Someone came to say the kyria was leaving. They crossed the river by the stepping stones, arriving only moderately damp at the other side. Pythonissa walked her horse forward from her entourage. Ballista bowed, blew a kiss; wished her a safe journey. Very formal, she returned the proskynesis; asked the gods to hold their hands over him. He had a sudden vision of her naked, on her hands and knees, of him taking her from behind. He had to have her again. She smiled, full of mischief, as if she could tell what he was thinking. She leant down from the saddle, passed him something.
It was an ice-white gem hung on a golden chain. ‘From the peak where Prometheus was chained,’ she said. ‘A cure for nightmares.’ He thanked her, slipped it around his neck. She turned her horse and rode away to the south.
They got back to work. There was a change in the Suani. While they would never labour like helots promised their freedom, they were better than they had been. It might have been connected to the visit of Pythonissa, or possibly to Ballista saving Tarchon. Whatever the reason, they were a little more assiduous.
Within a few days, progress was apparent. Once the scaffolding was rebuilt, the gate on the track began to take shape. The new piers in the Alontas were put in place, and the first tentative spans of timber began to connect them. The final finishes were made to the tower of Cumania.
There was a new purpose and a better routine to the day. At first light, sacrifices were made to Prometheus and Heracles. Respect for local sentiment meant that nothing was ever offered to Zeus or Athena. The workers were fed hot bread with cheese. This was prepared by native cooks at fires on the side of the road. To spare the inhabitants of the fort from being choked by smoke, Agathon cooked their breakfast with the others, then carried it across the stepping stones. Their favoured deities and their stomachs placated, the workers went to their assigned places. Lunch was a simple affair – more flat bread, this time with soup or millet porridge – taken where they toiled. An afternoon’s work, another set of sacrifices, and the Suani were free to pass the evening with more eating, drinking and singing their sad songs by their fires.
The sixth morning found Ballista on the battlements as the sun hit the peaks above the gorge. He had a panoramic view over the dark river, the road, the sawing camp fires and the as yet quiet half-built fortifications. Pythonissa was much on his mind. For years, he had amazed his friends and, if he were honest, himself, with his fidelity to his wife. Maximus had never been able to understand it at all. Not even on the many occasions, inevitably when they were drinking, when Ballista had tried to explain the true reasons. Apart from Roxanne – and he felt nothing but guilt about that – he had not had another woman in part because he loved his wife but also because he had developed a strange superstition. He had somehow convinced himself that if he had another woman, the next time he was in combat he would be killed. Almost every fighting man he had ever known had a talisman he hoped would keep him safe – the belts of Roman soldiers were covered in the things. Ballista had clutched his uxorious faithfulness to himself like a sealskin amulet, a rabbit’s foot, or some such trinket. But at Soli he had taken Roxanne, and he had not died at Sebaste, or in any of the other places where the spirits of death had hovered close, not in Galilee, Emesa, Ephesus or Didyma. Things had not been right between him and Julia, not since he had returned from Galilee. He had no idea why. Yes, he supposed he felt guilt, but man was not built for monogamy. Celibacy was bad for the health of man or woman. Julia was far away. And Pythonissa was … wilder than any girl he had known, wilder than any of the whores of his youth. He drifted into a reverie about her body, the things she did.
Across the river, something was wrong. Shouting, a crowd gathering by one of the camp fires. A man was staggering, flailing about. It was Agathon. Ballista went to the trapdoor, climbed down the ladder. He grabbed his sword belt from his quarters, carried on down.
Calgacus met him on the floor below. ‘Agathon …’
‘I know – stay here, post a guard, shut the door after us.’
The others were on the second floor. ‘Maximus, come with me. The rest of you stay here.’
As Ballista and Maximus went down the outer steps, Tarchon joined them. There was no shaking the Suanian. The heavy oak door slammed behind them. Ballista wondered if they should have taken the time to put on their mail coats.
