The Lost Ten

by Harry Sidebottom

  *

  When they had put some distance between themselves and their attacker, they came out into another hollow chamber. The floor here was thick with mud and bat droppings. Aulus propped his torch in the filth, and pointed upwards. Despite his companion’s torch, Valens saw the tiny chink of light.

  The shaft was some eight feet up. It was exceedingly narrow, surely too narrow to admit a grown man. Its sides were slippery and covered in moss. Valens’s spirit sank. Up there was fresh air and daylight, up there you could move without restriction. It was so close. They could see freedom, but it was out of reach.

  ‘Lift me on your shoulders,’ Aulus said.

  ‘You will never fit.’

  ‘There is no fat on me.’

  ‘You will get stuck, or slip and fall.’

  ‘Do you have a better idea?’

  Valens did not.

  ‘I have my hunting horn,’ Aulus said. ‘If I make it, I will get behind him and sound the horn. When you hear its note, rush the bowman. I will take him from the rear. One of us at least should reach him.’

  Dumbly, Valens nodded. An ignoble part of him experienced a flood of relief that he did not have to attempt the climb.

  ‘After I am in the shaft, take my torch and go back. I may need to use the pitons. Make some noise. Don’t let him hear what I am doing.’

  They uncoiled the ropes from their shoulders, then Valens got down in the slime, so that Aulus could clamber onto his back. Grunting with effort, Valens hoisted him aloft. Bits of moss and gravel pattered on his head as Aulus cleared handholds. A titanic lurch, and the weight of his companion’s boots was lifted.

  ‘Go now!’ Aulus whispered, his voice barely audible from the natural chimney above. ‘Sing him a song to cover the sound of me hammering in the spikes.’

  Taking the torch, Valens warily retraced his steps. Every moment he expected their unknown attacker to rear up before him.

  It was with an incredulous relief that he returned to where his own torch burned. Steeling his nerves, he hastily looked around the outcrop. Nothing had changed in the gloomy expanse.

  From far away came the ting of a hammer on metal.

  ‘You still there, Cyclops?’ Valens shouted.

  His words were swallowed by the silence.

  Again the faint ring of metal.

  Feeling both unnerved and ridiculous, Valens racked his brains for something to say, anything would do. The lines of Homer’s poetry beaten into him by his schoolmaster came to mind.

  But I was already plotting . . .

  What was the best way out? How could I find

  Escape from death for my crew, myself as well?

  My wits kept weaving, weaving cunning schemes –

  Life at stake, monstrous death staring us in the face . . .

  His voice gained strength as the words flooded back. The schoolmaster had made him learn much of the epic by heart.

  The torches were burning low. Still reciting, he put one of them out. When the still burning torch guttered, he could relight the other. He had a primordial horror of being left here in the dark.

  Nobody . . .

  Who’s not escaped his death, I swear, not yet.

  Oh if only you thought like me, had words like me

  To tell me where that scoundrel is cringing from my rage!

  On and on went his bizarre recital. Every so often he stopped to listen to the resounding silence. But, when he resumed, was there anyone still listening to him? Did he still have an audience, crouched in the opposite passageway, bow in hand, murder in their heart?

  The torch began to fail.

  Valens stopped talking. He listened. No sounds but the crackle of the dying torch and the water over the rocks far below. Aulus was inaudible. Either he was wedged fast or had fallen to his death. It seemed impossible that he might be out of the shaft. There was no further need for poetry.

  Checking the tinderbox was handy on his belt, Valens stubbed out the glowing torch, without lighting the other.

  Let us be men. The darkness itself could not hurt him.

  Time lost all meaning. He had no idea how frequently he looked into the dimness of the cavern. Just a glimmer of brightness came from the mouth of the tunnel, where the bowman must be hunched. As his eyes became accustomed to the ambient light, Valens could make out the ledge, and the dark humps of the three boulders that littered its surface.

  Most of the while he just sat, blade in hand, listening.

