fleet, their oars muffled, were gliding in out of sight behind the fishing boat. Ballista did not think what would happen if it were not so. In many ways, he did not care. Soon there would be more blood for the ghosts. For those whom fate has cursed Music itself sings but one note — Unending miseries, torment and wrong!
A word of warning from the old man, and he ran the boat up on to the beach.
Ballista swung himself over the side. He landed knee-deep in the water. Maximus passed him his sword belt. Ballista buckled it on. Then he pulled the floppy cap from his belt. Scooping his long hair under it, he crammed it over his brows.
Maximus was beside him, fiddling with his own eastern cap. Calgacus and the two marines jumped out of the boat. While they readied themselves, Ballista and Maximus pushed the boat off. The old man just waved as he unshipped the oars.
Ballista pulled Isangrim's little blade on his right hip an inch or two out of its sheath, snapped it back, drew the big sword on his left a little, pushed it back, touched the healing stone tied to the scabbard. He was glad Calgacus had retrieved his sword from the body of Garshasp. At moments like this, Ballista was painfully aware that, much of the time, he was not thinking clearly. My heart would burst, My sick head beats and burns, Till passion pleads to ease its pain.
Ballista checked the others.
'Time to go.'
The sand crunched under their boots. The town wall was black off to the right. The west gate was hidden in shadow. It was, Ballista thought, a good job they had been here before and knew the layout. The noise from the town seemed to have faded.
A couple of trees grew in front of the gate. The land smelled hot away from the sea. The heavy doors were shut. Ballista looked back at the sea. Was there a line of white — not a wave — out there?
Ballista unsheathed his sword. With the pommel he beat loudly on the gate.
'Open the gate,' he called in Persian. 'Open the gate. The country is alive with Romans.'
From inside came a babble of talk.
'Open.' Ballista beat on the gate again. 'I am Vardan, son of Nashbad. I have an order from Shapur.'
A bonneted head popped up over the battlements.
'Open the gate now,' roared Ballista. 'The man who delays the command of the King of Kings will suffer.'
The head disappeared.
A few moments later there was a scraping sound — the gate opened.
Ballista pushed past the first Persian. There were two more inside. He killed one with a thrust to the stomach, the second with a blow to the back of the neck. Maximus was sawing his blade into the throat of the first one. It had all taken about four seconds.
'Calgacus, take the marines and get up on the wall walk. Maximus, you stay with me.'
Ballista took stock. He had hoped there might be something, say a cart or some barrels, anything really, to wedge the gate open. There was nothing obvious. Still, it should not be for long.
'Maximus, help me drag the bodies to block the gates.'
No sooner had they finished than figures appeared in the street.
'Shut the gate,' a voice shouted.
'We cannot — orders,' Ballista replied in Persian.
The men walked up. There were four of them.
'Shut the gate, now.'
Ballista waited until they were close then stabbed the leader in the guts. Maximus cut down another. The two remaining Sassanids went for their swords. Their yells were cut short before their blades were free of their scabbards.
'They will be all over us now, like a cheap toga,' Maximus grunted as he helped pull the fresh corpses to add to the obstruction in the gateway.
'Not for long,' said Ballista, searching through the dead for things of use. 'You could have left with Demetrius.'
'Yes, I could have.'
The two men equipped themselves with small Persian shields, bows and arrows. Maximus added a helmet. Ballista did not. Better no helmet than an ill-fitting one that might slip down over your eyes, impede your movement. There was no time to take any armour.
As Maximus ran up to the wall walk, his arms full of bows, quivers and shields for the others, Ballista studied the town. The sun was not up yet, but it was quite light. To the right was another gate leading to the peninsula. It was open. Through it could be seen a curved portico stretching along the south-west of the enclosed main harbour. Ahead the street ran straight, becoming the north-western dock of the harbour. Off to the left, the theatre rose above the exercise ground of the gymnasium.
The streets were deserted. Down by the empty docks a cat stalked a pigeon. A confused noise came from the east, beyond the far walls. Inside the town all was deathly quiet. Sebaste had fallen twice, first to the Sassanid force that had gone on to Selinus, now to these easterners who had escaped west from the battle of Soli. Those inhabitants who had not fled or been killed would be hiding. It was not surprising there were no civilians, but it was wonderful there were no Persians. Ballista's plan had worked. Seeing just a meagre thousand Roman soldiers advancing from the east, the Persians must have issued out to confront them.
Maximus came back down the steps. He was blowing hard.
'You are out of condition,' Ballista muttered. 'Your wind has gone.'
Before Maximus could answer, an arrow whipped between them. Hunched down, shields up, they stepped back into the shelter of the gateway. More arrows came from under the arch of the gate to the peninsula. They snicked off the stonework.
'Fuck,' said Maximus. 'They did not all fall for it then. Fuck a vestal.'
'Nicely put,' Ballista replied. He peeked out from behind the gate then jerked his head back as three or four arrows sliced towards him. One missed his ear by an inch or so. 'Fuck, indeed.'
'Unless there are enough of them to rush us, we are safe enough here until the boys from the fleet come,' Maximus said.
There was the sound of running feet.
'Fuck,' said Maximus.
Without a word, both men stepped out, drawing their bows. At least half a dozen Persians were coming. Ballista and Maximus released. They dropped the bows, drew their swords. Only one Persian had fallen. More were issuing from the peninsula.
They heard the twang of bows above their heads. The arrows of Calgacus and the marines dropped another easterner. Not enough. The charge did not falter.
The Sassanids were on them. At the last moment, Ballista sidestepped the first one. Too close to use his sword, he stuck his arm out. The straight-arm tackle caught the Persian under the chin. The man's legs shot out from under him. He crashed on to his back, armour clattering on the roadway.
The next Sassanid thrust towards Ballista's middle. The northerner blocked it with his blade, forcing his enemy's weapon wide. He kicked the man's kneecap. Howling, the Sassanid doubled up. Ballista jumped back.
For a moment, the men on the ground impeded the others. To Ballista's left, out of his vision, steel was ringing. Maximus was not down yet.
Two Persians came for Ballista. They stepped carefully, swords ready. They knew what they were about. There were more behind them.
There was no berserk madness upon Ballista this morning, no battle calm. Instead, nothing but cold, sinking fear. His devotion to death had left him. This could only end one way.
The Sassanids struck. Ballista parried one blow, took the other on his shield. The light buckler splintered. One Sassanid aimed high, the other scythed his blade low at Ballista's shins. Somehow the northerner ducked one blade, got the shield in the way of the second. A big chunk flew out of the light shield. It was useless. Ballista threw the thing into the face of the opponent to his left. He thrust at the easterner to his right. The man stepped back out of range.
The Sassanids pressed forward. Shieldless, Ballista relied on his years of training, the memory in his muscle.