When they reached the other side, they had to shoulder through a dense throng of onlookers. Agathon was on the ground. He was clawing at his eyes, his body jerking. He had fouled himself. The Suani watched him with expressionless black eyes. Ballista and Maximus knelt either side, gripped him hard, restrained him. A final convulsion and Agathon died.
In the complete silence, Tarchon got to his knees and cradled the head of the dead slave. He put his face very close to but not touching that of the corpse. Tarchon sniffed. He said something in his native tongue, then one word in Greek: poison.
XXV
The killing of Agathon changed things. Ballista and the familia now habitually went fully armed. By day, pickets were posted. At night, Cumania was shuttered and bolted. A watch was kept. All food and drink for the familia was kept in the fort, where it was prepared by Polybius and Wulfstan. It had been brought home to them that they were far from help, hemmed in by wild mountains and any number of potential enemies. At least Cumania was virtually impregnable. A siege mentality was fast developing.
Yet the construction proceeded well. The Suani outside the fort seemed unaffected by the poisoning. Seen so much of it, Maximus suggested. The dressed stones of the gate went up tier by tier. The wooden walkway over the river was completed. There were practical difficulties tying it into the natural rockface to the west, but nothing Ballista could not resolve.
It was seven days before the kalends of August, fifteen since Agathon had been murdered. Nothing else bad had happened. The fortifications were nearly ready. Ballista thought they might be finished by the kalends. It was all in hand.
The messenger arrived mid-afternoon. He came from the south, had a letter for Ballista. It was in Greek, in a woman’s hand. She hoped it found him well, asked if the gemstone had helped, thanked him for entertaining her so well. He had no doubt it came from Pythonissa. She wanted him to ride down to the house she had in Dikaiosyne that night. For discretion, it was better he came alone.
With the exception of Maximus, the familia was unanimous that he should not go. It was madness. The letter might not be from her. Even if it were, it could be a trap. From her or not, the situation was too dangerous. Someone in these ghastly mountains wanted them dead. These Suani were not to be trusted.
Ballista was determined. He would go. If so, they said, he could not ride alone. Even Maximus joined in the chorus. These mountaineers would cut a lone stranger’s throat soon as look at him. Ballista relented: he would take one man. The Suani Tarchon, in the little Greek he had picked up, demanded that he accompany the kyrios: blood oath, he had sworn blood oath, very happy to die. Words failing him, he mimed covering his head, sneaking along. Maximus was having none of it: all these years, and he was not going to be elbowed aside by some filthy fucking goat boy who probably did not know one end of a fucking sword from another.
Ballista exercised tact. He reminded Tarchon that Calgacus had also saved him. The blood oath was to the old man as well. Tarchon must stay and keep him safe; if that failed, he could die happy for him. With much doubt in his eyes, Tarchon agreed. Maximus would accompany Ballista. They would return the following night. On the day they were away, Calgacus would command. Everyone must take their orders unquestioningly from him. No Suani, with the exception of Tarchon, were to enter the fort. Did they all understand?
Not long after dusk, when the sky in the west was still purple, three men in native costume crossed the stepping stones over the Alontas and went to the horse lines. They tacked up, mounted and rode south.
At first they rode in silence. The night darkened, the heavens were painted with stars. It was good to be out of the fort, away from th
e pass. It was good to be riding at night. The Alontas rattled away past them, the horses stepping quietly. Sometimes they pricked up their ears, looked out into the darkness at things the men could not see.
When the rock walls rolled back and the country opened they felt like talking. Maximus untied the folds of the native turban that had been covering the lower part of his face. ‘Do you think I will catch something from this?’
‘Almost certainly: lice.’
They spoke in the language of Maximus’s home.
‘Are you thinking it is altogether wise us risking our lives just so you can fuck her?’
‘Muirtagh of the Long Road would never do anything like that.’
‘Never in six lifetimes. Do you think she might have a maid or two?’
