Could there be two of the creatures? Darkness, fatigue and fear were taking their toll on Demetrius. Gods below, what if the things hunted in packs?
The first dark shape must have heard or sensed something. It suddenly stood and scanned the hillside. Then, quick as a flash, it sprang and raced away to the west. The other figure leapt up in pursuit. Stones slid out from under their feet. Dislodging others, they bounced in showers down towards the path.
Calgacus booted his horse. It clattered down the path. After about fifty paces, the Caledonian brought it skidding to a halt. Belying his age, he threw himself off its back, tugged a couple of javelins from the holster on the saddle and started up the slope to cut off the fugitive.
Seeing the new threat, the fugitive tried to veer back up the incline. It was no good: the second figure was already in position, ready to block any escape in that direction.
Like Celtic hounds, the two pursuers coursed their prey over the stony slope. They turned him this way and that, ever closing.
'Stop or I will run you through,' Calgacus yelled in Greek. His prey raced on. The old Caledonian drew back his arm and cast a mighty throw. The javelin winged over the fugitive's shoulder. A spark flashed as it glanced off a rock.
The fugitive pulled up dead in his tracks. Calgacus grabbed his arms, twisted them behind his back, pushed him down towards the waiting horsemen.
Maximus rejoined the men moments later. 'Fuck, that nearly killed me,' he panted.
Relieved beyond words, Demetrius studied the prisoner. No feast for the eyes, but he was no daemon or empusa: he was a small man, face blackened, wearing the pelt of a dark-grey wolf and a cap of weasel skin. He too was breathing heavily.
Quickly and efficiently, Maximus searched the prisoner for weapons. Finding none, he stepped back and kicked the man's legs from under him.
'Don't kill me! Dear gods, please don't kill me!' The man spoke in Latin. It was oddly accented, like something unpractised. He was terrified. He cowered on the ground, teeth chattering.
'Courage,' said Maximus. 'Death is your last worry.'
'I am just a soldier, a Roman like you. Please don't kill me!'
'Name? Rank? Unit?' Maximus snapped out the questions.
'Titus Esuvius, miles, Legio IIII Scythica. Don't hurt me.' The words tumbled out.
'You are a deserter.'
'No, no, Dominus, a scout. I am a scout.'
'What are you doing out here?'
The prisoner gulped. 'Just trying to get back to Zeugma. Please, take me with you.'
'Where have you come from?' Maximus's questions were relentless.
Again the swallowing, the slight hesitation. 'From the field army. Please, take me with you.'
Maximus glanced at Calgacus, jerked his head. The Caledonian roughly hauled the prisoner to his feet, pinned his arms behind his back. Maximus drew his sword. The blade of the short gladius shone in the pale light.
'Time to tell the truth.'
The man sobbed. 'I am. Please believe me. I have a family, don't hurt me.'
'Tell me,' said Maximus, 'have you ever been drawn to eastern religion?' As he spoke, he moved forward and deftly, with one hand, unbuckled the man's belt.
Fear and incomprehension played across the prisoner's face. He shook his head. 'No, never. I don't understand.'
Two tugs and the man's trousers and undergarment were round his knees. 'No interest in, say, the goddess Artargatis? No yearning to take a trip to her temple at Hierapolis?'
Suspicion clouded the man's face. 'No, I… no, never.'
'Pity, considering what's going to happen to you.' Maximus reached out and grasped the man's testicles. With the other hand, he showed him the sword. The man whimpered. 'They make a good living, her devotees, the Galli. Of course, they castrate themselves. And I think they use a stone blade, flint most likely. But mutatis mutandis — if you survive, I'm sure they'll take you in.'
The man was making incoherent begging noises.
'Now, what is it to be? Are you going to tell me the truth, or is it off to Hierapolis for you?'
As if a dam had broken, the words poured out. 'My name really is Titus Esuvius. I was born in Lutetia in Gaul. I was with a cavalry ala. We came out east for the campaign of Gordian III. I… I did something wrong. I had to desert. Been with the Sassanids for years — married, got a Persian family. The Lord Suren himself ordered me to Zeugma to spy out the defences. What could I do? I had no choice. Please, let me live. I want to see my children again.'
