Warrior of Rome III

by Harry Sidebottom

  The noise built to a crescendo: the stamp and slop of the hooves in the mud, the high ching of the horse furniture, the deeper rattle of the men’s equipment. The air was full of the smell of horse. The reeds swayed with their passing.

  Lying in the cool mud, feeling his boots filling with water, Maximus tried to count the hoofbeats: ten, fifteen, twenty horses. It was impossible. The sounds faded. Maximus did not move.

  A butterfly, pale yellow, almost white, flew in and out of the reeds in front of his face. The smell of rotting plants was strong in his nostrils. The noise of horsemen came again: fewer of them, travelling more slowly, again from the west. Maximus had guessed right. The majority had hared off after him while a few were following at a more leisurely pace in case he broke cover after the first lot had gone. Fuck you, he thought triumphantly. Fuck each and every one of you.

  As soon as the horsemen passed, he got to his feet. Relying on their noise covering his, he plunged off to look for his kit bag. The leading group would overhaul his riderless horse all too soon. He splashed to where the bag lay, half submerged. Infernal gods, he had forgotten the helmet. Fuck it, no time. He turned to get deeper into the marsh.

  The kit bag was heavy and incredibly awkward. If he held it upright, there was a danger it might show above the reeds. If he held it sideways, it would reveal his movement through them like a wave. Somehow trying to judge which tangles of vegetation would at least temporarily take his weight, he struggled along with the horrible thing jutting out in front of him.

  Shouts, the noise of horses. They were coming back. Again Maximus dropped to the sodden ground. As soon as he had, he knew he had chosen a bad place. There was more water than soil or vegetation, and he was in mail armour. The liquid mud slowly but terrifyingly started to suck him down. Making a long arm, he dragged the kit bag to him and up under his chest. With his arms spread along it, his weight was more widely distributed. It was better, but it would not do for long.

  ‘Come out, you cocksucker.’ The voices were very close. ‘Little Quietus will not kill you. He needs every one of us alive. Maybe he will just give you a stern talking to, send you back to duty with a sore arse and a nasty taste in your mouth – all the stuff you like.’

  Shouts came from all along the path. They were walking their mounts back, probably in single file. Some called out. All would be watching the fen.

  ‘Get your saggy arse out here, bumboy. If not now, when we catch you, we will all give you what a cinaedus like you wants.’

  The sexual insults and obscenities amused them for some time. Eventually, though, they fell quiet. A lone voice, obviously that of their decurion, rang across the sedge. ‘We will be back. If the mud has not swallowed you, we will get you. We will be back with dogs.’

  After they had gone, Maximus levered himself up and sat on the mainly submerged trunk of a long-fallen oak. He had not been too worried about the threat of dogs. Most Romans used dogs that hunted by sight. Very few knew how to use dogs that hunted by scent. In any event, it would have to be an exceptionally fine hound that could track a man through this waterlogged wilderness. He would be long gone if they ever returned.

  After a childhood and youth in Hibernia, marshes held few fears for Maximus. Certain, you had to treat them with respect. Many was the man who had thought the footfall solid and been sucked down to his death. Often at night their souls wandered, flickering lights, trying to lure others to their fate. Was it malice, or were they just after company? Maximus had never been sure.

  He sat there regarding the kit bag. It was horribly heavy, more so now soaked, unwieldy too. Did he really need it? Was there anything precious in it? He had his weapons and armour, plenty of money in his belt, Ballista’s letter. He wondered if it was good or bad to have so few possessions he cared anything about. If Demetrius had been there, certain he would have started to spout philosophy: the virtues of self-sufficiency, or some such shite. Plilosophy was something Maximus was sure he did not need. He got up, rummaged in the kit bag for some air-dried beef and left the thing behind.

  For most of the remaining daylight hours, he made his way, as far as he could tell, north-east; away from the track, but still towards the mountains. Every now and then he had a view of them: a darker line of blue below the pale blue of the cloudless sky. He remembered how Ballista had called them hills; made crossing them seem all the easier.

