The Lost Ten

by Harry Sidebottom

  Narses rode to the foot of the gatehouse. There were a couple of guards on the battlements.

  ‘Perozshapur,’ Narses called up.

  One of the guards said something in Persian.

  Narses replied in a peremptory tone, and the guard vanished.

  Valens had caught the odd word. He had picked up a little Persian on the journey, but it was unsettling not to be able to follow what was said.

  They waited.

  There was nothing to hear but the wind and the thin mewing of a pair of buzzards high above. Valens watched their flight. They were wheeling, serene on the updrafts, masters of all they surveyed.

  The two leaves of the gate swung inwards, making no sound. The hinges must be kept well oiled. A dark passage was revealed, like an entrance to Hades. Valens put away the thought and its foreboding associations as Narses beckoned the wagon forward.

  Aulus, up on the box, flicked the whip over the lead horses’ ears. Leaning into their harness, they took the strain so the stones could be removed from under the wheels. Even so, the wagon shifted back half a revolution. Valens and the others seized the spokes, put all their strength and weight against them. Aulus wielded the whip in earnest. The hooves of the draught horses fought for purchase on the flinty surface. For a moment the competing forces held the wagon balanced. Then, with a shuddering groan, it began to edge forward.

  The noise of the wagon was deafening under the passageway. Shafts of light penetrated the gloom from the ceiling. Murder holes, Valens thought. From up there the defenders could pour boiling oil or heated sand on any attackers who had managed to force the gate. There was a second gate at the end of the passage. It would not be good to be trapped in the dark between the two.

  They emerged into an oval courtyard. Thatched stables were built against the outer wall to the left. The buildings to the right had the air of a barracks. The tower was directly opposite. Valens noted the postern that Narses had mentioned between the tower and the barracks.

  The tower itself was some four storeys high. On the upper levels were a few slit windows, all barred. The door was on the first floor. Stone steps ran up flush against the wall. At the top of the flight stood a huge man with a big red beard, dressed entirely in black. There could be no doubt that this was the feared Naduk, the warden of this remote place.

  Narses dismounted.

  The gates closed behind them. Valens heard the bars drop into place.

  The warden began to walk down the steps.

  This was the moment of greatest danger. If their intentions were going to be unmasked, it would be now.

  Trying to appear casual, even bored, Valens surveyed the courtyard. The two guards were back on the gatehouse. There was a soldier on the north wall, another on the south, and at least one lookout up on the flat roof of the tower. Another look revealed a sixth stationed at the postern gate. Narses had said there were twenty in the garrison. More than a quarter had to stand watch at a time. It would be another reason the posting was unpopular. Despite the chill, some of those off duty were lounging around braziers in front of the barracks.

  If this went wrong, could they fight their way out? They would be outnumbered three to one. Yet the garrison would not be prepared, and the majority would be unarmoured. Narses had said there were also half a dozen torturers, and twice that number of servants. But they should be of little account, no more than the whores. Under their long robes, the Romans were wearing all their equipment. Their bows and quivers were on their belts. Should they seize the moment, and try and take the place by force of arms?

  No, that was the course of last resort. Even if they prevailed, with those odds, there was no way they could prevent some of those in the castle getting away. Once the survivors were down from the mountains, they would raise all the troops in Hyrkania, and the whole of the countryside, against them. The garrisons along the Walls of Alexander barring the Steppe would be alerted. There would be no way out.

  Narses greeted the warden affably, as one Persian noble to another.

  The two men talked at length. The warden appeared put out, perhaps suspicious. Narses was conciliatory, but firm. Both frequently looked at the men around the wagon.

  It had been decided that they would not attempt to hide their origins. Despite their loose eastern robes, the westerners did not look Persian. Valens and Decimus could only manage a few words of the language. Narses would be telling the warden that the men he commanded were Roman soldiers captured with the Emperor Valerian. They had volunteered to serve in the armies of the King of Kings, given their oath to Shapur. Such things were not unknown. Narses had led them to Hyrkania from distant Bactria, where they had been stationed previously. It was best to keep such men well away from the Roman frontiers, where they might be tempted to desert. They had been assigned to the supply wagon because the journey to the Castle of Silence was an unpopular duty with the Persian soldiers.

