Standing still, Ballista took stock. The cell smelled musty but clean. There were no windows, so it was completely dark. Squatting into position for an ungainly crawl, Ballista explored his new prison: about six paces by six, bare earth floor, rough stone walls, nothing movable, nothing that could be used as a weapon.
With a grunt of effort, Ballista settled himself against a wall. He tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, easing the metal away from the abrasions and sores on his wrists and ankles. Now he was alone he missed the companionship of the other officers. At least they had all been in it together.
Ballista was tired. His fatigue was a mine that each of the last two days had dug deeper, the tunnel burrowing away from the light, the air even harder to breathe. He thought of Julia, his wife, of Isangrim and Dernhelm, his two beautiful sons. He imagined their pain when news reached Antioch of the disaster. If he died, would they ever hear of it? Or would he just be gone, his end an empty space their minds would fill with terrible tortures and pain?
Shutting his eyes, Ballista promised himself that if there were a chance — no matter what it took, no matter at what cost to himself — he would get back to them.
The door crashed open and Ballista was temporarily blinded by the light. Two easterners entered and put lamps on the floor. Someone laughed outside. The door shut. Ballista peered up at the two men. The younger, he half recognized. The man was dressed in the garb of a Persian nobleman, his face made up, kohl around his eyes. He exuded a smug air of self-controlled menace. The older wore more outlandish clothes, a jacket with empty, hanging sleeves and a fur cloak, and had strange braids in his hair. Ballista did not know him. The stranger stepped over to Ballista and kicked him. The blow landed on his arms. The man shouted something in a language Ballista had never heard and kicked out again.
'On your feet,' the Sassanid by the door said, in Persian.
Ballista stayed where he was. He peered out from behind his raised arms, trying to look confused, helpless. 'Latin, I only speak Latin.'
The Sassanid moved from the door. He leant down, bringing his face close. He did look very familiar. Smiling unpleasantly, he spoke. 'We have met before. The first time, at Arete, your excellent command of my language tricked me into letting you escape. I vowed there would be a reckoning. The second time, not long ago, your status as an ambassador robbed me of my revenge.'
Ballista remembered now: he was Vardan, son of Nashbad, a captain in the service of the Lord Suren. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you. And Woden knew, Ballista had made enough of them.
As Ballista got up, Vardan grabbed him from behind, pinioning his elbows to his sides. The manacles dug into Ballista's wrists, the chain between them drew tight across his stomach.
'Be assured, northerner, nothing can save you tonight,' Vardan hissed, his breath hot in Ballista's ear. 'We have the whole night. My revenge and pleasure will be sweet as they come together.' Vardan laughed. 'But first…'
The other man spat in Ballista's face. He began to shout furiously, the unintelligibility of the words to the northerner making them more frightening. The man spat again. His breath was heavy with spicy food and strong wine. This man was full of hatred, but Ballista had no idea why.
The man stepped back and removed one of his slippers. Screaming what was abuse in any language, he beat Ballista around the head with it. Even though the slipper was light, it hurt. The frenzied attack went on until Vardan said something in the incomprehensible language.
Vardan again whispered in Ballista's ear. 'This is Hamazasp, King of Georgian Iberia. You killed his son at Arete.'
Vardan spoke again. The language must be Georgian. Hamazasp laughed. He began to unbuckle his belt. 'Do not worry, barbarian, you will not have to live with the shame for long.' He smirked. 'Afterwards, we will kill you.'
Ballista threw himself backwards, smashing Vardan into the wall. The Persian wheezed as the impact forced the air out of his lungs. Ballista stamped his left heel down on Vardan's foot, making him howl.
Hamazasp was bent forward, fumbling his trousers up. Ballista lunged and hooked the chain of his manacles over the Georgian's head. Pulling him close, Ballista drove his right knee up into his crotch.
As Hamazasp doubled up, Ballista freed the chain and spun round, swinging it with him. The hard metal links snapped into Vardan's face. There was a scream, blood sprayed and the Persian staggered sideways.
The door was thrown open. Ballista rushed at the guards. The chains around his ankles tangled in his feet. He crashed forward on all fours. Scrambling, he tried to rise. A savage kick caught him under the chin. His head snapped backwards. There was a blinding flash of light, a roaring sound in his ears.
Something animal makes the body defend itself, even when the mind is dazed. Ballista found he was curled up on the floor, arms trying to shield his head. The kicks were hard, shrewdly aimed. One after another they came, in his kidneys, stomach, mouth, ears. Ballista felt blood pouring from his nose. His mouth was full of shattered tooth fragments. Relentlessly, the beating continued.
'Enough.' Vardan's voice seemed to come from miles away. The kicking stopped.
Ballista lay, muscles twitching, stabs of pain flickering through him. Several men seized him. He was rolled face down. His limbs were stretched out. Hands hauled up his tunic, gripped the waist of his trousers.
'Stop!' A voice new to the room, Persian but distantly familiar.
'This is nothing to do with you priests, Hormizd.'
'The great god Mazda has willed that everything is the concern of his mobads.' The voice was controlled but tight with emotion. 'I am sure that neither you, Vardan, nor the King of Georgia would be so unrighteous as to deny that the caste of warriors must abase itself before that of priests.'
There was a charged silence that seemed to indicate unwilling acquiescence.
'Even should you have been led so far astray by Ahriman the Evil One, it would be unwise for a vassal king or an officer in the service of the Lord Suren to ignore the will of the Mazda-worshipping King of Kings.' The voice was growing in command, becoming mellifluous. 'Shapur himself, may his name be praised, has commanded the prisoner called Ballista be brought before him at the first audience of the day, as soon as the pious King of Aryans and non- Aryans has performed the rites that greet the dawn. Now my servants will take charge of the prisoner. You may go.'
Ballista heard the men leave the room, their footfalls and mutterings dwindling down the corridor. Spitting out tiny bits of tooth, painfully, he turned over. A young man with an earnest face and a big beard was bending over him. Ballista ran his tongue over his split lips. Croakily, he spoke.
'Greetings, Bagoas. It has been a long time.' Ballista lay in the warm waters of the tepidarium. It had been agony getting in — the grazes had stung even sharper than the cuts — but now the water was supremely soothing. It was scented with carnations and cloves. Relishing the seclusion of the small private bath, Ballista checked his physical condition. His wrists, ankles and the soles of his feet were badly cut from the march. The rest of his body was covered in bruises and abrasions. He squinted into a small, highly polished metal mirror, which kept steaming up. His right eye was blackened, the left almost closed. His front teeth were broken; some at the back ached abominably. But apart from a stabbing pain in his left side when he moved — probably a cracked rib or two — he did not seem to have any broken bones. He was battered and exhausted yet, if a chance came, he could still run or fight.
A door opened and the young priest entered.
'Thank you, Bagoas… sorry — Hormizd.' The Persian youth smiled slightly in acknowledgement of the correction. 'You know,' Ballista continued, 'when you first joined my familia in Delos, I thought you were lying when you said that was your original name.'
'The idea had crossed my mind. I had no wish for anyone to know from what family I came before I was captured. Now the time of my servitude is something not spoken of at court. The divine King of Kings has declared that it should be as if it never occurred. It is as unmentionable as those traitors condemned to the Castle of Oblivion.'
'Why did you save me?'
'Such things are an abomination. When I was… with you, your men Maximus and Calgacus saved me from the same fate.'
'Thank you. But you had already repaid the debt. Maximus told me that you sent our pursuers on the wrong path after the fall of Arete.'
Hormizd smiled, his even teeth very white behind his black beard. 'One who seeks to be a virtuous man does