  As the afternoon wore on, he came to a mere of open water. Its surface glittered beautifully in the sun. It lay north to south. It was between him and the dry land at the foot of the mountains, and it stretched as far as the reeds would let him see. It was only about a hundred paces across, but he had no intention of trying to wade or swim it. A mere like this might be bottomless mud, like the one at home they used to drown the buggers in. You could be sure this mere was full of vegetation waiting to tangle and trap your arms and legs. And what would he be doing with his armour? The path with the cavalry was to the south; he had set off north.

  When the shadows began to lengthen, Maximus had scouted for a flat, dry place to lay his head.

  He woke the next morning: caked in dried mud, flies all over him, only some dried meat to eat, and still stuck somewhere in the Mere of Apamea. The main road south from Antioch to Emesa could not be above half a mile away. Lying in the reed beds, Maximus could not see it. He was very still, listening, watching. The dry rustling of the tall reed beds moving was all he could hear.

  Maximus filled in the shallow hole he had dug by the shore of the little lake and thought about the Persian boy Bagoas, years ago, telling him it was forbidden for Magi to foul running water. Would they relieve themselves in a non-flowing peat lake? Looking at the surface of the mere gently rippling in the breeze, it would be a shame. Better by far to bury your shit. And that way it was hard for your enemies to track you too.

  After about half an hour, he came to a causeway. It ran straight as an arrow across the mere. On the far side, Maximus could see fields and a path grading the slopes, signs of terracing higher. On the nearer side, it connected to a well-made-up track. Over the track were fenced water meadows. He had reached one of the parts of the Mere of Apamea more tamed by the hand of man.

  Yet as he lay in the reeds watching, there was not a person in sight. Actually, there were very few living things at all. At home, a fen like this would have been alive with wildfowl and all sorts. Out here in the east, you seldom saw many birds. Where had they gone? Had the luxury-loving locals eaten them all?

  No point in waiting any longer, Maximus climbed up and set off.

  When he was virtually at mid-point on the causeway, the two horsemen materialized at the mountain end like some unwelcome divine epiphany. They were trotting towards him, and they were in Roman uniforms.

  Swearing quietly, Maximus looked behind him – too far to run – and to either side – just the glittering mere, the shining face of a dark fate. He stood still and waited for them. It was a shame, more than a shame it had to be this way.

  The horsemen reined in some paces away. Their swords were drawn. They did not speak. The one on the right dismounted first, then the other.

  ‘Drop your weapons.’ The first to dismount spoke.

  Maximus unclasped his cloak. As he dropped it off to his left, his eyes never faltered from the nearer soldier. No opportunity came – the soldier’s gaze stayed on Maximus.

  ‘Weapons.’

  Maximus unbuckled his sword belt, shrugged the baldric off his shoulder and tossed them after the cloak. Again the soldier’s gaze did not waver. This was not going to be easy. Maximus still had old Calgacus’s trick in his boot. But he was running out of options and time.

  The first soldier stepped forward, his blade at Maximus’s throat.

  ‘Not a good day for you, deserter.’ The other one spoke.

  You should keep quiet, like your friend, thought Maximus.

  ‘Hands out. Wrists crossed.’ The first was in charge.

  Maximus did as he was told.

&n
bsp; The first soldier glanced at his belt, going to free the leather strip to bind the prisoner.

  Maximus took the edge of the sword on the right sleeve of his mail coat, pushed the point away. Stooping, with his left hand he drew the dagger from its sheath in his right boot. Staying low, he drove it into the soldier’s right thigh, just below his armour.

  The other one was on him, sword arcing down. Maximus only had the dagger to catch the long blade of the spatha. Most warriors, no matter what their training, shut their eyes at the moment of contact. Maximus forced himself to watch the blade. He blinked. The sound of steel on steel. The impact ran up his arm. Automatically, he rolled his wrist. He opened his eyes. The sword was being deflected wide.

  The momentum of Maximus’s opponent was carrying him past, slightly off balance. Maximus spun elegantly and kicked him hard behind the left knee. The man went down. Maximus pounced. He landed with all his weight on top of the soldier. Grabbing the man’s helmet, Maximus forced his face down into the mud. The man thrashed about, the viscous black liquid pushing into his mouth, his nose. Maximus increased the pressure.

