Ballista slapped his face. 'Wake up, you old bastard.'
Calgacus opened his eyes. They were not properly focused.
Ballista hugged the old man close. He spoke fiercely into his ear. 'Go to sleep and you will die. And you are not going to die on me.'
Calgacus nodded.
Ballista got to his feet. The nearest fire was not far. There was no other way.
'You four' — Ballista pointed — 'huddle round him, give him your body warmth. You two, keep watch each way down the track, keep moving, try and keep warm. Maximus and I will get fire.'
They got ready. At Maximus's suggestion, they left their shields. A brigand may have a shield, but not a big circular army one. Now their silhouettes would not give them away.
'You remember Pigeon Island?' Maximus asked. It was getting on for two years ago, but to Ballista it seemed half a lifetime ago. On a little island south of Ephesus, the two of them had carried out a similar raid to snatch fire from a Borani watch camp in order to burn the barbarians' longboat. 'Sure, but this will be fun too.'
'You are a very strange man,' said Ballista.
They set off up the hill. Initially, Ballista led them away from the nearest fire. They needed to come up on it from downwind. There was no necessity for extreme caution. The howling wind should cover the noise of their approach, but they moved carefully anyway, a few steps apart, as if patrolling. The concentration needed took their minds off the cold.
Time largely loses meaning when you are climbing a dark, windswept hill with part of your mind on what will happen at the end of the climb. The wind sighed through the trees, branches creaked, stones turned under foot and mud tugged at their boots. It started raining again.
When they grew close, they slowed. About thirty paces away, they stopped behind a dwarf oak. Wiping the rain out of their eyes, they peered around the gnarled, slick trunk. Now the cold returned. Maximus passed Ballista some air-dried meat. He chewed it without thinking; it prevented his teeth chattering.
They could see two guards. They threw elongated, shifting shadows as they paced about, stamping their feet. There were other, indistinct, shapes huddled in blankets by the fire.
Ballista would have liked to observe longer, but there was no time. He touched Maximus's shoulder. They clasped hands.
Stepping out from behind the oak, they walked forward. No point in running, risking a fall, until they were seen.
The man Ballista was after was unobservant. The northerner ran the last few paces anyway. His sword swung. The man started to turn. The blade caught him on the jawline. He screamed wordlessly. Retrieving the weapon, Ballista finished him with a powerful blow to the back of the neck.
Another man was rising from his blanket. Three quick steps, two chopping blows, and he sank down again. Ballista moved on. The next one had risen to his feet and was struggling to free his weapon. Ballista drove the steel into his stomach.
Turning, scanning for threats, all Ballista saw was Maximus finishing off a man on the ground. Seven dead. All over in a matter of moments.
A branch cracked up the hill. Dark shapes were moving through the trees; five, six, maybe more. Fuck. Surprise was on their side. Ballista and Maximus moved a little apart.
The first one tore downhill at Ballista, sword out in front. At the last moment, Ballista brought his blade down and across, driving his opponent's weapon out to the right. Ballista dropped his left shoulder, braced himself. The man crashed into him. Using the impact, Ballista shrugged him off to the right.
Straightening, Ballista parried the next one's sword to the left. He brought his elbow hard up into the man's nose. As the man staggered back, Ballista cracked the pommel of his sword down into his face. He fell back, howling.
A quick step to the right, and Ballista arced his blade down at the first opponent, now scrambling to his feet. It bit into something. No time to check. Ballista spun round. A third bandit lunged. Ballista leapt backwards, arms up, arching his body. Sparks flashed as the blade scraped along the mail covering Ballista's chest. He and his opponent were wedged together, face to face.
They struggled, feet slipping, too close to use their weapons. Ballista was aware of the second attacker getting up from the ground. The man Ballista was grappling with tried to bite his nose. Ballista twisted away. The teeth tore at his cheek. The blood felt hot. The fingers of the man's left hand were clawing for Ballista's eyes. The northerner slammed the heel of his right boot down on the man's instep. His grip slackened. Ballista broke free, with his left hand drew the dagger from his right hip, stabbed it hard into the man's crotch.
The last attacker on his feet began to back away. Ballista moved carefully towards him. The man turned and ran. Ballista was after him. The man lost his footing in the mud. He sprawled forward. Ballista was on him, driving the point of his blade down into his back.
Ballista got up quickly. No sound of steel on steel. No fighting. Some low sobbing and a high-pitched wailing. A few paces off, a dark figure moved, a bit shorter than Ballista. The blur of its sword glinted in the firelight as it chopped down again and again. Of course Maximus was fine.
Ballista walked back to his two injured opponents down on the ground. Bracing his boots in the mud, he killed both of them. There was no point in keeping them alive. He did not speak their language, could not interrogate them. He was not in the mood to try.
Ballista retrieved his dagger from the dead man's crotch. He wiped its blade and that of his sword, sheathed them.
'Sure, but you cannot say that was not fun.' Maximus was beaming.
'You really are a heartless, violent bastard.' But Ballista could feel the post-battle euphoria seeping through him. He was alive, unhurt. He had done well, not let himself down, nor anyone else. Yes, in a horrible way, Maximus was right: Ballista had enjoyed it.
'Do you think there will be any more of them along?' asked Maximus.
'No idea. But it would be a bugger trying to light a fire down on that track on a night like this. Go and get the troopers to carry the miserable old bastard up here.'
Maximus turned to go.
'And hoot like an owl when you come back, to make sure I do not kill you.'
'As if you could.'
'As if I could,' said Ballista. It rained on and off all night, but no more brigands appeared out of the darkness. Ballista and his men built up the fire. Sheltering him with their cloaks, they changed Calgacus out of his wet things, massaged him with some oil they had heated, put him in the driest clothes that could be found in the soldiers' packs. They gave him something hot to drink and drank some themselves. The old Caledonian complained a lot — an impressive range of obscenities in a variety of languages. He would be all right.
The morning came up fine; there were just the retreating, tattered remnants of the storm clouds. They went back down to the track and followed it without incident up to Arbela. The village was spectacularly sited on the edge of a cliff. Both units of troops were waiting.
Rutilus made his report. There had been a half-hearted attack just before his column had reached the village. Two troopers had been wounded, neither seriously. Only one dead bandit had been left behind. They had stormed into Arbela at first light. It was deserted. Miraculously, after a lengthy night march, Lerus's legionaries had arrived within half an hour.
'The mission was compromised from the start,' said Ballista. 'No wonder they had all disappeared.'
Rutilus smiled. 'Some of them have not gone very far.'
The tall prefect led Ballista to the edge of the cliff. The view was incredible. Down to the right, the northern end of Lake Tiberias was spread out, shining blue under the winter sun. Straight ahead, far away in the distance, was the snow-capped summit of Mount Hermon. It must have been fifty miles or more away.
On top of the cliff, the wind buffeted them. Ballista looked down. There was a sheer drop of two, three hundred feet of jagged grey rock. Below that, a gentler incline of about the same height. The lower slope had some green cover. A few pale-grey paths graded up it to the foot of the rockface. The tiny figures of Roman soldiers moved down at the bottom of it.
'There are caves in the cliff,' said Rutilus. 'Some of the brigands have taken refuge in them. We cannot get at them from below. The paths are too steep and narrow. A child could tip stones down and sweep our men off.'
