slopes on either side. At least it was simple, thought Maximus, just two choices: run or fight. No need to be thinking of clever tricks with decoys, lanterns or anything else. Nowhere to hide and nowhere to go but down the one track: just run or fight.
The track twisted and turned, rose and fell as it graded across the hills. It was narrow, the surface loose and uneven. The hooves of the horses scrabbled as they slid around sharp corners. More than once, riders had to grab the twin front horns of their cavalry saddles to prevent themselves being thrown. A couple of times Demetrius was nearly on the floor. The young Greek was no centaur. This cannot go on, thought Maximus.
'Ease up, Calgacus,' he called. 'The body of the spy will have delayed them. Ease up, or there'll be a fall, probably a pile-up.'
The Caledonian considered then brought his mount down to a fast canter.
Maximus looked up at the sky. The night was rushing on, not much of it left. But they must be getting to the edge of the hills. After that, just a small plain, four or five miles across, and they would be safe behind the walls of Zeugma.
The small figure was standing in the middle of the track as they came round the corner. Maximus and Calgacus pulled hard on their reins, thighs braced firm into the leather and wood of their saddles. They swerved round the obstruction as they drew to a stop. Behind was confusion. Demetrius's mount barged into the back of Pale Horse. Miraculously, no one had ridden down the child.
Maximus scanned the slopes all around. No movement. Nothing. It couldn't be a trap. He swung a leg over Pale Horse's neck and dropped to the ground.
The child was a fine-looking boy, about eight years old. He had a heavy, fine neck ornament. He was crying.
'My mother has gone. She was scared. She said I was too slow. She has gone.'
Maximus held out his arms. The child hesitated for a second. Maximus knew that his battered face, the tip of his nose missing, was unlikely to be reassuring. He scooped the boy up. The child buried his face in the Hibernian's shoulder.
'My father is on the Boule of Zeugma. He is a rich man. He will reward you.' The boy chattered in Greek.
'We best be moving,' Calgacus said.
Maximus put the boy on Pale Horse then jumped up behind him. They headed off.
They had not gone far when they heard the sounds of pursuit: high, keen cries, the low rumble of many horses. Calgacus pushed the pace. The horses were slow to respond. They were as tired as the men. These four days had taken it out of them all.
From the crest of a rise, Maximus glimpsed the flat, empty greyness of the plain below; it wasn't far ahead. As the track dropped down behind him, a trooper's mount stumbled. In its fatigue, it almost went crashing. If it had, it would have brought others down with it.
This is no good, thought Maximus. If we're out on the open plain on spent horses, the Persians will run us down as easy as catching mackerel.
The horses were labouring up a straight incline. It ran for about fifty paces. The hill on the left reared up into a small, sheer cliff. Stones fallen from its face were scattered across the track. Near the top of the incline, a sizeable pile narrowed the path to single file.
As good a place as any, thought Maximus. He pulled over, indicated to Calgacus to join him, and waved the others past.
'I think I'll be staying here a while.' Maximus jumped down. He unhooked his shield from the saddle. 'Change horses and take the child.'
Calgacus said nothing. Stiffly, he dismounted, collected his own shield and, while Maximus held the heads of both horses, climbed up on the grey gelding behind the boy.
'You sure?' Calgacus asked.
'Sure.' Maximus looked up at the Caledonian. 'Back before we left the army, I promised Ballista I'd look after his boys. That is on you now.'
'Aye, it is.' Calgacus did not meet Maximus's eyes. His gaze wandered over the face of the cliff.
The noise of the pursuit was clear.
'Say goodbye to Demetrius for me.'
'I will.' Calgacus untied the bowcase and quiver from Pale Horse's saddle. He threw them down to Maximus. 'Keep mine as well.'
The noise of the pursuit swelled.
Calgacus gathered Pale Horse's reins, turned his head and moved on. His eyes still did not meet Maximus's but continued to look here and there over the cliff.
Left alone, Maximus worked swiftly. He led the horse a little way beyond the large pile of fallen stones and, with a strip of leather, hobbled its front legs. He scooped up Calgacus's bow and quiver together with his own. He ran back and took his stand half behind the mound. He drew his sword and put it and his shield in front of him, near to hand on the ground. He propped up the quivers so he could easily reach the arrows, and the spare bow beside them. He selected an arrow, examined the straightness of its shaft, tested its point. Satisfied, he notched it, half drew his bow and sighted down the track.
As he waited, time played strange tricks on Maximus. It slowed down; stopped altogether. Each breath seemed to take an age. The noise of the Sassanids grew louder, but they did not appear. The sounds seemed to fade. Maximus relaxed the bow. He counted his arrows: twenty. He looked at the stars, as unknowable as the hearts of men. They were paling. It was nearly dawn.
The first two Sassanids took him by surprise. They turned the corner side by side, at a good canter. Maximus drew the bow. He aimed at the one to his right, deliberately low, intending to hit the horse. He released. Having grabbed another arrow, he saw the horse was down, its rider rolling in the dust. He shot at the other and missed. He shot again. The arrow buried itself into the horse's chest. The animal somersaulted forward, its rider catapulted over its head. He crunched hard into the stony path.
Another Sassanid had negotiated the first fallen horse. Sword out, he was urging his mount up the incline. Calmly, deliberately, Maximus shot him. The arrow plucked him off his horse's back. The smell of blood strong in its nostrils, equine cries of pain loud in its ears, the horse bolted up past Maximus and away.
The remaining Sassanids at the foot of the incline were at a standstill, unsure how many were against them, uncertain whether to go forward or withdraw. Maximus drew and released again and again. The deadly shafts whistled through the pale-grey light of pre-dawn.
An easterner on foot was rushing at him from the left. Maximus dropped his bow. He crouched to scoop up his sword and his opponent loomed over him. The Sassanid held his sword over his head in a two-handed grip. The long blade started to come down in a great sweep like an axe. Uncoiling, sword out in front, Maximus drove himself forward under the blow. The sharp point of the Hibernian's gladius drove into the stomach of the Sassanid. The two men were pressed together. There was a slaughterhouse stench. Maximus pushed the still-gasping easterner away.
The Sassanids drew back out of sight. Under his shield, peering round the stones, Maximus could see two dead horses and two dead men. Nothing else. He counted his remaining arrows: eight. He wondered whether to run for it. Had he bought enough time for the others?
No time now. A rising war cry. The Sassanids were coming again. Maximus put down the shield, sprang to his feet and drew his bow. The Persians thundered into sight. Maximus released. He grabbed another arrow. Working as fast as he could, he poured missiles down into the enemy.
An arrow sliced a hand's breadth past his head. This time, the easterners at the rear were shooting over the heads of the ones in front.
Maximus released again. A Persian horse went down. He shot once more. He missed. He reached for another arrow. There were none left. He took up sword and shield. There was no stopping them this time.
The Sassanids were almost on him. He could see the flaring nostrils of their mounts, hear the snap of the long streamers they wore. A small stone bounced off his helmet. He glanced up. A shower of stones was falling. Above that, the air was full of rocks.
Maximus turned and ran. Stones and rocks slewed off the ground all around him. One caught him a painful blow on the shoulder. Behind him there was an awful roaring, a grinding.
He had moved beyond the torrent of debris. Maximus stopped and looked back. The track was invisible behind
