“There is not much time,” I said. “We should move at once.”
Facilis nodded. “We need to write some letters.”
When Titus Ulpius came back in, yawning, we had the writing leaves out and were sharpening the pens. “What’s happened, then?” he asked.
Facilis looked at him reflectively a moment-then he handed the letter to him. The prefect began to read it in a mumble. He stopped yawning after the first line; after the fourth, he stopped mumbling and read silently. He looked up at Facilis, wide-awake and terrified. “Is this true?” he demanded.
“Yes,” replied Facilis steadily. “But you don’t need to take our word for it. When those bastards are arrested, they’ll find proof of the lot, I’m sure of that. We need to get them all at the same time, so that they can’t warn each other and hide the evidence. Best if it’s done just a day or so before the uprising’s scheduled to begin. You’re prefect of a cohort, Titus, you can help. I don’t have the authority to order what I need to, and nor does Ariantes.”
“But the legate…”
“We tell the legate.”
I made a gesture of caution, and the centurion turned on me. “You said you’d tell him when you had evidence, and by all the gods and goddesses, you’ve got it now. Nobody’s going to arrest you here, with your own men at hand, and once he’s arrested this lot, it will confirm everything. We tell the legate: you can dictate the letter yourself. But we tell the others, as well-the officers of all the forts involved-just in case he doesn’t, or can’t. And we write the governor down in Londinium.” He turned back to Titus Ulpius. “Do you have a license to use the post? Then we send a fast courier off first thing in the morning, to Eburacum first, and then to Londinium. We give him strict instructions that the letter to the legate is on no account to be given to him if his wife is present. Come on! Let’s get started!”
Letters. “Ariantes, commander of the Sixth Numerus of Sarmatian Horse, Titus Ulpius Silvanus, prefect of the First Thracian Cohort, and Marcus Flavius Facilis, centurion of the first order, hastatus of the Thirteenth Gemina, to Quintus Antistius Adventus, legatus Augusti pro prae tore, governor of Britain…” “Ariantes… to Julius Priscus, legate of the Sixth Victrix, many greetings. My lord, when we spoke in Eburacum I swore that when I had evidence, I would give it to you. I have been informed that…” And letters as well to the prefects of half a dozen forts scattered around Brigantia, to the grain commissary, which was responsible for all intelligence operations, and to Marcus Vibullus Severus, Arshak’s “liaison officer” at Condercum. Eukairios and Facilis wrote; I dictated; Ulpius, subdued and frightened, signed.
At four o’ clock in the morning the letters lay in neat stacks on the prefect’s desk, carefully sealed, the names of their addressees written neatly across the back. I looked at them, and thought how strange it was to fight a battle that way, boxing an absent enemy into a death cell by words scarcely whispered aloud. And even as I thought it, I realized that my part in the battle was over already. The letters would be sent. They would reach their destinations. All over northern Britain, men would be put under surveillance and houses would be searched, and a few days later, an uprising would be strangled the day before it could begin. The elation I had felt vanished suddenly and absolutely in a tide of grief. I was glad I was fighting Arshak, and would never see him arrested. I wished I’d agreed to fight him at once.
“Arshak won’t be imprisoned,” Facilis told me. He had written that letter. After a moment, he added, very gently, “I think that most likely he’ll die resisting arrest.” I looked up and saw him looking at me with almost as much tenderness in his heavy face as he’d had when he looked at Vilbia and her baby. “You were grieved for him,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “I am grieved.”
“Go to bed,” he told me. “Nothing’s going to happen for days, and there’s nothing more for you to do when it does.”
But when I returned to Cilurnum the following afternoon, I found that Arshak had sent a messenger to arrange the location for the duel.
THE NEXT NINE days seemed unreal. The real war that I had launched had flown like an arrow from the string, and I saw nothing more of it. Arshak agreed to my suggestion of eleven days from the time I sent Leimanos, and the meeting was set for noon on the twenty-second of January. The business of the camp continued as peacefully as sleep. I drilled myself with the spear and the sword until my arms ached, and worked Farna until she’d obey a breath. Leimanos rode out to inspect the meeting place, and returned to say that it was acceptable. I waited in silence for something to happen, but nothing did.