The stream of words was cut off when one of the Dalmatian troopers led his horse up from the rear. 'The reptiles are coming.'
The prisoner wriggled free of Calgacus. He threw himself on his knees. 'Please, leave me here — bound and gagged — I won't tell them anything.'
'No more words.' Maximus's face was set.
Just as the man reached up a hand to grasp Maximus's chin in supplication, the Hibernian's sword swung. A flashing hack caught the prisoner square across the neck. Blood sprayed hot.
'Mount up,' said Calgacus.
Demetrius stood near the corpse with the half-severed neck. Maximus was cleaning his blade on the dead man's wolfskin.
'You promised him his life,' the Greek said.
'No, I said death was his last worry.' Maximus swung up on to Pale Horse. 'Is that not so for all of us?' They were riding flat out, the Sassanids hard on their heels. The thunder of their passing echoed back from the stony slopes on either side. At least it was simple, thought Maximus, just two choices: run or fight. No need to be thinking of clever tricks with decoys, lanterns or anything else. Nowhere to hide and nowhere to go but down the one track: just run or fight.
The track twisted and turned, rose and fell as it graded across the hills. It was narrow, the surface loose and uneven. The hooves of the horses scrabbled as they slid around sharp corners. More than once, riders had to grab the twin front horns of their cavalry saddles to prevent themselves being thrown. A couple of times Demetrius was nearly on the floor. The young Greek was no centaur. This cannot go on, thought Maximus.
'Ease up, Calgacus,' he called. 'The body of the spy will have delayed them. Ease up, or there'll be a fall, probably a pile-up.'
The Caledonian considered then brought his mount down to a fast canter.
Maximus looked up at the sky. The night was rushing on, not much of it left. But they must be getting to the edge of the hills. After that, just a small plain, four or five miles across, and they would be safe behind the walls of Zeugma.
The small figure was standing in the middle of the track as they came round the corner. Maximus and Calgacus pulled hard on their reins, thighs braced firm into the leather and wood of their saddles. They swerved round the obstruction as they drew to a stop. Behind was confusion. Demetrius's mount barged into the back of Pale Horse. Miraculously, no one had ridden down the child.
Maximus scanned the slopes all around. No movement. Nothing. It couldn't be a trap. He swung a leg over Pale Horse's neck and dropped to the ground.
The child was a fine-looking boy, about eight years old. He had a heavy, fine neck ornament. He was crying.
'My mother has gone. She was scared. She said I was too slow. She has gone.'
Maximus held out his arms. The child hesitated for a second. Maximus knew that his battered face, the tip of his nose missing, was unlikely to be reassuring. He scooped the boy up. The child buried his face in the Hibernian's shoulder.
'My father is on the Boule of Zeugma. He is a rich man. He will reward you.' The boy chattered in Greek.
'We best be moving,' Calgacus said.
Maximus put the boy on Pale Horse then jumped up behind him. They headed off.
They had not gone far when they heard the sounds of pursuit: high, keen cries, the low rumble of many horses. Calgacus pushed the pace. The horses were slow to respond. They were as tired as the men. These four days had taken it out of them all.
From the crest of a rise, Maximus glimpsed the flat, empty gre
yness of the plain below; it wasn't far ahead. As the track dropped down behind him, a trooper's mount stumbled. In its fatigue, it almost went crashing. If it had, it would have brought others down with it.
This is no good, thought Maximus. If we're out on the open plain on spent horses, the Persians will run us down as easy as catching mackerel.
The horses were labouring up a straight incline. It ran for about fifty paces. The hill on the left reared up into a small, sheer cliff. Stones fallen from its face were scattered across the track. Near the top of the incline, a sizeable pile narrowed the path to single file.
As good a place as any, thought Maximus. He pulled over, indicated to Calgacus to join him, and waved the others past.
'I think I'll be staying here a while.' Maximus jumped down. He unhooked his shield from the saddle. 'Change horses and take the child.'
Calgacus said nothing. Stiffly, he dismounted, collected his own shield and, while Maximus held the heads of both horses, climbed up on the grey gelding behind the boy.
