‘He has a gift for killing,’ Pythonissa said.
‘Thank you, Kyria.’ Maximus bowed to her then smiled at Ballista. ‘Your armour and weapons are in the courtyard with the horses.’
‘How many?’ Ballista asked.
‘He killed five of the ten,’ Pythonissa said. ‘Now we must go. Put the hats on, cover your faces. No talking until we are clear of the village. There are others of my brother’s men here.’
There were two bodies, much blood, at the end of the corridor. Several more outside.
In the bone-white moonlight, a warrior and a eunuch held the horses. Ballista, more himself now, wriggled into his mail coat, buckled on the belts that held his weapons. His war gear clinked and glittered reassuringly. Maximus tossed him two more knives. He hid one in each boot.
‘Put the hats on,’ Pythonissa hissed.
Ballista and Maximus did as they were told. ‘Your helmet is in the bed roll on the saddle,’ Maximus whispered. ‘There is food and drink.’
‘Enough talk,’ she said.
Ballista noted with approval the bow case hanging from his saddle.
They mounted. A woman appeared from nowhere, unbarred the gate of the house. As the six riders went past, she performed proskynesis full length in the dirt. The gate shut quietly as they rode away.
There was always something strange about riding through a town or village in the dead of night – the flat quality of the light, a stray cat or two where there should be people, a dog barking loud in the stillness – and never more so than when riding through an enemy-held place, when any human encounter most likely would mean discovery and disaster. The priestess of Hecate led the muffled figures down one alley after another, past crossroads haunted by the servants of her infernal deity. The clop of hooves, the creak of leather, the jingle of tack echoing back from the blank walls, the shuttered windows – all inviting anyone awake to wonder who was abroad at such an hour, inviting scrutiny.
At long, long last, they left the last sleeping houses behind. Relief washed through them all. Even the horses seemed to move more freely. Pythonissa quickened the pace to a round canter. They rode on without speaking: the priestess, her lover, his bodyguard, two warriors and a eunuch – a strange company bound by circumstance. The sounds of their passing floated off up the bare slopes.
After half an hour or so, Pythonissa reined in. They slid from the saddle, walked next to the horses to let them get their wind back. The night was quiet all around.
‘Why are we heading south?’ Ballista asked.
‘Saurmag and the Alani have gone to besiege Cumania. Our brother Azo is there.’ She gave a snort of laughter. ‘It seems a rumour had reached my eldest brother that the northern barbarian Ballista had behaved with impropriety towards a member of his family. He is very keen on both family honour and propriety – I think I have been a great trial to him. Yesterday, Azo was on his way to see you. Somehow he slipped past the Alani, and ended up having to take refuge with your men.’
‘How many were with him?’
‘Only half a dozen.’
Ballista calculated: Calgacus, Hippothous, Mastabates, the three slaves and young Wulfstan, the Suani Tarchon, joined by seven other Suani – fourteen of fighting age and a boy. The additional numbers meant less danger of the tiny garrison succumbing to fatigue. If the siege were very long, it might put a strain on supplies. More worrying, Ballista’s men were outnumbered. If one of the Suani turned traitor, things would not be good.
In the gloom, Pythonissa turned a serious face to Ballista. ‘Saurmag has to kill Azo. If he does not then, irrespective of his Alani allies, he will not be king of Suania. With Azo still alive, neither the synedrion nor the rest of the Suani will accept him as king.’
‘What about your father?’
‘He is dead.’
They walked on in silence until it was time to mount up again.
‘If not north to the Caspian Gates, where are we going?’ Ballista asked.
Pythonissa smiled, spoke with a playful edge. ‘To the low country, so the renowned general Marcus Clodius Ballista can gather troops from the Roman garrison in Colchis. With the hero of Soli at their head, they will win a great victory, drive the nomads back beyond the Gates, kill the patricidal usurper Saurmag, place the rightful heir Azo on the throne of Suania, and in so doing both make the new monarch grateful to his sister and ensure he is a friend of Rome. A happy outcome for everyone, except all those you kill and all those connected to Saurmag.’