On the evening of the twenty-first I summoned all the captains and told them what I was going to do. They had heard, from the bodyguard, what Arshak had done, and they would have been horrified and ashamed if I hadn’t agreed to fight: they approved my announcement with a shout. They were less happy when I made them promise to say nothing about the duel until it was over, forswear revenge, and promise obedience to the Roman authorities, but they did as I required. I rose early next morning and sacrificed to Marha as the sun rose, praying for his protection. The fields were white with frost, and glittered pink in the early light; the bare branches of the trees burst with transient flowers of ice. It was good weather for fighting, clear and dry, and I judged that the frost would vanish as the sun rose. I armed myself and saddled Farna with her blanket of armor, but didn’t mount her: there was no point in tiring her on the journey to the meeting place. I wanted her to be fresh for the combat, and I mounted Wildfire instead. I rode through the fort with my bodyguard behind me, as though we were going out for a gallop to exercise our horses. But I turned aside into the village and stopped at Flavina’s house.
Pervica came to the door; she must have heard us jingling down the street, and rushed from dressing, because her hair was still loose over her shoulders, and she was in her stockinged feet. I dismounted, came over to her, and kissed her.
“It’s today, is it,” she said, in a flat voice.
I nodded. I took one of her hands and kissed that as well.
She closed her eyes. “I pray to all the gods you come back!”
“So do I,” I said. “The omens are good.”
She opened her eyes again, and linked both hands behind my head. Her face was so lovely it made me want to weep. “I haven’t told anyone,” she said. “And oh gods! I’ve wanted to.”
I kissed her again. “I trusted you would not.”
“I’m never going to be able to tease you, you know,” she said, as though this were the thing that mattered.
I smiled. “Not everyone is the sort that does. Besides, everyone else laughs at me here: better not to receive it from my wife as well. Good fortune, Pervica.”
“The only good fortune I want is for you to come back! Come home!”
I kissed her hand again, touched it to my forehead, and got back on my horse. I did not dare look back as we rode out of the village.
It was a white, shining morning of clean bright air and radiant skies, and as we rode along the military way I was light-headed with joy at the beauty of it. The golden stone of the Wall running up and down the crags, the green of the grass, the sheep grazing, the blue hills falling away to our right, a small brown bird pecking at a delicate sheaf of orange berries-everything seemed full, bursting with a splendor that took it out of itself and filled it with glory. I repeated to myself, tempting my own delight, all the things I would never do if I died before the evening. I would never ride Wildfire into a city or greet my brother Cotys when he arrived in Britain. I would never learn to write, never own a house, never see my schemes to breed horses come to fruition in a field of healthy foals. I would never marry Pervica, never sleep with her, never see our children. I would never reach the Jade Gate.
I laughed. Leimanos edged his horse beside Wildfire and looked at me questioningly.
“We never saw any griffins,” I told him. He had come along on that journey.
He looked puzzl
ed.
“When we rode east,” I explained.
“Oh! No, my lord.” He was still puzzled. After a moment, he added, “We saw plenty of other strange things, though. Do you remember the tiger?”
“Yes,” I agreed, contentedly. “It’s a lucky man who leaves his life complete.”
“My prince,” he said firmly, “I trust Marha that you will not leave your life today.”
“It’s in the hands of God,” I replied. “I’m not afraid.”
We rode through the infantry fort of Hunnum just past the middle of the morning, and it was still before midday when we turned off the road. Leimanos, who had inspected the location, led us across two fields, over a stream, and into a patch of woodland. In the middle of the wood was a large clearing, with a charcoal burner’s hut surrounded by ash heaps; it, and the woodland, were empty. I realized that I’d seen it before, in a dream. It was another good omen, but I could not tell Leimanos, though I knew it would reassure him. What I felt that morning was a joy so private that I could not speak of it at all.
I had dismounted to inspect the ground, and my men were building a fire to warm themselves, when Arshak and his party arrived. He left his followers beside mine, by the hut, and rode over to greet me. His armor gleamed golden as he rode out of the shadows of the trees into the sunlight at the center of the clearing, and I stood holding Wildfire’s bridle and smiling as he approached.
