— cavorted everywhere. Wings beating, they flew up to the ceiling, clambered over the top of the bed. On the floor they were playing with Alexander's armour. Even in bed with a new, beautiful woman, Alexander kept his weapons to hand, thought Ballista. Allfather knew what Quietus was thinking.
'Antioch on the Orontes,' said Quietus. 'Metropolis of Syria. We will turn her into an impregnable fortress. Let Odenathus come. Or Aureolus, or Gallienus himself. They will break their armies on the defences of Antioch the invulnerable.' He seemed to have already forgotten the happy fantasy of victory over Odenathus at the gates of Palmyra.
'Dominus,' said Ballista, 'Antioch is almost indefensible. The walls up on Mount Silpius are overlooked by natural rock. The city is not safe. Antioch has fallen to the Persians twice in a few years.'
Quietus glowered at him. He started to say something then stopped. He looked away.
'Dominus' — the client king Sampsigeramus spoke good Latin, if with an effeminate lisp — 'my city of Emesa is devoted to your cause — no city more so. No place in the east has better walls or other defences. We have supplies, money. Move the court and the army there. When Pomponius Bassus strikes from Arete, you will be on hand to ride out and defeat the upstart Odenathus.'
Ballista had to admire the way Sampsigeramus both hid his own desperation and played up to Quietus's fantasies.
'Whatever, whatever.' Quietus had lapsed into miserable introspection. 'What does it matter? Why not Emesa? We will go there. We will go there straight away. Give the necessary orders.' He looked up at the huge cedar beams of the roof. 'They mutilated them, you know. Sent their heads to Gallienus. They can never know peace.'
Quietus's imperial court and army were moving down to Emesa. They were six days out of Antioch, strung out for miles along the road running through the Mere of Apamea. The scenery here was unusual for the east: lush water meadows and wild reed beds as far as the mountains on either side.
Ballista called Maximus to him, leant close, kept his voice low. When he had finished, Maximus asked him to say it all again in case he had somehow misunderstood.
'Yes, you are to desert, slip away through the wetlands to the east. There are only a couple of miles to cross, but take care. In a rare moment of clarity, Quietus has ordered a large number of mounted patrols to sweep the rear and both flanks for stragglers and deserters. There are villages in the hills, so there have to be reasonable paths across them. Apparently, the hills are only about fifteen miles wide here. On the other side, you will strike the Chalcis ad Bellum to Apamea road: take the turning south from a village called Telmenissos. This will bring you to the upland road, through places called Theleda and Occaraba, to Palmyra. When you get there, find Haddudad. It should not be difficult; by all accounts, the ex-mercenary has risen fast in his new patria.'
Ballista smiled. 'The two of us saved Haddudad's life at the fall of Arete: call in the debt. Get Haddudad to arrange a private audience with Odenathus. It has to be done in secret, otherwise news will get to Quietus, and that will be the end of me and the familia. When you see Odenathus, give him this sealed message.' Ballista passed over a small package. 'Hide it in your scabbard. It is well wrapped in oilcloth, so should not come to any harm, not even if it gets wet.'
Maximus made to interject. Ballista held his hand up. 'No, it is better if you do not know what it says. If you are captured, you can play the simple messenger. Quietus will still kill you, but possibly not torture you for quite as long first. Apart from handing over the letter, the vital thing that you have to do is to make absolutely certain Odenathus knows which of the towers of Emesa is the so-called Tower of Desolation. You remember it? It is the tall, thin one at the extreme south-east of the defences. If Odenathus does not already know it, Haddudad will.'
Maximus nodded, thinking it over. 'Sure, if I can get away, we all could.'
Ballista looked tempted but shook his head. 'No, Dernhelm is too young, and Julia is a woman. I have heard of too many would-be fugitives from the imperium who have been caught because they were slowed down by women or children. Anyway, there is still something I have to do.'