  Maximus glanced at the first soldier. He was inching in agony towards the sword he had dropped. His thigh was running with blood. No immediate threat there.

  The struggles of the man in the mud began to weaken. Maximus pushed down as hard as he could. A convulsive series of movements, and then nothing. Maximus did not ease up for several moments.

  Finally, the other soldier was nearing his sword. When he got up, Maximus’s legs were stiff. With a hobbling run, he crossed the track. He kicked the sword away from the desperate hand. Falling to his knees, he seized the man’s chin, yanked it back. He wielded the dagger. There was a rasp of metal on metal as the edge of the blade slid down the nasal of the man’s helmet. The tip of the blade entered the eye. The man jerked up rigid, went still.

  Maximus got up, looked both ways. No one in sight. He felt an odd tiredness and lack of urgency. He forced himself to think quickly and get moving. Having cleaned the knife, he put it back in his boot. He went over and put his sword belt on again. At the side of the track, he washed the blood off his hands and arms in the mere. He picked up the leather thong that had been intended to bind him. Maximus had always been good with animals; the horses came to him, wary as they were of the smell of gore on the ground. He hobbled the first one with the piece of leather. Horses were herd animals, and it did not really matter if the other happened not to stay.

  The man face down in the mud had a cloak of pale blue with a fancy gilded clasp. It appealed to Maximus, so he put it on. He tried the man’s helmet, but it did not fit. He spread out his own muddied cloak and dropped the helmet in the middle of it. He went back to the dead man and searched him. The reasonable sum of coins he added to his own purse. He drew the man’s sword and tossed that on to his cloak as well. Then he dragged the corpse to the edge of the causeway and rolled it into the water.

  Maximus went over to the other man and – except for the cloak – repeated what he had done. When the water stilled, Maximus could see that this second corpse had settled partly on top, partly beside the other. They were not well hidden, but it was better than nothing.

  The unhobbled horse had remained with its companion. The soldiers’ shields, with their unit identification, Maximus unhitched from their saddles. They were added to the pile on his abandoned cloak. He tied the corners together and threw it as far as he could. In the water, it darkened, settled, then sank.

  Maximus talked gently to the horses as he altered the hobble to a leading rein. Their breath was sweet on his face. He got into the saddle. He studied his work. The surface of the causeway was ploughed up and bloody. The mud would soon take care of that. The corpses were not deep enough to be invisible, but if you were not looking you might not notice them. It was a shame, more than a shame he had had to kill them. They had just been doing their duty. But then so was he. Turning the horses’ heads, he trotted away towards the east and Palmyra.

  It was eight days since Quietus’s court and army had arrived in Emesa. Time for Ballista to rent a house, for the familia to begin to settle in. Time for Ballista to begin to hope that Maximus had got away, that things would work out.

  The boots in the street woke Ballista. When they stopped, he slipped out of bed. It was very dark, probably well past midnight. His hand closed on the scabbard of his sword, hanging in its accustomed place.

  The pounding on the main door boomed dully through the house.

  Ballista pulled on a tunic and opened the door of the bedroom. Light came in from the corridor. Julia was sitting up in bed. She did not say anything, but her dark eyes looked frightened.

  There was more pounding on the door, a muffled shout.

  ‘It will be fine,’ Ballista said.

  Actually, he had no idea. There were troops outside. Roman soldiers walked differently to anyone else. But it could be anything. Emperors, especially erratic ones like Quietus, could summon men to their consilium at any time of night or day. There, by lamplight, while the rest of the world slept, they might be called on to discuss anything from war in the east to the best way to cook a fish. Even under Quietus a nocturnal consilium was not necessarily something to fear, and it would be most strange if, as one of the two serving Praetorian Prefects, Ballista was not summoned. But there again, no one in the imperium would feel completely safe when the soldiers hammered on the door gone midnight. It could mean something altogether different.