  How long would Iudex and the others wait at the foot of the slope? Valens had not thought to set a time. He had entered into this with no thought that he was undertaking something serious. Most likely by the time they became concerned, it would be too late in the evening to venture into the caves. Could he stay here until the next morning? If he did, would he retain his sanity?

  His mind wandered. In myth, mountains were the homes of the gods. Virtue lived on a crag. Hercules had been offered the choice between virtue and vice. The path to the former was steep and hard, to the latter broad and tempting. In reality, the high places were wild and dangerous. They were the home of shepherds and brigands, and the two were indistinguishable. It was in the mountains that Valens’s parents had been killed.

  The sound boomed down the passages under the mountain. For a moment, Valens could not believe his ears. It came again, the confident note of a hunting horn.

  Aulus! The thin, ugly old bastard had made it!

  As Valens leapt to his feet the muscles in his back and legs twinged with the suddenness of the movement after long inactivity. He knew if he hesitated, he would never force himself into the open, would never dare to face the risk.

  Knife in hand, he hurled himself around the outcrop, and along the shelf.

  Four or five rushed steps – boots sliding on the gritted surface – then he dived for the cover of the first boulder. He heard the arrow slice through the air and vanish into the dark.

  He had to keep moving, not give the man time to notch and draw and aim.

  Pushing himself up, he sprinted around the rock. This time the shaft was so close he felt the wind of its passing.

  Flat out, his feet all too close to the lip of the chasm, he tore past the second rock.

  He did not hear the missile coming, just saw the sparks its tip struck from the wall.

  Now no effort of will could have prevented Valens diving into the lee of the final boulder.

  He lay, curled up, making himself very small. His chest was heaving, like the flanks of a hound after a long chase.

  He could not tell how long he cowered there. He tried telling himself the dimness would foil the aim of the archer. He could not stay here forever. Nothing could force him to move.

  The horn sounded a third time, much closer.

  Valens scrabbled over the boulder. The arrow flashed by his shoulder.

  Ten paces to go.

  From the opening, a huge bear of a man arose. Valens saw the glint of the sword. A knife against a sword? He would die.

  Skidding to a halt, Valens dropped into a fighting crouch.

  The big shaggy man laughed, got his long blade out in front.

  There was no way Valens’s dagger could get past the longer reach. The man said something, the words incomprehensible but the tone mocking. Valens feinted right, near the abyss. The sword covered his movement, but not so far as to leave its wielder open. No room to manoeuvre. Valens was pinned between the rock face and the drop. This could only end one way. The swordsman thrust. Valens jumped back, giving ground. Another pace of two, and he would be trapped against the last boulder.

  The thump of boots coming down the passage behind distracted the man. His head half turned. Valens struck. Grabbing his opponent’s sword arm with his left hand, he lunged at the face with the dagger in his right. The bearded man jerked away. Lowering the angle as the thrust went in, Valens felt the knife bite into the man’s left shoulder. With a savage twist, he yanked it free.

  Dropping the sword
, the man’s right hand instinctively went to the wound.

  Valens closed in.

  The man stepped back.

  Like some primeval fury, Aulus burst from the passageway, screaming a war cry.

  The man put up an arm to ward off the blow. The gesture was futile. Aulus’s blade sliced deep into his ribs.

  Blinded by his agony, the man tottered to the edge of the chasm. He stood sawing, then began to topple backwards. Valens scrabbled forward, clutched the blood-soaked front of his tunic. The weight of the mortally injured man was too much. Valens felt himself being pulled out over the edge.

  ‘Aulus!’ he yelled.

  The soldier stood, as if rooted to the spot.

  Twisting his whole body, never slackening his grip, Valens threw himself backwards.

  For a moment the forces were in equilibrium. Then Valens crashed back onto the ledge. The corpse landed heavily on top of him. The beard of the man scratched his face, and the blood ran hot and repulsive over his chest.