  Everything hinged on Naduk believing the story, and the zendanig of the state prison was not going to be by nature a trusting man. So far he did not appear convinced.

  The warden marched past Narses towards the wagon. All the soldiers bowed slightly from the waist, put the fingers of their right hand to their lips, and blew a kiss: the ritual proskynesis due to a Persian of superior rank. Valens’s heart sank as the zendanig halted in front of him. Naduk was a head taller than him, and as broad as an ox.

  The warden barked something in Persian.

  Valens smiled apologetically. ‘Persian not good yet.’

  Naduk looked down at him with contempt, then spoke rapidly over his shoulder to Narses. Valens kept his eyes respectfully down as Narses replied.

  ‘To arms!’ Naduk roared.

  It was one of the handful of phrases of Persian Valens knew.

  Gods below, has is come to this already? He dropped his hand to his hilt. Glancing at the warriors in front of the barracks, he drew his sword.

  The enormous bearded officer did not flinch. He was laughing. Even in his good humour there was an undertone of menace. Towering over Valens, he spoke in heavily accented Greek. ‘At least you understand that, you son of a whore. Now, all of you, unload the wagon.’

  *

  Valens was cleaning and mending armour and tack with Narses and Iudex. They were sitting around a brazier outside the barracks. It was late in the afternoon, and would soon be time to eat.

  Today could not have gone better. Valens still felt guilty about killing the wagoner in cold blood. His words – death is the last thing that you have to worry about – had been nothing but a sophistry. But it had to be done and, if he himself was reluctant, he could not order one of the men to carry out the execution. After the driver was dead, his corpse had joined those of his companions in the ravine. They had rounded up the loose horses and kept those that seemed in better condition than some of their own. Narses had appropriated the officer’s Nisean stallion as appropriate for his role. There was a risk that some of the garrison might recognise the horse of one of the dead men, but they were not branded, and it was a risk worth running to be well mounted, given what was planned. When every man had selected a horse, they set four aside as spares and for their supplies and baggage. It was with the greatest sadness that they slaughtered the remaining animals, and pushed them over to tumble down the precipice. It was good that they had left at once. By the time they had set out, vultures had materialised from nowhere, and were drifting down towards the unexpected bounty.

  ‘It is a pity Zabda is dead,’ Narses said.

  Valens looked up from sharpening his dagger.

  Narses nodded up at the tower. ‘The sly old Palmyrene could have opened that locked door with his eyes shut.’

  ‘And the guards inside?’ Valens said. They had watched the guard change during the day. There was always one on the roof of the tower, another somewhere behind the locked door.

  ‘Any of us can deal with them,’ Iudex said. ‘Even you.’

  Valens did not reply, but tucked the kn
ife into his boot and set about mending a broken bridle.

  ‘Zabda was a thief, but I liked him.’ Narses grinned at Valens. ‘Of course you two got off to a bad start, what with him trying to kill you in that bar.’

  They spoke in Latin, confident that, while some of the garrison would speak some Greek, none would know that language.

  The Persian soldiers had not been overtly hostile, but they were not forthcoming. This morning they had watched as the heavy load of the wagon was carried into the storerooms. None had offered to help. Likewise they had given no help in bedding down the horses, had seemed happy to show the arrivals to the worst rooms in the barracks, and had kept apart when they ate. Narses said that they were resentful that these foreign mercenaries would be free to leave this dismal fortress in a few days.

  ‘It was a stroke of luck, that old man this morning,’ Iudex said.

  It was a strange phrase to describe what they had seen, but it was true.

