Fire in the East

by Harry Sidebottom

  Ballista turned and walked his mount to the two Arabs in the centre of the line.

  ‘Riding hard, how long will it take to reach the mountains?’

  ‘Two days,’ the girl replied without hesitation. Bathshiba was the daughter of a caravan protector. She had travelled the route before with her late father. Ballista trusted her judgement but he glanced at the other Arab.

  ‘Today and tomorrow,’ Haddudad, the mercenary, said.

  With a jingle of horse furniture, Turpio, the sole surviving Roman officer, reined in next to them.

  ‘Two days to the mountains?’ Ballista asked.

  Turpio shrugged eloquently. ‘The horses, the enemy and the gods willing.’

  Ballista nodded. He raised himself up using the front and rear horns of the saddle. He looked both ways along the line. He had their undivided attention.

  ‘The reptiles are after us. There are a lot of them. But there is no reason to think they can catch us. They are five miles or more behind. Two days and we are safe in the mountains.’ Ballista felt, as much as saw, the unspoken objections of Turpio and the two Arabs. He stopped them with a cold glance. ‘Two days and we are safe,’ he repeated. He looked up and down the line. No one else said anything.

  With studied calm Ballista walked his horse slowly to the head of the line. He raised his hand and signalled them to ride on. They moved easily into a canter.

  Behind them the sun rose over the horizon. Every slight rise in the desert was gilded, every tiny depression a pool of inky black. As they rode their shadows flickered far out in front as if in a futile attempt to outrun them.

  The small column had not gone far when a bad thing happened. There was a shout, abruptly cut off, then a terrible crash. Ballista swung round in the saddle. A trooper and his mount were down; a thrashing, tangle of limbs and equipment. The man rolled to one side. The horse came to a halt. The soldier pulled himself on to his hands and knees, still holding his head. The horse tried to rise. It fell back with an almost human cry of pain. Its near fore leg was broken.

  Forcing himself not to check the dust cloud of their pursuers, Ballista rattled out some orders. He jumped down from his mount. When endurance is at issue it is vital to take the weight off your horse’s back at every opportunity. Maximus, Ballista’s slave-bodyguard, tenderly coaxed the horse to its feet. He talked to it softly in the language of his native Hibernia as he unsaddled it and led it off the path. It went with him trustingly, hopping pathetically on its three sound legs.

  Ballista turned his eyes away to where his body servant Calgacus was removing the load from the one packhorse. Peevishly, the elderly Caledonian slave redistributed as much of the provisions as he could among the riders. Muttering under his breath he placed what could not be accommodated in a neat pile. He regarded it, measuring it for a moment, then pulled up his tunic, pushed down his trousers, and urinated copiously all over the abandoned foodstuffs. ‘I hope the Sassanid fuckers enjoy it,’ he announced. Despite their extreme fatigue and fear, or maybe because of it, several men laughed.

  Maximus walked back, looking clean and composed. He picked up the military saddle and slung it over the back of the packhorse, carefully tightening the girths.

  Ballista went over to the fallen trooper. He was sitting up. The slave boy Demetrius was mopping a cut on the man’s forehead. Ballista began to wonder if his young Greek secretary would have been so solicitous if the soldier had not been so good looking, before, annoyed with himself, he closed that line of thought. Together Ballista and Demetrius got the trooper back on his feet - Really, I am fine - then up on to the former packhorse.

  Ballista and the others remounted. This time he could not resist looking for the enemy’s dust cloud. It was appreciably closer. Ballista made the signal and they moved out past where the cavalry horse lay. On top of the spreading pool of dark red arterial blood was a foam of light pink caused by the animal’s desperate attempts to breath through a severed windpipe.

  For the most part they cantered, a fast, ground-covering canter. When the horses were blown, Ballista would call out an order and they would dismount, give their mounts a drink, not too much, and let them have a handful of food, bread soaked in watered wine. Then they would walk, leading rein in hand, until the horses had something of their wind back and the riders could climb wearily back into the saddle. With endless repetition the day wore on. They were travelling as fast as they could, pushing the horses to the edge of their stamina, at constant risk of fatigue-induced accident. Yet every time they looked the dust of their unseen enemy was a little closer.