  CHAPTER 20

  Matiane

  WHEN THE DOORS WERE FLUNG open from outside, the musicians stopped playing and the buzz of conversation ceased. All eyes were on the those who entered.

  Valens marched into the room. Like the men at his back, he was helmeted and wore mail. The soldiers were equipped for any eventuality. Each had a shield in his left hand, a strung bow slung across his back, a sword on one hip, and an open quiver on the other. The right hand of all but Valens rested on the hilt of their blades. The young officer carried an evidently heavy leather sack.

  Decimus and Aulus halted at the doors. The other four followed Valens into the centre of the circle of diners. Their boots thudded with a measured tread on the stone floor, the rattle of their martial panoply filling the silence.

  Four armed retainers got up and stood behind the village headman. Some of the rest of the diners seemed to shrink back, but all remained cross-legged.

  Valens stopped in front of the headman. Hairan closed up on his shoulder. Iudex, with Clemens and Narses, stood watchfully behind.

  Valens dropped the sack. It landed with a weighty thump, and the eyes of the headman fixed upon it.

  ‘Tell him we have dealt with his daemon,’ Valens said to Hairan.

  The translation by the Hatrene was longer than the original. Valens caught just the word ‘djinn’.

  The headman listened, but appeared incapable of tearing his gaze from the stained leather bag.

  ‘We have brought proof.’

  While Hairan spoke, Valens bent and untied the sack. He paused and looked up. The headman met his stare. Some deep and troubled thoughts flickered behind his eyes. Standing, Valens lifted out the contents of the sack.

  There was a gasp from the diners.

  Valens held the severed head by the hair.

  The headman recoiled, unable to hide the horror and anger on his face.

  Others at the feast were getting to their feet. Valens half turned, taking in each of them. Under his regard they stopped moving. There were about thirty at the meal, half of them women. All the men were armed, but the odds were no worse than two to one. Valens did not want this to end in bloodshed. Now was the time for careful words.

  ‘Tell him there was no daemon. His servant betrayed him.’

  As Hairan translated, the gaze of the headman flitted around the room. He too perhaps was calculating the numbers, trying to predict the outcome of violence.

  ‘Tell him his people are safe again.’

  One last glance at the hideous object in Valens’s hand, and the headman began to talk to Hairan.

  ‘He says he is in our debt. He could never have imagined such a thing. His soul is shocked.’

  ‘Is it now?’

  The headman was talking faster, gaining confidence. His hands spread wide placatingly, his tone was oleaginous and ingratiating.

  ‘We are the saviours of his people. He begs us to accept his hospitality, and dine with him.’

  ‘Tell him it has been a hard day on the mountain, and we will eat and rest in our compound.’

  Hairan’s translation brought forth a torrent of words from the native.

  ‘He asks if there is anything we need. Can he send us food or wine. Would we care for some of his serving girls to ease our cares.’

  Valens placed the gory object on the floor. ‘Tell him we have everything we need for tonight.’

  Again the reply provoked a vociferous outburst.

  ‘He says his house and goods are ours. If there is anything we want.’

  ‘Tell him, with the daemon dead, there is no barrier to one of his people accompanying us as a guide. We want a reliable man, a merchant who has made the journey down to the Mardoi and the shores of the Caspian.’

  Valens did not need to understand the language to know the response was favourable, its expression laudatory. When it had run its course, Valens nodded, and turned to leave.

  The soldiers waited, then filed out after him. Decimus and Aulus pulled the doors shut behind them.

  *

  ‘He might not have known,’ Aulus said. ‘The leader of his guards could have just developed a taste for killing. Some men do, it is a form of madness.’

  ‘Of course the headman fucking knew,’ Clemens said. ‘The question is what he will do now.’

  They were in the main room of the house. Iudex and Hairan were up on the flat roof keeping watch. Decimus was checking the horses. Apart from the house, the compound contained a range of stables and a store shed. The beaten earth of the yard was surrounded by a low wall. There were two gates. The whole area was visible from the roof.

