jutting out in front of him.
Shouts, the noise of horses. They were coming back. Again Maximus dropped to the sodden ground. As soon as he had, he knew he had chosen a bad place. There was more water than soil or vegetation, and he was in mail armour. The liquid mud slowly but terrifyingly started to suck him down. Making a long arm, he dragged the kit bag to him and up under his chest. With his arms spread along it, his weight was more widely distributed. It was better, but it would not do for long.
'Come out, you cocksucker.' The voices were very close. 'Little Quietus will not kill you. He needs every one of us alive. Maybe he will just give you a stern talking to, send you back to duty with a sore arse and a nasty taste in your mouth — all the stuff you like.'
Shouts came from all along the path. They were walking their mounts back, probably in single file. Some called out. All would be watching the fen.
'Get your saggy arse out here, bumboy. If not now, when we catch you, we will all give you what a cinaedus like you wants.'
The sexual insults and obscenities amused them for some time. Eventually, though, they fell quiet. A lone voice, obviously that of their decurion, rang across the sedge. 'We will be back. If the mud has not swallowed you, we will get you. We will be back with dogs.'
After they had gone, Maximus levered himself up and sat on the mainly submerged trunk of a long-fallen oak. He had not been too worried about the threat of dogs. Most Romans used dogs that hunted by sight. Very few knew how to use dogs that hunted by scent. In any event, it would have to be an exceptionally fine hound that could track a man through this waterlogged wilderness. He would be long gone if they ever returned.
After a childhood and youth in Hibernia, marshes held few fears for Maximus. Certain, you had to treat them with respect. Many was the man who had thought the footfall solid and been sucked down to his death. Often at night their souls wandered, flickering lights, trying to lure others to their fate. Was it malice, or were they just after company? Maximus had never been sure.
He sat there regarding the kit bag. It was horribly heavy, more so now soaked, unwieldy too. Did he really need it? Was there anything precious in it? He had his weapons and armour, plenty of money in his belt, Ballista's letter. He wondered if it was good or bad to have so few possessions he cared anything about. If Demetrius had been there, certain he would have started to spout philosophy: the virtues of self-sufficiency, or some such shite. Plilosophy was something Maximus was sure he did not need. He got up, rummaged in the kit bag for some air-dried beef and left the thing behind.
For most of the remaining daylight hours, he made his way, as far as he could tell, north-east; away from the track, but still towards the mountains. Every now and then he had a view of them: a darker line of blue below the pale blue of the cloudless sky. He remembered how Ballista had called them hills; made crossing them seem all the easier.
As the afternoon wore on, he came to a mere of open water. Its surface glittered beautifully in the sun. It lay north to south. It was between him and the dry land at the foot of the mountains, and it stretched as far as the reeds would let him see. It was only about a hundred paces across, but he had no intention of trying to wade or swim it. A mere like this might be bottomless mud, like the one at home they used to drown the buggers in. You could be sure this mere was full of vegetation waiting to tangle and trap your arms and legs. And what would he be doing with his armour? The path with the cavalry was to the south; he had set off north.
When the shadows began to lengthen, Maximus had scouted for a flat, dry place to lay his head.
He woke the next morning: caked in dried mud, flies all over him, only some dried meat to eat, and still stuck somewhere in the Mere of Apamea. The main road south from Antioch to Emesa could not be above half a mile away. Lying in the reed beds, Maximus could not see it. He was very still, listening, watching. The dry rustling of the tall reed beds moving was all he could hear.
Maximus filled in the shallow hole he had dug by the shore of the little lake and thought about the Persian boy Bagoas, years ago, telling him it was forbidden for Magi to foul running water. Would they relieve themselves in a non-flowing peat lake? Looking at the surface of the mere gently rippling in the breeze, it would be a shame. Better by far to bury your shit. And that way it was hard for your enemies to track you too.
After about half an hour, he came to a causeway. It ran straight as an arrow across the mere. On the far side, Maximus could see fields and a path grading the slopes, signs of terracing higher. On the nearer side, it connected to a well-made-up track. Over the track were fenced water meadows. He had reached one of the parts of the Mere of Apamea more tamed by the hand of man.
Yet as he lay in the reeds watching, there was not a person in sight. Actually, there were very few living things at all. At home, a fen like this would have been alive with wildfowl and all sorts. Out here in the east, you seldom saw many birds. Where had they gone? Had the luxury-loving locals eaten them all?
No point in waiting any longer, Maximus climbed up and set off.
When he was virtually at mid-point on the causeway, the two horsemen materialized at the mountain end like some unwelcome divine epiphany. They were trotting towards him, and they were in Roman uniforms.
Swearing quietly, Maximus looked behind him — too far to run — and to either side — just the glittering mere, the shining face of a dark fate. He stood still and waited for them. It was a shame, more than a shame it had to be this way.
The horsemen reined in some paces away. Their swords were drawn. They did not speak. The one on the right dismounted first, then the other.
'Drop your weapons.' The first to dismount spoke.
Maximus unclasped his cloak. As he dropped it off to his left, his eyes never faltered from the nearer soldier. No opportunity came — the soldier's gaze stayed on Maximus.
'Weapons.'
Maximus unbuckled his sword belt, shrugged the baldric off his shoulder and tossed them after the cloak. Again the soldier's gaze did not waver. This was not going to be easy. Maximus still had old Calgacus's trick in his boot. But he was running out of options and time.
The first soldier stepped forward, his blade at Maximus's throat.
'Not a good day for you, deserter.' The other one spoke.
You should keep quiet, like your friend, thought Maximus.
'Hands out. Wrists crossed.' The first was in charge.
Maximus did as he was told.
The first soldier glanced at his belt, going to free the leather strip to bind the prisoner.
Maximus took the edge of the sword on the right sleeve of his mail coat, pushed the point away. Stooping, with his left hand he drew the dagger from its sheath in his right boot. Staying low, he drove it into the soldier's right thigh, just below his armour.
The other one was on him, sword arcing down. Maximus only had the dagger to catch the long blade of the spatha. Most warriors, no matter what their training, shut their eyes at the moment of contact. Maximus forced himself to watch the blade. He blinked. The sound of steel on steel. The impact ran up his arm. Automatically, he rolled his wrist. He opened his eyes. The sword was being deflected wide.
The momentum of Maximus's opponent was carrying him past, slightly off balance. Maximus spun elegantly and kicked him hard behind the left knee. The man went down. Maximus pounced. He landed with all his weight on top of the soldier. Grabbing the man's helmet, Maximus forced his face down into the mud. The man thrashed about, the viscous black liquid pushing into his mouth, his nose. Maximus increased the pressure.
Maximus glanced at the first soldier. He was inching in agony towards the sword he had dropped. His thigh was running with blood. No immediate threat there.
The struggles of the man in the mud began to weaken. Maximus pushed down as hard as he could. A convulsive series of movements, and then nothing. Maximus did not ease up for several moments.
Finally, the other soldier was nearing his sword. When he got up, Maximus's legs were stiff. With a hobbling run, he crossed the track. He kicked the sword away from the desperate hand. Falling to his knees, he seized the man's chin, yanked it back. He wielded the dagger. There was a rasp of metal on metal as the edge of the blade slid down the nasal of the man's helmet. The tip of the blade entered the eye. The man jerked up rigid, went still.
Maximus got up, looked both ways. No one in sight. He felt an odd tiredness and lack of urgency. He forced himself to think quickly and get moving. Having cleaned the knife, he put it back in his boot. He went over and put his sword belt on again. At the side of the track, he washed the blood off his hands and arms in the mere. He picked
