first arrow. Yet Ballista's back still felt terribly exposed.
Fifty paces was about the real limit of accurate bowshot, less in a dim light. How far had they walked? Ballista started to count his steps, stumbled slightly and went back to concentrating on walking as normally as possible. The walk seemed to last for ever. The muscles in his thighs felt twitchy.
In the end, the wall of the ravine came as almost a surprise. Both men turned, crouching, making themselves the smallest target possible. Ballista realized that he was panting. His tunic was soaked in sweat.
'For fuck's sake, Petronius and Nero?' Maximus whispered.
'It's your fault. If you ever read anything apart from the Satyricon some other names might have appeared in my mind. Anyway, let's get the fuck out of here. We are not home yet. The reptiles might change their minds and be after us.'
Demetrius was standing just outside the postern gate. He was surprised to find himself there. Admittedly Cocceius the decurion and two of his troopers were there as well. But even so Demetrius was surprised by his own bravery. Part of his mind kept telling him that he could hear and see just as well, maybe better, up on the tower. He pushed such thoughts away. There was a strange exhilaration in being outside the walls after so many months.
Demetrius stood with the three soldiers, listening and watching. The dark was alive with small sounds; the scurrying of nocturnal animals, the sudden rush of wings of a night bird. The gentle wind had moved round to the south. Fragments of sound, voices, laughter, the cough of a horse, drifted across from the Persian pickets on the far side of the ravine. Once, a jackal barked and others joined in. The chink of pickaxes came and went. But there was nothing that betrayed the progress of Ballista and Maximus.
The young Greek's thoughts drifted far away to the dark plain before the walls of Troy, to the Trojan Dolon slinging his bow across his shoulders, pulling the pelt of a grey wolf around him and stealing forth to spy out the Greek camp. Things had not gone well for Dolon. Out there across the dark plain he had been hunted down like a hare by cunning Odysseus and Diomedes of the great war cry. In tears, begging for his life, Dolon had revealed how the Trojan pickets lay. It had done him no good. With a slash of his sword Diomedes had cut through the tendons of his neck. His head dropped in the dust, and his corpse was stripped of his back-strung bow and the grey wolf-pelt.
Demetrius fervently prayed that Ballista and Maximus did not share the fate of Dolon. If the young Greek had had the poetry of Homer to hand he would have tried to see how things would fall out. It was a well-known method of divination to pick a line of the Iliad at random and see what light the divine Homer shed on the future.
The thoughts of Demetrius were dragged back to the present by the sounds of a Sassanid patrol making its way along the ravine up from the river. He heard the challenge 'Peroz-Shapur' and the response, 'Mazda', then a low exchange in Persian. Demetrius found himself, like the others, on the lip of the ravine, leaning forward, straining to catch the words. It was pointless. He did not kn
ow a word of Persian.
Demetrius physically jumped as a flood of light came from the postern gate. He spun round. In silhouette in front of the gate stood Acilius Glabrio. The torchlight caught the nobleman's gilded cuirass. It was moulded to resemble the muscles of an athlete or hero. Acilius Glabrio was bareheaded. The curls of his elaborate coiffure shone. His face was in shadow.
'What in the name of the gods below is happening here?' The patrician tones sounded angry. 'Decurion, why is this gate open?'
'Orders, Dominus. Orders of the Dux.'
'Nonsense, his orders were that this gate remain shut at all times.'
'No, Dominus. He told me to keep the gate open until dawn.' The junior officer was cowed by the seemingly barely controlled anger of his superior.
'And why would he do that? To make it easy for the Persians to get in?'
'No… no, Dominus. He and his bodyguard are out there.'
'Are you mad? Or have you been drinking on duty? If you have I will have you executed with old-fashioned severity. You know what that entails.'
Demetrius did not know what that entailed, but presumably Cocceius did. The decurion started to shake slightly. Demetrius wondered if Acilius Glabrio's anger was real.
'Even our beloved Dux is not such a barbarian that he would desert his post to run around outside the walls in the middle of the night.'
Acilius Glabrio half turned. He pointed to the gate. 'You have moments to get inside and return to your post before I have this gate shut.'
Arguing with senior officers did not come easily to Cocceius. 'Dominus, the Dux is still out there. If you close the gate he will be trapped.'
'One more word from you and it is mutiny. Inside now.'
The two troopers sheepishly went inside. Cocceius started to move.
'No.' Demetrius almost shouted. 'The Dux heard the sounds of tunnelling. He has gone to spy out where the Persian mine is being dug.'
Acilius Glabrio rounded on him. 'And what have we here? The barbarian's little bum boy.' He stepped close to Demetrius. He smelt of carnations. The torchlight highlighted the little ruffs of beard that were teased out in curls from his neck. 'What are you doing here? Selling your arse to this decurion and a few of his troopers so that they open the gate and let you desert?'
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