  ‘These hillmen have always been bad subjects,’ Narses said. ‘They have never heeded the laws of the King of Kings. They are rapacious and untrustworthy.’

  ‘Like all easterners.’ The weight of centuries of prejudice lay behind the words of Clemens.

  ‘Unlike you Romans,’ Narses said. The big black beard of the Persian bristled with indignation. ‘There is no backwater, no desert or mountain range, so remote or poor that it is not coveted by your greed. You ravage the whole world in your insatiable avarice, and claim it is all in the name of good faith and safety. Fides and salus, my arse!’

  ‘That is a lie!’

  ‘Then what are we doing here?’

  ‘Our duty.’

  ‘And why does duty send us to abduct a Sassanid prince?’ Narses spoke with venom. ‘To give you Romans an excuse to start a just war on my people, a iustum bellum. Even your gods can see through such a threadbare excuse.’

  ‘Enough!’ Valens said. Shared adversity in their long travels had not yet smoothed away the mens’ animosities. ‘We are hundreds of miles into hostile territory. If we do not stand together, we will all die.’

  Aulus broke the charged and uncomfortable silence. ‘What reason could the headman have had for having his retainer murder his own people? Robbery?’

  ‘What the fuck does a goat boy or a labourer have that is worth taking?’ Clemens asked.

  ‘Clemens is right,’ Valens said. ‘What matters is what the headman does now.’

  ‘The village might be able to raise over a hundred able-bodied men,’ Narses said. ‘We keep watch, and we are harder to kill than untrained levies. It is unlikely they will attack us openly.’

  ‘You think the headman will want us gone, and will send a guide in the morning?’ Valens asked.

  ‘They might try and poison us,’ Clemens said. ‘It is a method much favoured in the Orient.’

  Aulus spoke before Narses could respond to this latest insult. ‘We already have provisions for four days. We could manage eight on half rations, although the horses would suffer.’

  Hairan called down softly from the head of the stairs. ‘Someone approaching the back gate.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes, on their own.’

  ‘We had better find out what he wants,’ Valens said. ‘Aulus and Narses, take watch on the roof. Hairan, get Iudex, and come wit
h us.’

  By the time they reached the gate, there was a faint knocking. Clemens drew the bolts and pulled the gate open, admitting a figure wrapped in a hooded cloak. The gate was swiftly shut behind them, the bolts shot home. The soldiers had taken off their armour, but as ever had their swords. The muffled figure was ringed by glittering steel.

  *

  Lucia pushed back her hood.

  Back inside they offered her wine and food, both of which she declined.

  ‘You run a risk coming here,’ Valens said. ‘Your betrothed would not approve.’

  ‘No one saw me,’ she said. ‘Anyway, he is a brute, and I will not marry him.’

  ‘Why have you come?’

  ‘To warn you not to trust the headman.’

  Valens grinned. ‘There was little danger of that.’

  ‘You know he set the leader of his men to kill those villagers?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The reasons for which all men kill, power and wealth. Whether they believed in the djinn or not, fear made the peasants reluctant to work the outlying meadows. They sold the land to the headman for next to nothing.’

  ‘You did not tell me this yesterday,’ Valens said.

  ‘I was not certain until I saw his reaction this evening.’

  ‘What does the headman intend now?’

  ‘My late husband’s brother will be your guide. The family has traded along the Caspian many times. This time he will not go there. The headman has told him to lead you deep into the trackless mountains and abandon you there. He wants you dead for the killing of his retainer.’

  Valens thought for a time before he spoke. ‘You must hate your husband’s brother. Having told us that, you know what will happen to him at our hands. The persuasion will not be gentle, although we will not kill him unless it is essential.’

  ‘I would be happy to see him dead, but it is unnecessary.’ She looked into Valens’s eyes. ‘I also have been to the Caspian with my husband, and know the passes as well as any merchant.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must take me with you.’

  ‘It is impossible.’

  She looked away. In the lamplight her face appeared longer, the bones more pronounced, like that of a man.