  During one of the spells on foot, Bathshiba walked her horse up alongside Ballista. He was unsurprised when Haddudad appeared on his other side. The Arab mercenary’s face was inscrutable. Jealous bastard, thought Ballista.

  They walked in silence for a time. Ballista looked over at Bathshiba. There was dust in her long, black hair, dust smudged across her high cheekbones. Out of the corner of his eye Ballista watched her moving, watched her breasts moving. They were obviously unconstrained under the man’s tunic she wore. He found himself thinking about the one time he had seen them: the rounded olive skin, the dark nipples. Allfather, I must be losing my grip, Ballista thought. We are being chased for our lives through this hellish desert, and all I am thinking about are this girl’s tits. But Allfather, Fulfiller of Desire, what fine tits they were.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ Ballista realized she had been talking to him.

  ‘I said - Why did you lie to your men?’ Bathsiba’s voice was pitched low. Above the rattle of equipment, the heavy footfalls and laboured breathing of men and horses, she could not be heard beyond the three of them. ‘You have travelled this way before. You know we will not be safe when we reach the mountains. There is only one path through the high country. We could not be easier to follow if we were unrolling a thread behind us.’

  ‘Sometimes a lie can cause the truth.’ Ballista grinned. He felt oddly light headed. ‘Ariadne gave Theseus the ball of string to find his way out of the labyrinth when he went in to kill the Minotaur. He promised he would marry her. But he abandoned her on the island of Naxos. If he had not lied Ariadne would not have married the god Dionysus, Theseus would not have had a son called Hippolytus, and Euripides could not have written the tragedy of that name.’

  Neither Bathshiba or Haddudad spoke. They were both looking at him strangely. Ballista sighed and started to explain. ‘If I had told them the truth - that the Persians may well catch and kill us before the mountains, and even if we get that far they will probably kill us anyway - they might have given up and that would have been the end of things. I gave them some hope to work towards. And who knows, if we get to the mountains we might make our own safety there.’

  Ballista looked closely at Haddudad. ‘I remember the road passes through several ravines.’ The mercenary merely nodded. ‘Are any of them suitable for an ambush?’

  Haddudad took his time replying. Neither Ballista or Bathshiba spoke. The Arab mercenary had served her father for a long time. They knew he was a man whose judgement was worth having.

  ‘The Horns of Ammon, not far into the mountains - a good killing ground.’

  Ballista signalled it was time to remount. As he hauled his tired frame into the saddle, he leaned over and spoke quietly to Haddudad. ‘Tell me just before we reach the Horns of Ammon - if we get that far.’

  Night falls fast in the desert. One moment the sun is high in the sky, the next it is dipping out of sight. Suddenly one’s companions become black silhouettes and the dark comes crowding down. The moon was not up yet, and, even if the horses had not been fit to drop, it was not thought safe to continue by starlight.

  Just off the track they made camp in near total darkness. By Ballista’s order there were only three shuttered lanterns lit. They were positioned to face west, away from the pursuers, and when the horses were settled they were to be extinguished. Ballista rubbed down his mount, whispering quiet, meaningless endearments in
the grey gelding’s ears. He had bought Pale Horse in Antioch the year before. The gelding had served him well. He was very fond of the big-hearted animal. The smell of hot horse, as good to Ballista as the scent of grass after rain, and the feel of the powerful muscles under its smooth coat soothed him.

  ‘Dominus.’ The voice of a trooper leading up his mount broke Ballista’s reverie. The soldier said nothing else. There was no need. The man’s horse was as lame as a cat. As they so often did when needed, Maximus and Calgacus appeared out of the dark. Without words the elderly Caledonian took over seeing to Pale Horse and the bodyguard joined Ballista in checking the other horse. They walked it round, made it trot and inspected its feet. It was hopeless. It could go no further. With a small jerk of his chin Ballista indicated to Maximus to lead it away.

  The trooper held himself very still, waiting. Only his eyes betrayed his fear.

  ‘We will follow the custom of the desert.’ At Ballista’s words the man exhaled deeply. ‘Tell everyone to gather round.’