Ballista settled himself in the saddle. He snorted sadly. ‘A good plan for a Greek novel. There are not enough Roman troops in the whole of the Kindly Sea, let alone Colchis.’
‘Then we will go to Iberia,’ Pythonissa rallied. ‘Hamazasp will give us troops. He will drive a hard bargain, but I was married to his beloved son.’
‘Hamazasp will kill me, unfortunately, not quite as soon as look at me.’ Ballista took her lack of response for agreement. He clicked his tongue and the horse walked on.
‘Albania then.’ Pythonissa was full of resource. ‘You said your friend Castricius is at the court there. My mother was Albanian. King Cosis will welcome the chance to acquire influence in Suania.’
‘Which is why Hamazasp of Iberia will never let Albanian troops cross his territories to get to Suania.’
This time Pythonissa had no more ideas. The horses walked on down the track.
Ballista made up his mind. ‘If we need warriors to defeat Saurmag and his Alani, there is only one place we can raise them – to the south-west of the Caspian Sea in the lands of the Mardi and the Cadusii.’
Pythonissa looked at him with incomprehension. ‘Their revolt has been crushed by the Sassanid prince Narseh. There is still a Persian army there.’
‘Yes.’
She saw what he meant. ‘They will kill you.’
‘They might not.’
XXVII
As the dawn chased away the night, they came to another pass – perhaps fifteen miles south of Dikaiosyne, certainly less than twenty. Its native name was unpronounceable by Ballista and Maximus. Rendered into Greek, it was Dareine. They could smell the camp fires a way off, before the smoke was visible in the mist. They halted: six huddled centaurs in the dimness.
‘Fuck,’ said Maximus.
‘Is there a way round?’ Ballista asked.
Pythonissa made a negative gesture with a hand. ‘Not unless we go a long way back towards the village.’
‘Fuck,’ said Maximus.
‘And they will be Saurmag’s men?’ Ballista asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck,’ said Maximus again.
Ballista looked all around. The bare slopes were grey in the half light. Above, the snow of the peaks was pink with the morning sun, the rocks showing through a deeper red. Resting on them, the sky was blue, but with ugly scrawls of dark cloud which promised foul weather. Down below on the pale track were the six muffled riders, much alike in their cloaks and bulky coats.
Ballista spoke to Pythonissa. ‘Your two warriors go in front. They must try and talk us through. Maximus and I go next. We may have to cut our way out. If someone goes down, no one can stop.’ He looked over at Maximus and knew the falsity of his words.
Pythonissa spoke in their own language to the two Suani warriors. Their identical, dark-eyed faces regarded her dispassionately. When she had finished, they moved their horses to the front. She backed her horse next to the eunuch. They all set off at a walk.
The tide of sunshine was flowing down the western slope. The bottom of the pass was still in shade. Clouds of fresh smoke billowed out from the small camp fire on the side of the track. There were four guards feeding the flames. The smell was aromatic, homely. The other, larger fire was some way off on a shelf to the left. Above it there was just a waver of smoke. It had not been made up for hours. The unreckoned number of men there were not yet stirring. The tethered horses looked down solemnly.
A challenge was called from ahead. One of Pythonissa’s men answe
red. The men by the fire were not Alani but Suani. It might help. The travellers walked their horses up to the picket and stopped. The sentinels had spread out; two in the track, one to either side; bows in hand, arrows notched. They kept their distance. There was an exchange of words. By the larger fire, men were getting to their feet.
Unslinging a goatskin of wine from one of the horns of his saddle, Ballista unstoppered it and took a swig. He used his knees to pace his mount towards the guard off the track on the right. Getting close, he leant down and offered the drink. As the warrior reached for it, Ballista stabbed him in the side of the neck. The dagger went in hard to the hilt. The man dropped the flask and his bow. He did not scream. His hands grabbed Ballista’s forearm. Ballista used his boot to shove him away. The man fell back with a frothy, choking sound.
Shouts – a prolonged scream. Ballista wheeled his horse. Automatically wiping the blade of his dagger on his thigh, he sheathed it and drew his sword. His hand was sticky with blood. Another of the guards was down, not moving. A third guard was dodging this way and that. Pythonissa’s two Suani were circling him, cutting down with their long swords at his head. The man had his arms up. Blood was running down them. He was screaming. The final guard was running up the slope towards his companions at the larger camp fire. They were snatching up their weapons, throwing saddles on to their horses, untethering them.