It was mid-afternoon when Maximus rode away. It was a good time to choose, in any army, no matter how disciplined — and this one was not particularly disciplined — there is always confusion when it comes to pitching camp. There was nothing furtive about him as he set off. He rode purposefully east, away from the army. The very set of his shoulders suggested a scout or suchlike on official duty.
When he had gone a short distance he reined in and dismounted. Having hobbled his horse, he went behind a low clump of marsh plants, pulled his trousers down and squatted. As he pretended to relieve himself, he scanned everything. No sign of pursuit, and no sign of men up ahead. After a time he set off again.
Not far along the way, it happened. A problem with travelling wet lowlands was always the finite number of paths passable to men on horseback. Those that existed were often elevated and exposed. No chance of slinking along; you had to go where the track took you. Maximus rode through one of the infrequent stands of trees and came out on to a raised, open grassy area. There, scattered, taking their ease, were the men and horses of a whole turma of cavalry.
Maximus wondered if he should try and talk his way through. He was good at talking. Back home, he had not been known as Muirtagh of the Long Road for his travelling. Maximus kicked his heels into his horse's flanks. He thundered across the clearing. A standing trooper tried to block his way. Of its own volition, the horse skittered around him. The thirty-man patrol was dismounted. Maximus was in the saddle. It gave him a few moments' headstart.
Maximus bent low over his mount's neck, urging it on. Great clods of mud cartwheeled up behind as they fled. The path ran straight; it had to be manmade. It was raised high above the marsh. The tall, tall reeds only reached to the horse's belly. They had to be visible for miles. Behind, the roar of the chase was loud. Maximus had thrown away his shield. Crooning into his animal's ears, he raced on.
At last the track dipped down almost to the surface of the fen. It turned gently, first right then left. The feathery heads of the reeds soared high above them. Maximus hauled the horse to a standstill. Leaping down, he feverishly untied his kit bag. He parted the reeds to the left with his arm, then threw the bag out of sight. Quickly, he fastened the reins over one of the front horns of the saddle. He drew his sword and brought the flat of the blade across the horse's rump. Startled, it squealed and leapt forward down the path. Again with the flat of the sword, he parted the reeds a pace or two from where the kit bag had disappeared. He took a step in. The ground gave a little under his boots. The reeds closed behind him. Another sweep of the sword and another step. The trick was not to break or flatten any more reeds than absolutely necessary.
Just four careful steps, and the thunder of pursuit was almost on him. He was still too close to the track, but there was no time to get away. Maximus sheathed his sword and dropped down full length in the mud. He rolled on to his back, then on to his front again. He checked that his now muddied cloak covered his armour, and pulled off his helmet and pushed it, crest down, into a pool of dark water. Smearing mud across his forehead, cheekbones and nose, he waited.
The noise built to a crescendo: the stamp and slop of the hooves in the mud, the high ching of the horse furniture, the deeper rattle of the men's equipment. The air was full of the smell of horse. The reeds swayed with their passing.
Lying in the cool mud, feeling his boots filling with water, Maximus tried to count the hoofbeats: ten, fifteen, twenty horses. It was impossible. The sounds faded. Maximus did not move.
A butterfly, pale yellow, almost white, flew in and out of the reeds in front of his face. The smell of rotting plants was strong in his nostrils. The noise of horsemen came again: fewer of them, travelling more slowly, again from the west. Maximus had guessed right. The majority had hared off after him while a few were following at a more leisurely pace in case he broke cover after the first lot had gone. Fuck you, he thought triumphantly. Fuck each and every one of you.
As soon as the horsemen passed, he got to his feet. Relying on their noise covering his, he plunged off to look for his kit bag. The leading group would overhaul his riderless horse all too soon. He splashed to where the bag lay, half submerged. Infernal gods, he had forgotten the helmet. Fuck it, no time. He turned to get deeper into the marsh.
The kit bag was heavy and incredibly awkward. If he held it upright, there was a danger it might show above the reeds. If he held it sideways, it would reveal his movement through them like a wave. Somehow trying to judge which tangles of vegetation would at least temporarily take his weight, he struggled along with the horrible thing