“Greetings,” he said, stopping in front of me. “Is the ground acceptable?”
“Greetings,” I replied. “I have no quarrel with it.” I remounted Wildfire and gathered up the reins. “Shall we take the oaths from our men? Or do you wish to rest your horse first?”
“It was a short ride,” he said, smiling back at me. “We’ll take the oaths now.”
We rode back to the hut, where my men had started the fire, and first one party, then the other, stretched out their hands above the freshly smouldering heap of charcoal, and swore that the contest would end with the death of one or both contestants, and that no revenge would be taken.
“What shall we do about the body?” asked Arshak, when that was finished.
“I believe you had a plan for a drinking cup, if the gods favor you,” I replied.
He smiled. “True-but your friends the Romans might disapprove.”
“You don’t care about that, do you?” I asked. I could have added, “You are assuming that you only need to hide the body for two days anyway”-but I didn’t. The exaltation I felt would only be cheapened by triumphing over him, and I might endanger the lives of his colleagues at Condercum if I spoiled their preparations. “The corpse can be buried here,” I said instead. “But the Romans are likely to find out and arrest the survivor anyway. You’re not afraid of them, are you?”
He smiled again, then suddenly extended his hand to me. “I’m glad it ends like this, Ariantes,” he said. “For what my allies tried to do, I am sorry.”
I shook his hand. “Spoken like a prince, Arshak. I’m glad to settle with you.”
We turned back, each to our own party, and made the final preparations. I tightened the girths on Farna’s saddle, checked the buckles of the armor, and unfastened my bow case, handing it to Banadaspos. I took off my coat and passed it to Leimanos, and mounted. My men spread out down one side of the clearing from the fire; Arshak’s down the other. I looked at Arshak, now sitting high in the saddle of his white Parthian mare. “You are a king’s nephew,” I told him. “I yield the honor of first choice of position to you.”
He bowed his head and, without another word, rode into the center of the clearing; he made the mare rear up, gleaming, and turned her, lifting his spear. I nodded. He understood as well as I did that my hope was in the training of my horse, and he would make me come to him. I turned Farna and cantered her round to the west end of the clearing. The sun was high and would not get in his eyes much, but it might yet help. I raised my hand in salute to it, and saw Arshak answer with the same gesture. I was perfectly content when I lowered my spear and touched Farna into a gallop toward him.
He did not move from his place, only braced himself in the saddle, holding his spear ready. I watched his face as I approached rather than that bright edge: I knew he could move it quicker than I could see. When his eyes flickered, I dropped from the saddle sideways and touched Farna to make her veer off; the tip of the lance whispered through the air above my head, and I heard a shout from the onlookers. I stabbed toward him with my own spear as I passed, but he had already kicked his mare and made her bolt out of the way. I slithered back upright, spun Farna about on her hindquarters, and started her back. His horse was a shade slower than mine and was still turning; he had twisted and was looking at me over his shoulder, grinning with excitement. My chance. I braced myself for the impact, aiming the tip of my lance at his chest.
He kicked his feet out of the stirrups, spun in the saddle, and swept his lance across sideways. It caught me on the left side; my spear was swept out of line, and I almost fell. I pressed my face against Farna’s armored side, trying not to clutch at the saddle in case I dropped my spear. I was slow to pull myself back up; my left knee ached, and would not obey my command to lift me, and I’d almost lost my right stirrup. Over the shouts I could hear the hoofbeats of Arshak’s mount following me.
“Go, sweet one,” I told Farna, nudging her with my elbow since my feet and hands were busy. She flicked her ears and lengthened her stride, staying ahead of the other. I managed to get my right foot back fully in the stirrup and push myself upright. Arshak slowed his mount, straightening his spear. I galloped round the ring once, the onlookers merely a blur of metal, collecting myself again. Arshak followed on the inside, then turned his mount and rode in the opposite direction, speeding up again. Again I watched his face as he galloped toward me.