‘Move!’ Maximus was already a little way down the track. His horse was stamping, throwing its head about at the scent of blood.
Pythonissa’s mount surged past. Ballista brought his around behind that of her eunuch, slapped the flat of his blade across its rump. The eunuch’s horse leapt forward like a scalded cat. Ballista booted his after it.
The two Suani were still chopping at the remaining guard. ‘Leave him,’ Ballista shouted as he passed. The two men sawed at their reins. As they came around, an arrow took one in the face. He was knocked sideways in the saddle. His horse shied. The Suanian crashed to the ground. More arrows were slicing down. ‘Leave him,’ Ballista shouted over his shoulder.
The fallen Suanian was alive. The arrow protruding from his jaw, he was struggling to his feet. His face a mask of blood, he reached for his horse. It skittered back, and bolted after the others. His companion sat in indecision. Arrows fell around him. One thumped into the baggage strapped across the rear of his mount. He kicked his heels, and raced after Ballista.
The five remaining riders were strung out along the track, the loose horse running with them, threatening mayhem. Maximus slowed, pulled to the side, let Pythonissa and the eunuch overtake him. The Hibernian fell in beside Ballista. Their surviving Suanian was only a dozen lengths behind.
‘How many?’ Ballista said above the thunder of hooves.
‘Twenty, maybe more.’
‘Suani or nomads?’
‘Plenty of both.’
‘Fuck,’ Ballista said.
The first few miles were a straight chase. They were in the pass; there was nowhere else to go but down it. They rode as fast as they could. Stones rattled and flicked up from the horses’ feet. Thankfully, the loose horse dropped back. Again and again they forded the stream in a chill spray of their own making. The day was not getting lighter. The clouds were coming down. The pass twisted. On the longer straights they could see the dark mass of their pursuers, a mile or so behind, an amorphous animal set on revenge.
Pythonissa reined in at the entrance to the pass. They pulled up around her, horses and riders steaming. A steep slope down to a green valley, a river winding through it. ‘The Aragos,’ she said. ‘We follow it.’
Leaning far back in the saddle, carefully, they negotiated the incline. At the foot, she led them to the left, downstream. They had covered no great distance when those hunting them appeared at the top. Despite the hunters whooping at the sight of their prey, Ballista called for Pythonissa to slacken the pace. They would draw ahead again as the hunters came down the slope. This was going to be a long chase.
Some of the hills along the Aragos were timbered, but not enough to offer concealment. The fissures in its flanks were equally unpromising. Of course, they could not be like the two north of Dikaiosyne, Ballista thought bitterly. You could hide any number in them, or in the one they had ridden by between the village and the pass.
Although, generally, the valley of the Aragos was wide, at times it hemmed in on them. At these places the cliffs were vertical; devoid of vegetation, grooved as if by the chisel of some inexpert giant stonemason. Ballista contemplated making a stand, only to dismiss it as a futile last resort.
The ceiling of cloud was getting lower, the day darker. The horses were very tired. They rode on at a pushed canter but sitting straight, well back in the saddle.
When they had not seen or heard those chasing them for some time, Ballista called a halt. No sight of the sun, but he thought it about mid-morning. The mountain horses were tough, but needed spelling. They dismounted, let them drink just a little, led them onward.
The sound of a horn – echoing through the granite hills, impossible to tell how far – drove them to horseback again. They rode on downriver. The threatened rain still did not fall. Out of the murk, high on a terrace, a work of man suddenly would emerge, each one startling in its incongruity. Here a ruined stone tower, there a shepherd’s hut; never anything that offered them safety.
When the horses were staggering, they got down again, walked by their heads.
‘Have we crossed into the territory of Iberia?’ Ballista asked. ‘Will they not turn back?’
‘In the Croucasis, territory is a fluid concept,’ Pythonissa said. ‘Its only meaning is where a ruler can get away with what he wishes.’