  Ballista collected his helmet and a pottery wine jar and placed them on the ground next to one of the lanterns, which he opened completely. The small party formed a circle in the light, squatting in the dust. The lantern threw harsh light on to their tense faces, accentuating their features. Somewhere out in the darkness a desert fox barked. It was very quiet afterwards.

  Ballista picked up the wine jar, drew the stopper and drank deeply. The wine was rough in his throat. He gave it to the man next to him, who drank and passed it on. Maximus came back and hunkered down.

  ‘The girl will not be included.’ Ballista’s voice sounded loud to himself.

  ‘Why not?’

  Ballista looked at the trooper who had spoken. ‘I am in command here. I am the one with imperium.’

  ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,’ the soldier looked down as he flatly intoned the ritual words. Bathshiba got up and walked away.

  When the empty jar was passed back to Ballista he dropped it at his feet. He raised his right boot and brought it down on the jar. There was a loud snap then a series of sharp clinks as it shattered. Studying what he was doing he stamped his heel, three, four more times, breaking it into small shards. He crouched down and selected thirteen similar sized pieces, which he laid out in a row. He picked up two of them. With one he scratched the single Greek letter theta on the other. He scooped up all thirteen shards and dropped them, the twelve blank and the one marked, into his upturned helmet and rattled them round.

  Ballista stood and held the helmet. Everyone was watching it as if it contained an asp. In a sense it did. Ballista felt his heart beating hard, his palms sweating as he turned and offered it to the man on his left.

  It was the scribe from North Africa, the one they called Hannibal. He did not hesitate. His eyes locked with Ballista’s as he put his hand in the helmet. His fingers closed. He withdrew his fist, turned it over and unclenched it. On his palm lay an unmarked shard. With no show of emotion he dropped it on the ground.

  Next was Demetrius. The Greek boy was trembling, his eyes desperate. Ballista wanted to comfort him, but he knew he could not. Demetrius looked to the heavens. His lips mouthed a prayer. He thrust his hand into the helmet, clumsily, almost knocking it from Ballista’s grip. The twelve shards clinked as the boy’s fingers played over them, making his choice. Suddenly he withdrew his hand. In his fingers was an unmarked piece of pottery. Demetrius exhaled, almost a sob, and his eyes misted with tears.

  The soldier on Demetrius’ left was called Titus. He had served in Ballista’s horse guards, the Equites Singulares, for almost a year. Ballista knew him as a calm, competent man. Without preamble he took his shard from the helmet. He opened his fist. There was the theta. Titus closed his eyes. Then, swallowing hard, he opened them, mastering himself.

  A sigh, like a gentle breeze rustling through a field of ripe corn, ran round the circle. Trying hard not to show their relief, the others melted into the night. Titus was left standing with Ballista, Maximus and Calgacus.

  Titus smiled a sketchy smile. ‘The long day’s task is done. Might as well unarm.’ He took off his helmet and dropped it, lifted his baldric over his head, unbuckled his sword belt and let them fall too. His fingers fumbled with the laces of his shoulder guards. Without words, Maximus and Calgacus closed in and helped him, lifting the heavy, dragging mailcoat off.

  Unarmed, Titus stood for a moment, then bent and retrieved his sword, unsheathing it. He tested its edge and point on his thumb.

  ‘It does not have to be that,’ said Ballista.

  Titus laughed bitterly. ‘A stepmother of a choice. If I run I will die of thirst. If I hide the reptiles will find me, and I have seen what they do to their prisoners - I would like to die with my arse intact. Better the Roman way.’

  Ballista nodded.

  ‘Will you help me?’

  Ballista nodded again. ‘Here?’

  Titus shook his head. ‘Can we walk?’

  The two men left the circle of light. After a time Titus stopped. He took a wine skin that Ballista offered and sat down. He took a long pull and handed the drink back as Ballista sat next to him. Back in the camp the lanterns went out one by one.

  ‘Fortune, Tyche, is a whore,’ Titus said. He took another drink. ‘I thought I would die when the city fell. Then I thought I would escape. Fucking whore.’

  Ballista said nothing.

  ‘I had a woman back in the city. She will be dead now, or a slave.’ Titus unfastened the purse from his belt. He passed it to Ballista. ‘The usual - share it out among the boys.’

