Fire in the East (61 page)

‘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.

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.

‘At the far end where it turns right, out of sight the path doubles back behind the hill,’ Haddudad said. ‘Place archers up on the right, hold the far end. It is a good killing ground, if we are not too outnumbered.’

As they rode up the defile Ballista retreated into himself, planning, making his dispositions. When they were about fifty paces from the end he stopped and issued his orders. ‘I will take Maximus, Calgacus and the girl with me up the hill. She is as good with a bow as a man. The Greek boy can come to hold our horses, and you,’ he pointed to one of the two the remaining civilian members of his staff, not the North African, ‘will come to relay my orders.’ He paused. He looked at Haddudad and Turpio. ‘That leaves you two and five men down on the path. Wait round the corner, out of sight, until you get my command, then charge down into the reptiles. Those of us above will ride down the slope to take them in the flank.’

Haddudad nodded. Turpio smiled sardonically. The others, tired, hollow eyed, just stared.

Ballista unfastened the black cloak he had been wearing to keep the sun off his armour. He dropped it to the ground. It landed with a puff of dust in the middle of the path. Then he untied poor Titus’ purse from his belt. He opened it. There were a lot of coins. A soldier’s life savings. He scattered them on the ground just beyond the cloak. As an afterthought he took off his helmet, the distinctive one with the bird of prey crest and tossed that down as well.

Haddudad grinned. ‘Cunning as a snake,’ he said.

‘Among your people that is probably a compliment,’ Ballista replied.

‘Not always,’ said the Arab.

Ballista raised his voice to reach them all. ‘Are you ready for war?’

‘Ready!’

Three times the call and response, but it was a tired, thin sound, almost lost in the hills.

Ballista waved them off to take up their positions.

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

Ballista lay full length on the crest of the hill, an old grey-brown blanket over his shoulders. He had rubbed handfuls of the dun-coloured sand into his hair and over his face. Twenty arrows were planted point down in the ground by his head, looking like a clump of desert grass or camel thorn. Those with him were resting behind the brow of the hill.

If you stare at something long enough in bright sunshine it has a narcotic effect. The scene seems to shift and waver, inanimate objects start to move. Twice Ballista had tensed, thinking the moment had come, before realizing his eyes had deceived him. It was not long after noon. They had made good time. The Sassanids must have halted for a rest in the foothills, confident their prey could not escape them.

Ballista blinked the sweat out of his eyes and shifted slightly in the hollow his body had made in the stony ground. He very much doubted this was going to work - ten fighting men and the girl against at least fifty. Strangely he did not feel particularly frightened. He thought of his wife and son and felt an overwhelming sadness that he would not see them again. He imagined them wondering what had happened to him, the pain of never knowing.

A movement! At last! The Sassanid cavalry walked round into the defile and Ballista’s heart leaped. He saw what had been odd about their column - each Sassanid led two spare horses. That was how they had narrowed the distance so fast. Sixty horses but only twenty riders. The odds were no worse than two to one. And Allfather willing, he could improve on that.

The leading Sassanid pointed, called something over his shoulder, and trotted ahead. He reached the things lying in the track and dismounted. Struggling to keep a grip on the reins of his three horses he crouched down and picked them up.

Ballista grinned a savage grin. The others had not halted. Instead they trotted up and bunched behind the man on foot. Fools, thought Ballista, you deserve to die.

Shrugging off the blanket, Ballista grasped his bow and got to his feet. As he took an arrow and notched it he heard the others scrambling up to the crest. He drew the composite bow, feeling the string bite into his fingers and the tension mount in the wood, bone and sinew of its belly. Intent on their discoveries the Sassanids had not noticed him. He selected the man he took to be their leader. Aiming above the bright red trousers and below the yellow hat at the black-and-white striped tunic, he released. A few seconds later the man was pitched from his horse. Ballista heard the shouts of surprise and fear. He heard those with him release their bows. Another arrow automatically notched, he shot into the bunch of riders, aiming low, hoping if he did not get a rider he would hit a horse. Not looking to see where the arrows struck, he released four or five times more in quick succession into the group.