'You sure?' Calgacus asked.
'Sure.' Maximus looked up at the Caledonian. 'Back before we left the army, I promised Ballista I'd look after his boys. That is on you now.'
'Aye, it is.' Calgacus did not meet Maximus's eyes. His gaze wandered over the face of the cliff.
The noise of the pursuit was clear.
'Say goodbye to Demetrius for me.'
'I will.' Calgacus untied the bowcase and quiver from Pale Horse's saddle. He threw them down to Maximus. 'Keep mine as well.'
The noise of the pursuit swelled.
Calgacus gathered Pale Horse's reins, turned his head and moved on. His eyes still did not meet Maximus's but continued to look here and there over the cliff.
Left alone, Maximus worked swiftly. He led the horse a little way beyond the large pile of fallen stones and, with a strip of leather, hobbled its front legs. He scooped up Calgacus's bow and quiver together with his own. He ran back and took his stand half behind the mound. He drew his sword and put it and his shield in front of him, near to hand on the ground. He propped up the quivers so he could easily reach the arrows, and the spare bow beside them. He selected an arrow, examined the straightness of its shaft, tested its point. Satisfied, he notched it, half drew his bow and sighted down the track.
As he waited, time played strange tricks on Maximus. It slowed down; stopped altogether. Each breath seemed to take an age. The noise of the Sassanids grew louder, but they did not appear. The sounds seemed to fade. Maximus relaxed the bow. He counted his arrows: twenty. He looked at the stars, as unknowable as the hearts of men. They were paling. It was nearly dawn.
The first two Sassanids took him by surprise. They turned the corner side by side, at a good canter. Maximus drew the bow. He aimed at the one to his right, deliberately low, intending to hit the horse. He released. Having grabbed another arrow, he saw the horse was down, its rider rolling in the dust. He shot at the other and missed. He shot again. The arrow buried itself into the horse's chest. The animal somersaulted forward, its rider catapulted over its head. He crunched hard into the stony path.
Another Sassanid had negotiated the first fallen horse. Sword out, he was urging his mount up the incline. Calmly, deliberately, Maximus shot him. The arrow plucked him off his horse's back. The smell of blood strong in its nostrils, equine cries of pain loud in its ears, the horse bolted up past Maximus and away.
The remaining Sassanids at the foot of the incline were at a standstill, unsure how many were against them, uncertain whether to go forward or withdraw. Maximus drew and released again and again. The deadly shafts whistled through the pale-grey light of pre-dawn.
An easterner on foot was rushing at him from the left. Maximus dropped his bow. He crouched to scoop up his sword and his opponent loomed over him. The Sassanid held his sword over his head in a two-handed grip. The long blade started to come down in a great sweep like an axe. Uncoiling, sword out in front, Maximus drove himself forward under the blow. The sharp point of the Hibernian's gladius drove into the stomach of the Sassanid. The two men were pressed together. There was a slaughterhouse stench. Maximus pushed the still-gasping easterner away.
The Sassanids drew back out of sight. Under his shield, peering round the stones, Maximus could see two dead horses and two dead men. Nothing else. He counted his remaining arrows: eight. He wondered whether to run for it. Had he bought enough time for the others?
No time now. A rising war cry. The Sassanids were coming again. Maximus put down the shield, sprang to his feet and drew his bow. The Persians thundered into sight. Maximus released. He grabbed another arrow. Working as fast as he could, he poured missiles down into the enemy.
An arrow sliced a hand's breadth past his head. This time, the easterners at the rear were shooting over the heads of the ones in front.
Maximus released again. A Persian horse went down. He shot once more. He missed. He reached for another arrow. There were none left. He took up sword and shield. There was no stopping them this time.
The Sassanids were almost on him. He could see the flaring nostrils of their mounts, hear the snap of the long streamers they wore. A small stone bounced off his helmet. He glanced up. A shower of stones was falling. Above that, the air was full of rocks.
Maximus turned and ran. Stones and rocks slewed off the ground all around him. One caught him a painful blow on the shoulder. Behind him there was an awful roaring, a grinding.