‘It has always been a rule that the weak should be subject to the strong,’ Ballista said.
She gave him a strange look. ‘The Athenians in Thucydides. It is easy to forget you have become a Greek.’
‘I have been in the imperium a long time.’
‘If my brother’s men recognized us, they will not dare turn back.’
They struggled on through the afternoon. Riding, walking, riding, walking – the times in the saddle getting ever shorter. It was amazing what a horse or a person could do when forced. Eating, drinking, relieving themselves on the track; even Pythonissa taking but a few steps for privacy. Humanity and beasts rendered near one in extremity.
Eventually, Ballista saw a large, tumbledown stone building off up one of the slopes. They could not go on. They would camp there. He sent Maximus back to the last turn of the valley. He would replace him in a couple of hours. The rest plodded into the ruin. It looked as if it had been a barn. Now, roofless in this bleak place, it seemed a monument to misguided optimism.
They lit no fire. After perfunctorily rubbing down and seeing to the horses, they slumped to the floor. Too tired to eat more than a mouthful or two, they tried to settle themselves to get what sleep they could. The Suanian warrior sat a little apart, sobbing quietly but unceasingly.
‘What is the matter with him?’ Ballista asked not so he could hear.
‘Kobrias is mourning. His brother Oroezes was the one we left behind,’ Pythonissa said.
Ballista could think of nothing to say. He went to sleep.
About two hours later, he woke, cold and stiff in every joint. His first thought was of his sons. He forced himself to saddle his horse, and lead it out to go and take over the watch. Maximus walked his animal to the barn. The rain still had not come. But the clouds were there, blotting out the moon and stars. Even when Ballista had been out some time, visibility was negligible.
It was cold. Ballista wriggled his toes in his boots, kept the hand that was not holding the reins under his coat. He did not want to move too much: it would make him easier to spot. Sometimes, however, the cold forced him to get up, stamp his feet, walk the horse about. He did not really think the hunters would come up in the night. There may be Alani among them, as Maximus had said, but if so the nomads had no spare mounts with them. Thei
r horses would be as done in as those of their quarry.
Time passed incredibly slowly. The river lapped past in the dark. From far away came the sound of jackals; once, the howl of a wolf. He calmed the horse. Ballista sat in the dark on the abysmal hillside. He thought of his sons, his wife. They would be asleep in warm, comfortable beds in the villa in Tauromenium. He wished he were in Sicily with them. Sicily, in these troubled times, the age of iron and rust: he could not think of a safer place. No Roman army had campaigned there since the civil wars as the old Republic died, nearly three centuries previously. No barbarian incursion had troubled the island for much longer. Nothing since the great slave uprisings, and they were what? – three and a half, four centuries ago. He wanted to be at home with his family. As he framed the thought, Pythonissa’s words slid into his mind. It is easy to forget you have become a Greek . But he knew it was not true, not completely true. He would never be wholly a Greek. Yet now he would never again be wholly an Angle of Germania. Separated from the culture of his birth, he knew he would never fully be accepted as either Greek or Roman. Wherever he went he would be in exile. Whatever, all he wanted now was not to be on this dismal fucking hillside in the middle of nowhere.
The eunuch came along to take his place. Ballista took his horse back to the barn. Maximus was fast asleep. The Hibernian twitched and muttered, caught in a dream of who could tell what lubricious nature. Pythonissa and the other Suanian were awake, heads close together, talking. Ballista felt a pang of jealousy. He dismissed it – she was not his woman. At least the barbarian had stopped crying. Ballista hunkered down, fell asleep thinking again about his sons.
They were up an hour before dawn. Kobrias was on watch. They ate, fed the horses. They were tacking up when the Suanian galloped back. The hunters were coming. Still more than a mile before the turn in the valley, but riding fast. Ballista and the others climbed into the saddle, the threat banishing their fatigue.
Pythonissa led the Suanian warrior aside. She spoke urgently to him in their own tongue. Ballista said they should set off. She gestured for him to wait. She spoke some more to the Suanian. The warrior obviously agreed. She passed him a phial. He drank. She embraced him. ‘Now we go,’ she said.
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