There was no flicker of the eyes this time: they were fixed and merciless, impossibly blue. I veered Farna sharply left, turned her almost on top of the onlookers, and galloped in the opposite direction, with Arshak galloping after me and his men jeering. “Run, darling,” I whispered to her, and she heard and galloped with all her brave heart, gaining lengths. When I had space, I turned her again, into the center this time, and tried to cut in beside my opponent. But he dragged his mount to a halt and waited for me with his spear braced. I veered off again and circled round once more. Arshak again galloped in the opposite direction, bearing down to meet me. I veered left, right, left again; the spear point followed me unerringly. I brought Farna rearing to a halt, spear level, bracing myself for the impact.
He ducked as his mare took the last few steps, dropping so quickly that my spear hissed through the air above his shoulder, and his own spear twisted down so fast I had no idea where he’d aimed it, until I felt the pain white-hot in my bad leg. Through the shouts and the burning I could hear, small and distinct, the snap as the weak bone broke. Gasping, I whipped my spear about sideways, but he brought his free hand up, and the shaft slapped into his palm. His fingers locked on it, and I was too dizzy with pain to hold on. Somehow I drove my left heel against Farna’s side-and the twist of the bone as I did nearly made me scream-and she leapt sideways. The spear lifted my leg, tugging as it came out, and I could feel the blood gushing warmly down my shin. Farna galloped in the direction I’d sent her. I glanced back, and saw Arshak wave my spear triumphantly before flinging it to the ground.
It would have to end quickly, or I’d faint from the bleeding. I drew my sword, and fumbled with stiff fingers at the buckle of the baldric. It came loose, and I tore off the sword’s sheath and coiled the long leather strap about my hand. Arshak was waiting for me, watching, grinning triumphantly. The edge of his spear was dark now.
I turned Farna round to the right-it had to be to the right, my left leg wasn’t working-and cantered back toward my opponent. “Good girl,” I whispered, leaning forward onto her neck. Sweet, steady, patient Farna: I’d been right to choose her from among the thousands of horses I’d once owned, and take her wi
th me. Holding the sword low against the armored blanket, looking up to watch Arshak’s face, we galloped up for the last time. My only hope was that he thought he’d won already, and might be careless.
He was not actually careless, but he didn’t mind if I veered left or right, and made no attempt to force me left, and that was enough. I saw the flicker in his eyes-he had to aim carefully this time, with me so low on the horse-and veered right. The crest of my helmet slapped against his spear shaft; I pulled Farna left sharply with the reins, and she crashed against his mount, making both horses stagger. I was up in my saddle, slashing down with the sword. But Arshak already had his spear back in line, and my blade chopped into the shaft. I dropped it and flung myself out of the saddle against him, knocking him out and over, reaching for my dagger as we fell. With another part of me, I heard screams and shouting and the clatter of arms; I saw the grass etched in a thousand tiny blades, shining with melted frost-and Arshak landed with a grunt, and I twisted my broken leg as I fell on top of him, and screamed, and found my dagger. Arshak rolled desperately away even as I struck, and the blade slid uselessly across the golden scales of his armor. I pulled myself up onto one knee, bracing myself with the other. My left leg was twisted so that the foot stuck out limply, sideways and almost upside down, and the blood was still streaming. A few more moments, I thought, and I’ll faint. Arshak leapt to his feet and drew his sword.
The long strap of the baldric uncoiled as I lashed out with it. The end caught about his leg, and he fell as I jerked it back again. I half kicked, half dragged myself toward him; he rolled, got to his knees, and swung his sword at me. I caught it in the leather strap and flung it out of his hand, and then I was on top of him, knocking him flat. He had his hand on his own dagger. Lying on top of him, I struck downward at his throat with all my strength; the knife glanced off his jaw and skidded across his armor. He screamed, a scream full of blood, pulling his own knife from its sheath, but too late. I struck again, and this time the knife went home. The blood spurted hot over my hand and into my face, blinding me. I let go of the knife and lay still. I felt his heart pounding beneath my cheek; I felt the instant when it stopped, and I was sick with grief. Around me, the world went gray.
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