'That way madness lies,' said Maximus. 'Shun it. No more of that.'
'Not for long.' Ballista pulled the front of his tunic taut, slit it open. With his left hand he guided the point of the little sword to just the right place under his ribs.
Maximus was measuring the distance when Calgacus crossed in front of him. The old Caledonian knelt by Ballista. He drew his sword.
'That is my job.'
From his knees, Ballista looked up dully.
'My job,' Calgacus repeated. He tapped his blade on the mosaic. 'You remember. In your father's hall, after the centurion came for you, it was one of the things your father told us. My final duty to you. Then myself.'
Ballista lowered his own blade. No one relaxed.
'Do it,' Ballista said.
Calgacus carried on tapping the metal on the little coloured stones.
'Everything has been taken from you.' Calgacus spoke quietly. 'But before you go, you owe them one thing.'
Ballista did not respond.
'Vengeance. You are a killer, born, bred, trained. Now use it.'
Ballista gave no reaction.
'You have man-killing hands, a gift for death. Rest, eat, collect yourself — give them vengeance.'
Ballista was still. Then, almost quicker than Maximus could follow, he struck. Once, twice, three times.
The tesserae shattered. The hunchback dwarf was eyeless, its genitals mutilated.
Calgacus nodded slowly.
Again Ballista spoke in Greek verse, a different metre, this time perfect: 'Done is done. Despite my anguish I will beat it down, the fury mounting inside me, down by force. But now I will go and meet that murderer head on, that Hector who destroyed the dearest life I know. For my own death, I'll meet it freely — whenever Zeus And the other deathless gods would like to bring it on!' Calgacus stood at the prow of the trireme with Ballista. The sea was calm. The great warship lay on its oars. The sun had not yet burnt off the early morning mist. Around them, the rest of the fleet faded into the greyness. To the north, behind the mist, was the port of Soli.
It was thirteen days since they had left Antioch, eleven since they had sailed from Seleuceia. Again they had tracked the enemy, around the Gulf of Issus and along the Hollows of Cilicia. The Sassanid force that had raided Antioch had crossed the Syrian Gates, overwhelming its small garrison from the rear. Across the Amanus range they had reunited with their main body and together plundered the city of Rhosus. Then they had ridden through the devastated plain of Cilicia to the coastal city of Soli. This morning they would assault its walls. The Romans were well acquainted with their plans. Calgacus had been horrified at the ingenuity with which Ballista had tortured the Sassanid stragglers, appalled at the cold-eyed lack of emotion — or was it controlled pleasure? — with which he had finally despatched them.
Calgacus cast a sly glance at Ballista. The boy was far from right. Ballista stood, unnaturally immobile, staring ahead into the mist. He had had one of the armourers make him a new helmet. The broad nasal covered most of his face, and on either side was a curled metal ram's horn. Calgacus had not felt he could ask him why. No one had. Not even the bumptious Hibernian Maximus.
Calgacus was worried — more than worried, he had an ill-defined sense of foreboding and, worse, a strong sense of guilt. Dissuading Ballista from suicide, Calgacus had not spoken the whole truth. Ballista had never been a born killer. Some men are, Maximus for one. Maybe Calgacus was himself. But not Ballista. He had been a gentle child, sensitive. Left to his own devices, he might have become a farmer, been happy tending his flocks, or maybe a bard; he had always spouted poetry. There had been no hope of that, not for the son of Isangrim, the warleader of the Angles, trained by his uncle among the fierce Harii then hauled off into the imperium. Ballista had been shaped into a killer but, until now, it had never come completely easily to him. Never before had Calgacus seen him torture and kill in cold blood — or at least never take pleasure in it. Calgacus was worried — to keep the boy alive he had pushed him further down the path.
'There!' Maximus was pointing. Out of the thinning mist a liburnian was racing out towards them. At its prow a marine was holding a red cloak above his head.
Ballista came back from wherever he had been. He shouted, 'Full ahead.'
The rowing master gave the count. 'One, two, three, strike.' Almost as one, the oars bit the water. The trireme shivered like an animal waking then gathered way. By the third stroke, the ship was accelerating smoothly, the water running fast down her sides. All around, the fleet was getting underway.
Under the enclosing helm, Ballista was speaking softly. Calgacus, next to him, had to strain his ears to catch the words. 'Come what may come. What advantage in living? No fatherland, no house, no refuge.' More gloomy Greek poetry. The boy was in a very bad way.
Yet, bad way or no, Ballista could still set out a fine plan. The Persians had two main advantages: there were more of them, and they had horses. With luck, Ballista's plan might negate both. When the Romans landed, most of the Persians would be committed to the assault on Soli's walls. Under Rutilus, the ten little liburnians, just fifteen soldiers on each, would rush the camp. In their lazy superbia, the easterners had neglected to build a palisade or even set a proper guard. If they wanted their possessions, including their vast booty from Cilicia, the Persians would have to give up their superior mobility and fight hand to hand. The gods willing, many would have left their horses in the camp. The men with Ballista would form the initial line of battle just outside the camp. He had crammed fifty soldiers on to the decks of each of the triremes. These five hundred men, in only one rank, would have to hold until Castricius could get the four thousand or so reinforcements on the transport ships up in support. Even now the latter were wallowing behind, men labouring at enormous sweeps to propel the fat roundships to the shore.
The mist was lifting fast. Through the last wisps, the shore came into view. Off to the left were the walls of Soli — ringed by a mass of tiny dark figures; just to the right, the huge, sprawling array of tents, pavilions and horse-lines that formed the camp. In the far distance rose the snow-capped Taurus mountains. It was a beautiful summer morning.
Trumpets rang out from the Persians around the city, shrill cries of alarm carried across the water from the encampment. It would take time for the Persians to disengage from the assault and form up to face this new threat.
With a shudder that threw men off their feet, the trireme grounded on the shelving beach. Boarding ladders splashed down.
In a moment Ballista had descended the first one. Calgacus rushed to follow.
As he leapt down, Calgacus lost his footing. He went down on his hands and knees into the shallow water. A boot caught him in the back. He came up spitting, blinking salt from his eyes. Ballista was away — pounding up the beach. Calgacus scrambled to his feet and ran after him.
It was hard to run on the sand in full armour carrying a heavy shield. The muscles in Calgacus's legs screamed, his chest burned. He was far too old for this shit. He ploughed on.
Soon there was harder ground under his boots. Shutting out the pain, he closed his mind to everything but running.
Ballista had stopped. Calgacus pulled up — doubled over, retching dry and painful. Ballista was looking around, arms waving the line into place. Maximus had taken station on Ballista's right shoulder, the last man in the line. Demetrius, dressed for all the world as a soldier in a comedy, was at his left. Gently, Calgacus pulled Demetrius behind his kyrios and took his place. Every man in the line would have to stand firm. There was no point in letting the young Greek get himself or all of them killed. The new standard bearer, Gratius, was on Calgacus's left.
Calgacus looked out to sea. The transports were still some way out. Snaking down to the waves, just five hundred men of Legio IIII Scythica would have to face the anger of the Persian horde, and face it alone for some time.
'Here they come.'
The first Persians were closing, a cloud of mounted archers. Through the dust they raised, Calgacus could see a solid mass of armoured cavalry forming up. The gods had not been willing: all the easterners in sight were on horseback.
About fifty paces away, the leading Persians wheeled their mounts, loosed their bows.
The legionaries tucked their chins into their chests, hunkering down behind their big shields. Arrows thumped