‘No, just the eunuchs. But I am sure they will be grateful for your attentions.’
They crossed a stream joining the Alontas. Water splashed up in the starlight, stones clinked under the horses’ hooves.
‘You remember that night we dressed up to walk the walls at Arete?’
‘When that soldier said Ballista’s bodyguard was one of the ugliest fuckers he had ever seen?’
‘That is the one. Then there was us as fishermen at Corycus.’
‘Sebaste.’
‘What?’
‘It was Sebaste.’
‘Wherever, gods below it took me days to get rid of the smell. And that time at Ephesus you had me blacked up as the king of the Saturnalia to start a riot.’
‘Happy days. You remember what you were wearing in Massilia?’
‘Sure, you always have to bring that up, just when I am happy.’
About the middle watch, they came to a place where two small rivers came down on either side to join the Alontas. Beyond was Dikaiosyne. The villages of Suania had no walls. There was no need for them with every home a miniature fortress. The messenger led them through the alleys to a closed gate in a blank wall. He whistled and the gate opened.
Ballista left Maximus with the porter and the horses. He followed the messenger up several flights of stairs. The house was large, a more Mediterranean style than most. On the top floor, one of the eunuchs sat, dozing on a tasselled cushion outside an ornate door. As he got to his feet, the messenger wordlessly went back down the stairs.
‘Wait please, Kyrios.’ The eunuch tapped on the door, slipped inside.
Ballista waited – a long time.
The eunuch re-emerged. With a courtly bow, he waved Ballista to enter.
There were several little lamps burning, but the wide, tall room was still dim. It was perfumed and opulent with rugs and hangings. A large bed against the far wall was plump with mattresses and cushions. Pythonissa walked out of the shadows. This time she was not naked, not quite. She wore a silk gown, diaphanous and clinging like a statue of a goddess. It emphasized her body, more than nudity ever could.
‘Kyrios,’ she said. As she bowed the gown slid open. He could see her breasts. There was a sheen to her skin.
Pythonissa pulled her gown together. Her nipples stood out through the thin material. She firmly pushed away his hands. She took his native headdress and coat, helped him out of his sword belt and mail coat. She placed them away in a corner. Coming back with a bowl of water and towels, she told him to sit. She washed and dried his hands, helped him off with his boots, washed and dried his feet; all the time fending off his hands.
She went to fetch him a drink. This time he grabbed her. The wine spilt as he dragged her on to his lap. He kissed her, his hands moving greedily over her. She broke her mouth away, laughing. ‘I wondered how long I could make you wait.’ They kissed, pulling at each other’s clothes. They ended up on the floor.
Afterwards, not bothering to dress, she padded to the door. She opened it and told the eunuch to bring food and drink. Ballista stood up, stretched. She came and stood in front of him. She was tall, little shorter than him. She looked at the healing scars on his shoulder, traced them with her fingertips. She dipped her head, her red lips parted, and her tongue traced along the wounds.
The eunuch glided into the room. He set the things out on a table. Pythonissa took no notice at all of him. Her hand reached down, fondling. Ballista went to push her away, stopped himself. She was shameless, impudent. The eunuch bowed. As the servant backed out of the room, she sank to her knees.
Ballista woke late the next day. He was in her big bed. His head ached slightly from the wine, but he felt good. He could smell her on him.
Pythonissa was already up. Wearing another sheer gown, she was telling her servants where to place the breakfast trays. There was an aroma of warm bread, bacon, other good things. She smiled knowingly at Ballista. ‘They have brought a lot of food. It would be indiscreet for you to leave until tonight. You might need to keep your strength up.’
The day passed languorously. The eunuchs carried in a bath, hot water. Ballista and Pythonissa bathed, oiled each other. They ate, drank, talked. At midday, Maximus arrived, asked if he needed anything. He did not. Maximus went away again. Twice more in the afternoon Pythonissa mounted Ballista as Andromache mounted Hector. He had almost forgotten the vigour that came with a new lover.