  They sat in silence, drinking until it was gone. Titus looked up at the stars. ‘Fuck, lets get it over with.’

  Titus stood up and passed over his sword. He pulled his tunic up, baring his stomach and chest. Ballista stood close in front of him. Titus placed his hands on Ballista’s shoulders. The hilt of the sword in his right hand, Ballista laid the blade flat on his left palm. He brought the point up ever so gently to touch the skin just below Titus’ ribcage, then moved his left hand round behind the soldier’s back.

  Ballista did not look away from the other man’s eyes. The smell of sweat was strong in Ballista’s nostrils. Their rasping breathing was as one.

  Titus’ fingers dug into Ballista’s shoulders. An almost imperceptible nod, and Titus tried to step forward. Pulling the soldier towards him with his left hand, Ballista put his weight behind the thrust of the sword in his right. There was an infinitesimally slight resistance and then the sword sliced into Titus’ stomach with sickening ease. Titus gasped in agony, his hands automatically clutching for the blade. Ballista felt the hot rush of blood as he smelt its iron tang. A second later there was the smell of piss and shit as Titus voided himself.

  ‘Euge, well done,’ Titus groaned in Greek. ‘Finish it!’

  Ballista twisted the blade, withdrew it, and thrust again. Titus’ head jerked back as his body went into spasm. His eyes glazed. His legs gave way, his movements stilled, and he began to slide down the front of Ballista. Letting go of the sword, Ballista used both hands to lower Titus to the ground.

  Kneeling Ballista pulled the sword out from the body. Coils of intestines slithered out with the blade. Shiny, revoltingly white, they looked and smelt like unprepared tripe. Ballista dropped the weapon. With his blood soaked hands he closed the dead man’s eyes.

  ‘May the earth lie lightly on you.’

  Ballista stood. He was drenched in the blood of the man he had killed. Maximus led several others out of the dark. They carried entrenching tools. They began to dig a grave. Calgacus put his arm round Ballista and led him away, quietly soothing him as he had when he was a child.

  Four hours later the moon was up and they were on the move. Ballista was surprised that after Calgacus had undressed him and cleaned him he had slept a deep unhaunted sleep. Wearing new clothes, his armour burnished, he was back on Pale Horse leading the diminished party towards the west.

&nbs
p; One by one the stars faded. When the sun rose again there were the mountains ahead, still blue in the distance. And behind was the dust of their hunters. Much nearer now. Not above two miles away.

  ‘One last ride.’ As Ballista said the words he realized they were double-edged. He thought a quick prayer: Allfather, High One, Death Blinder, do not let my careless words rebound on me and mine, get us out of this. Out loud he called again ‘One last ride.’

  At the head of the column, Ballista set and held the pace at a steady canter. Unlike yesterday there was no time to dismount, no time to walk and let the horses get their breath back. As the sun arched up into the sky, relentlessly they rode to the west.

  Soon the horses were feeling their exertions: nostrils flared, mouths hanging open, strings of spittle flecking the thighs of their riders. All morning they rode, the mountains inching closer. Some god must have held his hands over them. The track was rough, pitted and stony, but there were no cries of alarm, not one animal pulled up lame or went down in a flurry of dust and stones. And then, almost imperceptibly they were there. The track began to incline up, the stones at its side grew bigger, became boulders. They were in the foothills.

  Before the path turned and began to grade its way up the slopes, before the view was blocked, Ballista reined in and looked back. There were the Sassanids, a dark line about a mile behind. Now and then sunlight glinted perpendicular on helmets or pieces of armour. Certainly they were within 1,300 paces. Ballista could see they were cavalry not infantry. He knew that already. He estimated there were some fifty or more of them. There was something odd about them, but there was no time to stop and study them. He coaxed Pale Horse on.

  They had to slacken the pace as they climbed. The horses were labouring hard. Yet they had not been in the high country long before Haddudad said ‘The Horns of Ammon.’

  They turned left into the defile. The path here was narrow, never more than twenty paces wide. It ran for about 200 paces between the outcrops that gave the place its name. The cliff on the left was sheer. That on the right rose more gently; a scree-covered slope a man could walk up, lead a horse up, probably ride one down.