  They had all been worried about the man they had seen urging his tired dromedary up towards the castle. The wagoneer had confirmed their suspicion that he was a messenger of the King. It would have been too cruel of fate if they had arrived on the same day as Shapur’s order to kill Prince Sasan.

  So it was with relief that they had watched an elderly Persian nobleman dragged down the steps out of the tower. His public execution in the courtyard had been nothing worse than one saw in the Colosseum. First the torturers had sliced off his ears, then his nose. They had amputated his hands and gouged out his eyes. By the time they had decapitated him, he appeared to be already dead.

  ‘It was fortunate for us, but a pity for the old nobleman,’ Iudex added. ‘I would not have you think that I am inhumane.’

  ‘I thought you followers of Mani were like Christians, and believed taking a life was a terrible sin,’ Narses said. ‘Yet you were happy enough to kill the tent-dwellers, and it was you that slaughtered out of hand the brother of Lucia’s husband.’

  Iudex tipped his bald head to one side, as if considering how much it was prudent to divulge.

  ‘I cannot think your prophet will do well at the court of the King of Kings,’ Narses said. ‘Imagine instructing Shapur to kill no one, not to touch meat and abstain from sex, let alone embrace poverty?’

  ‘When I was in Ctesiphon, in the palace of the Sassanid, I saw that Shapur was a man of violence, a slave to his appetites. It will end badly for Mani,’ Iudex said.

  ‘What were you doing at the Persian court?’ Valens tried to keep the sudden suspicion out of his voice.

  ‘The things that are done by a frumentarius,’ Iudex replied.

  ‘You have never mentioned this.’

  ‘It was a couple of years ago. We have all done things that are best left unsaid.’

  ‘Was it there you met this Mani?’ Valens asked.

  ‘It was Mani who put my feet on the road to liberation. He taught me to release my spirit-twin. Since then I have voyaged widely, learnt many things in the other world. Now the pupil has surpassed the teacher.’

  ‘What can go wrong?’ Narses said. ‘We are serving with a man who visits the underworld and talks to the gods.’

  Iudex ignored the Persian’s mockery. ‘There is divine light in all humanity. When unbelievers die, it is not lost forever as Mani holds. As their corpses decompose, the light is released into the earth, and from there enters the plants. When these are eaten by the elect, it is released into the heavens.’

  ‘Well that accounts for your continual farting.’ Narses was laughing openly. ‘It is a fine religion that sees flatulence as a sacrament.’

  Iudex was undisturbed. ‘Those who are deceived by other religions find no escape. They go blindly to destruction. The sooner the unredeemed die the better.’

  ‘And what if you kill someone who is redeemed?’ Narses said.

  ‘Then he will go straight to heaven.’

  ‘Enough,’ Valens said. ‘He is coming.’

  A Persian soldier was carrying a tray across the courtyard from the kitchens.

  Narses got to his feet, and hailed the man in Persian. They spoke for a time. At first the soldier looked uncertain, but then he laughed.

  Narses turned to Valens, and spoke in Greek. ‘Get up, you lazy Roman dog. It is unfitting for a Persian warrior to carry things like a servant, while a prisoner sits warming his arse by the brazier.’

  Valens got up.

  The Persian said something.

  ‘You are not going in there armed,’ Narses said.

  Reluctantly, Valens unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Iudex.

  ‘Look lively,’ Narses snapped. ‘Take the tray and follow the soldier.’

  Valens did as he was commanded. There was bread and cheese, some cold meat and fruit, and a metal flagon of wine. It was a lot of food for a child.

  Narses spoke again to Valens. Once more the tone was haughty, but this time the words were in Latin. ‘Everything will be ready. We will be waiting.’

  Valens trudged up the steps. At the top, the Persian unlocked the door. When they had gone through, he locked it behind them and put the keys back on his belt.

  It was dark and cold within the tower. Stone stairs ran around the inside wall. Every so often, a lamp burning in a niche gave a feeble light. On the second floor they came out onto a landing. A narrow window, unshuttered but set with iron bars, faced a closed door. They did not stop there, or on the third floor.

