offerings were made.
Inexorably, Ballista's thoughts turned back to where he did not want them to go, to the fight at the gate. He had not wanted to die, he had wanted to live. So much for his being devotus. True, his thoughts had not been worked out. There had been no understanding of why. But something had changed. He had desperately wanted to live.
Perhaps, too late for his family, the curse had been lifted. He had sworn to return to the throne of Shapur. In the sacked camp outside Soli, he had returned. No, this was shallow sophistry of the worst sort. When he took that terrible oath, it had been in the thoughts of neither gods nor man that he should return bloodied, to defile the sacred fire, kill his defenceless servants and take Shapur's favourite concubine over the ornate throne of the house of Sasan.
He had been maddened then. Now he felt sanity returning. Now, almost against his conscious wishes, he wanted to live. Was this disloyalty to Julia and his darling boys? He would harrow hell to bring them back. But that could not happen. Should he persist as devotus — take what revenge he could then, falling, join them?
But would they be reunited? Julia's Epicureanism precluded an afterlife — all returned to quiet and sleep. And what of Isangrim and Dernhelm? What did eternity hold for innocent children? He had always half entertained the hope that, in the natural way, dying before them, the Allfather would accept him into gold-bright Valhalla. There, having proved his courage day on day in the fight in the courtyard, having shown his good companionship night on night in the feasting in the hall, he would intercede with the Hooded One. His boys would be allowed to pass through the western door and join him under the roof of shields. Woden's power and longevity aside, the Allfather was a northern chieftain. He understood love and grief. He had lost his son Balder. At the end of time, at Ragnarok, the Hooded One himself would die, torn by the jaws of Fenrir the wolf.
Perhaps I am still mad, thought Ballista. Perhaps my grief and the terrible things I have done for revenge have corroded, deformed my soul. And he had done terrible things. He thought of the teaching of Aesop. Man is born with two wallets tied round his neck. The one at his front contains the sins and crimes of other people — easy to take out and examine. The one on your back, open to everyone except yourself, holds your own — hard to see, painful to think about.
The approach of Maximus broke into Ballista's thoughts. With the Hibernian was a tall, thin young man wearing a goatskin cloak. It was one of Trebellianus's dagger-boys, Palfuerius or Lydius — Ballista had no idea which.
'Ave, Prefect.' The youth did not wait for permission to speak. 'I have good news from the governor of Cilicia.' His pronunciation of Greek was atrocious. 'Those Persians who evaded you' — the stress sounded deliberately offensive — 'have been captured by Gaius Terentius Trebellianus. The Vir Egregius suggests that you might like to see how we deal with poisonous reptiles here in Cilicia Tracheia.'
'Where?'
'They are at the town of Kanytelis — for the moment.'
The young Cilician gestured for Ballista to accompany him right away.
Ballista did not move. 'You can guide us, when we are ready.'
Calgacus jerked his thumb and, after holding Ballista's gaze a moment too long, Trebellianus's man moved out of earshot.
Good job for you, goat-boy, that something of my self-control has returned, thought Ballista. If you had turned up a few days ago, things might have been rather different, even if your patronus is Trebellianus. Now there is a dangerous man; not sitting quiet in Korakesion but roaming the hills miles to the east.
'It might be a trap,' said Maximus.
'Trebellianus may be a brigand in a toga, but he is unlikely to have deserted to the Sassanids.'
'But he is a brigand,' Maximus persisted. 'We should at least arm ourselves.' He pointed to the pile of their equipment, which, far too late, had been brought up from the triremes.
'You are right,' Ballista conceded. 'And get Castricius to find about twenty legionaries who can ride. There are plenty of Persian horses about. We might do with the company.'
The road meandered up the coast. To the left were the bare, banded rocks of the foothills; a thickish scatter of scrub and little patches of cultivatable soil, terraces cut with heartbreaking labour. To the right was the lovely blue of the sea.
Seeing the small party of horsemen, one of the liburnians rowed close to the shore. Three more were further out. Recognizing Ballista's white draco standard and the big figure in the distinctive horned helmet under it, the little galley sheered away.
As they turned inland, the road became worse. Bare and dusty, it zigzagged wildly as it took on the climb. On either side of the narrow track were jagged, piled rocks and sharp thorns. Nothing apart from a goat could move there, certainly not a man on horseback. The true Cilicia Tracheia began the moment you left the coast road.
Soon Ballista ordered the men to dismount and lead the horses. Loose stones scrunched under boots and hooves. The sun was near its zenith. It was incredibly hot. Occasionally the path would dip, only to resume its strength-sapping climb. All around was a wilderness of rocks. The crests in the distance were hazed with heat.
A long black snake slithered across the road in front of them. They waited for it to pass. Beside him, Ballista heard Maximus muttering — prayers or threats. Pity the poor Persians who had come this way: an early-morning alarm, no breakfast for man nor horse, a desperate battle, the enemy at their rear, cutting a way clear, then this hellish climb — forcing their spent mounts forward, fear riding hard at their backs. At the end of this they would have surrendered to anyone, let alone a gang of Trebellianus's murderous highlanders.
At last they were there. Mounting up, they rode through another city of the dead. This necropolis was far less elaborate than the ones at Sebaste, fewer expensive house or temple tombs, mainly undecorated sarcophagi. The three miles or so they had covered from the sea made all the difference to the wealth of a community.
The noise came to them as they entered the city of the living, the ugliest noise in the world — a mob baying for blood. The mob was at the foot of a tall tower. On horseback Ballista could see over their heads. Surrounded, huddled and cowed were a few hundred Sassanids on foot. Amidst them, one or two still stood proud. Ballista recognized a slim figure in a lilac tunic: a Persian noble — Demetrius could have told him the man's name.
'Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista, I am honoured you could come.' The mob quietened as Trebellianus called out. He stood on the battlements of the tower — lord of all he surveyed.
Now the Persians had seen Ballista in his ram-horned helmet. A murmur ran through the prisoners: 'Nasu, Nasu.' They seemed no more frightened; if anything, more resigned.
'Come close,' Trebellianus urged. 'See the men of Cilicia Tracheia take their revenge.'
At a sign from their governor, a group of armed toughs dragged ten Persians out of the mass. Prodding them with the points of javelins, they forced them beyond the tower. Two of the Persians fell to their knees, arms behind their backs in supplication. One was kicked and jabbed back on to his feet. The other threw himself full length in the dirt and was finished where he lay. His companions were made to lift the corpse.
Ballista and his group moved after them. Then they saw what awaited the eastern prisoners.
The earth disappeared. There was a huge hole. Roughly oval, it had to be sixty, seventy paces across, fifty deep. Its sides were raw pinkish-white rock. There were vertical streaks of white, stalactites at the bottom where it caverned out. And now there were darker streaks and splashes.
'Behold,' called Trebellianus, 'the place of blood.'
The Sassanids were forced over the edge. Their screams were cut short as they smashed into the side wall, went tumbling, broken, to the floor.
'You have to stop this.' Maximus was speaking in his native Celtic tongue. Apart from Ballista, only Calgacus could understand.
Another ten were being herded forward.
Ballista looked over the edge. At the bottom, in the pile, one or two of the bodies were faintly moving. He could see an arm or a leg shifting in agony.
The next batch was forced over the edge. Some way down the rock, Ballista saw a relief sculpture, a family group in Greek dress, the father and mother seated, the grown children standing. All held a hand to their chin in uniform thoughtfulness as the shrieking men fell past.
'Trebellianus,' called Ballista, 'that Persian there.' He pointed. 'I need to question him.'
Up on the tower, Trebellianus nodded.