When it began to get dark he said he should go. She said, ‘Not yet,’ arranged herself on the bed. He took her from behind, hard, almost brutal. It was just as he had remembered it from the first time. When it was over, they lay together, flushed, out of breath.
The door crashed open. Harsh light flooded the room. Men crowded in. Ballista rolled from the bed. Two men were between him and his weapons. Drawn blades covered him.
‘My whore of a sister.’ It was Saurmag. There were six armed men with him – not Suani, nomads from the north. There were more outside.
‘What are you doing?’ Pythonissa was on her feet. Her face white with anger, she made little attempt to cover her breasts, her delta. Inconsequentially, Ballista thought of the Aphrodite of Cnidus.
Saurmag did not answer her. From his coat he produced some white reeds, scattered them negligently on the floor. ‘Cut at dawn at the beginning of the spring. Cut by you, when you sacrificed to Hecate, sang the paean to your bitch goddess. Now they will condemn you.’
Ballista stood very still, measuring, calculating. Only a small table to hand, nothing to use as a weapon. The two men nearest did not take their eyes off him.
‘You fool, Saurmag,’ she hissed. ‘A word from me to our father – what you did to our brothers.’
Saurmag smiled. ‘You forget, I was not alone in killing Mithridates and Tzathius.’
‘Our father will not believe you, nor will Azo.’
Saurmag actually laughed. ‘That really does not matter. They are being hunted down now.’ His face hardened. ‘Because you betrayed me, I have been forced to act sooner than I wished.’
The Suanian prince stepped forward. His men’s eyes did not waver. Ballista wondered where Maximus was.
Saurmag slapped his sister hard. She took a step back, recovered herself. Saurmag pointed at Ballista. ‘I sent you to kill this barbarian. Instead, like the whore you are, you took him to your bed. Because you let him live, the Caspian Gates are nearly complete.’
He slapped her again. ‘Nearly complete, but not finished. The Alani rode through today.’
‘You are a fool.’ Her voice was low, full of menace. ‘The Alani will not let you rule. They will take Suania for themselves.’
‘You underestimate me; like our father, our brothers, the synedrion – all of you.’ Saurmag shrugged. ‘Anyway, you will never know. Your shameless lust has delivered you and your barbarian into my hands. By tomorrow you will both be gone into the Mouth of the Impious. In thirty days’ time the vultures of Maeotis will be tearing at your flesh.’
XXVI
The dark was not absolute. Tiny squints of light peeped through the trapdoor above his head. Ballista wished they did not. They showed just how small was the space.
The cell was underground, apparently cut from the livi
ng rock. Ballista had to be careful how he shifted his weight. The surfaces behind his back, under his arse, his heels, were rough, jagged. There was not enough room for him to stand or, sitting, straighten his legs. He could feel the mass of the rock all around, pressing in, restricting him, crushing him. The fear of confined spaces was hard on him. He sat, arms around his knees, in the dark, in the filth. He had no idea how long he had been there.
Up in Pythonissa’s room, Saurmag had been in no hurry to end his pleasure. The Suanian prince had slapped his sister again. She had raised her arms to protect her face. He had laughed, caught her wrists, slapped her two, three more times. Some of the Alani grinned, enjoying her nakedness, her pain. But the eyes of the two watching Ballista did not shift. The northerner slumped, trying to look defeated, hoping for an opportunity.
Saurmag had said something to the nomads in their language. One, probably the leader, had replied. He was grinning, eying the girl. ‘I asked if his men would enjoy you,’ Saurmag had said. He yanked her wrists high, fully exposing her body. She spat. The spittle ran down his cheek. He hit her hard with his fist. There was blood on her lips. Her brother looked her up and down, slowly, nothing fraternal about it. ‘No, if I …’ He hit her again. ‘You can die no more defiled than this barbarian and all the others have left you.’
The Caspian Gates Page 26