  The tread of their boots echoed in the gloom as they went up towards the top floor.

  A voice called down from above.

  The Persian replied.

  The guard was leaning on the frame of the final door.

  Valens glanced around the landing. It was almost identical to the others. A window faced a door, but this window was shuttered. There was another difference – here a ladder ascended to the roof. Given the inclement weather, the heavy trapdoor to above was shut. The guard on the battlements would be very exposed to the bitter wind.

  The guard on the door was in no hurry. He chatted to his colleague before levering himself off the door frame and reaching for his keys.

  Odds of two to one against, Valens thought. And there was a third man on the roof. Either Clemens or Iudex would have been a better bet – both were natural killers. But an officer could not send men into danger that he would not face himself.

  With luck, the sentinel on the roof would hear nothing above the wind. The trapdoor looked solid.

  Strike quickly, take them unaware, and it would be over in moments.

  The guard turned the key, and pushed the door open.

  The sun was setting over the snow-clad peaks. Its light slanted through the slit window opposite the door. Two figures were silhouetted in the centre of the room. As Valens’s eyes adjusted, he saw a young boy. Standing behind the boy, and a little to one side, was a tall man. The man was beardless and very old.

  Who in Hades was the man? He was ancient, but still he made the odds yet worse.

  ‘Put the tray on the table,’ one of the Persians said.

  There were hangings on the wall, and cushions on the rugs on the floor. For some unknowable reason, pieces of kindling were laid out on a rug in almost military precision. A low table stood next to a lit brazier in front of the figures in the middle of the room.

  ‘We don’t want to stand here all evening.’

  Neither of the guards moved to enter the room.

  As Valens moved forward, he noted that the old man was sweating, and his eyes were wild.

  ‘Health and great joy,’ Valens said in Greek.

  ‘No one speaks to the prisoners,’ one of the guards snapped.

  Valens placed the tray on the table.

  The aged man was clutching at something under his sleeve. There was a terrible indecision etched on his face.

  ‘Get a move on.’

  It was now or never.

  Valens straightened up, turned and went back through the door. The Persian he had foll
owed stepped back to let him out. When he had passed, the other leant in to pull the door shut. Valens reached behind his leg, and slid the dagger from his boot. Not stopping to think, Valens lunged at the man in front, his right fist flashing out. The soldier tried to twist aside, but his back collided with the outer wall. It was not a clean strike. The blade sliced deeply across the man’s stomach. The Persian grunted with pain. He doubled up, his hands going to the wound.

  Valens swung around, dropping into a crouch. The guard by the door was drawing his sword. Valens hurled himself at him. Grabbing his beard, he dragged him close. The long Sassanid blade was trapped between their bodies. Valens plunged the dagger into the man’s side. With his free hand, the Persian clawed at Valen’s eyes. Ignoring the pain, Valens struck again. Three times the steel punched deep into flesh. The blood was hot on Valens’s hand and arm.

  The Persian was grievously hurt, perhaps mortally. But he was not giving up, and he was strong. His fingers closed around Valens’s throat, crushing his windpipe. Flashes of light danced in Valens’s vision. He had to finish this man now, or he would die here.

  With a last despairing blow, Valens plunged the dagger into the side of the Persian’s neck.

  The pressure on Valens’s throat was gone. The guard swayed, then toppled sideways, half into the room.

  Dragging air into his lungs, Valens used the door frame to push himself upright.

  The Persian on the landing was down on his knees. In his hands were blue coils of intestines. With futile urgency he was trying to force them back into place.

  Valens moved behind him, yanked his head back by the hair, and slid the blade down into the soft hollow of his throat. The tip of the steel scrapped off bone, but went more than deep enough.

  It was quiet. Just the wind coming through the window of the room.

  Valens gazed up at the trapdoor.

  Had the lookout heard anything?

  There was no bolt on the underside of the trapdoor. Why would there be?

  Infernal gods! Just come, if you are coming.