  ‘It will be fine,’ Ballista said again.

  Julia did not reply. There was something wrong with her, had been since he came back from Palestine. In the old days, she would not have looked frightened, even if she had been terrified. In the old days, she would have spoken to him. Mostly, she was the same, but something had changed. He did not know what.

  More pounding on the door. From the depths of the house came the wheezing voice of Calgacus in full peevish flow. ‘Middle of the fucking night, fucking hold your fucking horses, you will have the fucking thing off its hinges.’

  Ballista went out on to the balcony that ran all around the atrium at the first floor. He walked to the stairs that faced the entrance and waited. He found he was shivering. Maybe, even in Syria in high summer, there was more of a chill to the night than he thought.

  Calgacus appeared, holding a lamp for a centurion. They were followed by about twenty Praetorians, who fanned out around the courtyard. Too many soldiers for anything but bad news. Ballista had known from the start but had failed to acknowledge it. He did not know what had caused this, but if Maximus had been caught, this was the end. Ballista battened down his fear.

  Ballista was puzzled to see a centurion that he did not recognize. In the reduced numbers of the Praetorian Guard of Quietus, there were not that many of them. Yet the centurion looked familiar. If Demetrius had been there, he could have put a name to him.

  ‘Dominus,’ said Calgacus, ‘this is Marcus Aurelius Jucundus.’ The Caledonian’s face was woeful.

  Ballista did not recognize the name either.

  ‘Dominus.’ The centurion’s tone was stiff, official. He read from a papyrus roll with a purple seal. ‘The order of the most noble Caesar, Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus, Pius Felix, Pater Patriae, Restitutor Orbis, Invictus. Marcus Clodius Ballista is relieved of his command as Praetorian Prefect. Furthermore, he is to be placed under arrest immediately and conveyed to the central gaol under the palace of the kings of Emesa.’ The centurion paused. Very quietly, he said, ‘I am sorry, Dominus.’ Presumably that was not written on the papyrus. He took a breath and continued. ‘The barbarian is to be confined there at our pleasure … together with his wife and his sons.’

  The centurion was most kind, consideration personified: they could have time to collect some things, as much as they needed, could take what they wished. They roused the children. At two, Dernhelm was too young to understand. He smiled at the lights glittering and moving in the Praetorians’ armour then fell asleep on his mot
her’s shoulder. With Isangrim, a thoughtful nine-year-old, things were different. Ballista spoke to him alone. Isangrim must be brave as an example to his younger brother, and to his mother. Isangrim and Ballista must be brave for each other. The boy nodded. He stood, straight-backed, a slight tremble to his chin. Father and son embraced. Ballista told his freedman Calgacus that he was in charge of the remaining familia; the accensus Hippothous would help him supervise the porters, cooks, maids owned or employed in the house. Ballista and Calgacus embraced.

  As they walked through the darkened streets, Centurion Jucundus said he had been to see the gaoler before coming to Ballista’s house. He had instructed the man that Ballista’s family were to be allocated the outermost cell – it had a little natural light and ventilation. By now it should have been scrupulously cleaned and given furniture. The prefect and the domina could have their servants bring them any food or anything else they liked. Jucundus himself, or one of his men, would come every day to check that everything was as well as the circumstances permitted. It was notable that Jucundus still employed Ballista’s title.

  Reaching the palace, passing through its dark, squat walls, under its fantastic, soaring towers, all was as the centurion had said. Lamps were lit in the cell. There was a bed, a table, a few chairs. The bare walls and floor were clean. It had been scented, although nothing could quite mask the underlying prison stench.

  Julia, her brisk, capable self again, was in constant motion, putting the children to bed, unpacking their hasty possessions, instilling order.

  At the door, Ballista thanked Centurion Jucundus for his trouble.

  ‘It is the least I could do, Dominus. The new prefect Rutilus – your replacement – promoted me into the Praetorians late yesterday. All my life, man and boy, I have been with Legio IIII Scythica. I served under you, in the ranks of Castricius’s vexillatio, at Circesium. You never got the credit you deserved for that victory.’