He had moved beyond the torrent of debris. Maximus stopped and looked back. The track was invisible behind a thick cloud of dust. He stood staring stupidly at it. Beside him, his horse whinnied, struggling against its hobble. Maximus walked over. He found he still had his sword in his hand. He sheathed it. He must have dropped his shield. He calmed the horse, untied its hobble, climbed on its back.
The dust had started to drift away: the track was almost obliterated under the landslide. The Sassanids were gone; either crushed or fled.
A noise above him made Maximus look up at the top of the cliff. An ugly face gingerly peered over the edge. Seeing the Hibernian, it broke into a huge smile.
'Try not to look so surprised. Who did you expect would save someone like you? Surely you don't think the gods love you enough to cause a landslide? I am not really sure I do,' said Calgacus. 'And now I have to find my way down again.'
His back to the wall, Ballista could not move. His thighs were pinned by those of two other men, the tribune Marcus Accius on his left, Camillus of the VI Gallicana on his right. Ballista could feel the heat coming from their bodies. His own was dripping with sweat. The air was thick and he was finding it hard to breathe.
Ballista had always feared confined spaces. The subterranean cell was tiny. The majority of the senior officers of the Roman field army had been pushed into it and there was barely enough space for them all to sit. Ballista badly needed to stretch his legs, to check his cut and bloodied feet, but there was no room.
The dignitas of Rome was humbled, the emperor Valerian captured, his entire army dead or surrendered. Almost all the high command had been herded like slaves into this stinking prison — almost all: Valerian and his ab Admissionibus Cledonius were not there. They had been taken elsewhere, to endure further humiliations, to be gloated over at leisure. And Turpio was not there either. He was dead. Ballista had taken a last look at his friend as they left the valley of tears, a last look at his decapitated head stark on a pike.
From somewhere in the crush of bodies came the voice of the Praetorian Prefect Successianus. 'Discipline, we must keep our discipline. These cock-sucking Sassanid reptiles do not know disciplina. Keep our disciplina and we can beat them.' Over and over he muttered it. Ballista thought Successianus might be losing his mind. If so, it would be no wonder.
The march south could have robbed any man of his reason. It had been two days of hell. The line of prisoners had been driven along by blows, from whips, the butts of spears and the flats of blades, sometimes the edges. Valerian had been at th
e head of the line, dressed as a slave, a crown of thorns digging into his aged head. His officers, loaded with chains, followed him. Their boots had been taken and they had stumbled as the sharp rocks tore their feet. Behind them had trudged the long tail of the rank and file.
It had been hot, unbearably hot. Overhead, the sun was merciless. Swirling clouds of dust had blinded them, lodged in their throats, threatened to choke them. They had been terribly thirsty. Once a day they had been driven like cattle to water. Many had not had a chance to drink before they were beaten onwards. Twice, rounds of stale bread were thrown to them. Some had been too far gone to eat; others had fought over these scraps.
Degradation had been added to cruelty. If a man fell out to relieve himself, the Sassanids amused themselves by jeering and throwing stones as he squatted. When a man collapsed, he was beaten to his feet. If he did not rise quickly enough, he was summarily killed.
The ordinary milites had suffered worse than the officers. No residual eastern respect for rank had protected them. If a young soldier's looks, not totally obscured by the dirt and suffering, happened to catch the eye of a guard, he was hauled out of the ranks. Held down, often in full view, he was raped, sometimes repeatedly. After the assault, the victim was left lying in the dirt. Some staggered back to the column; others remained prone in the dirt. Ballista had watched as one, a fresh-faced youth not yet twenty, covered his head and waited to die.
Not long after setting out, they had come upon a dry stream and the march was stopped. Glorious in purple and white raiment, with streamers floating behind, the Sassanid King of Kings had ridden up to inspect the stream. After consultation with some of his courtiers, Shapur had ordered a squad of legionaries to be forced down into the low watercourse. The banks had been ringed with horsemen. The Romans had fallen to their knees, arms out in supplication. It had done no good. To the accompaniment of mocking laughter, the defenceless men were riddled with arrows. An imperious order, a flurry of blows, and the column had been forced to march over the still-bleeding bodies of their comrades.
Lion of the Sun wor-3 Page 3
