knocking him back and sideways. There was a momentary look of horror on the Persian's face as he realized that there was nothing under his boots, that he had been driven over the edge of the bridge; then he fell backwards, arms waving into the void.
For a second Ballista teetered on the edge, then he regained his balance. He glanced to his left. There were two Persians on the floor around Maximus. Beyond that, one of the equites singulares was down, but another had taken his place. Calling to the other two defenders to stay with him, Ballista carefully stepped back over the body of the first Sassanid he had killed.
The line of angry, contorted faces stopped. To get at the defenders they would have to risk the uneven footing of stepping on or over the bodies of four dead or dying men. The Sassanids were no cowards, but it would be a fool who would willingly put himself at a disadvantage in a fight like this.
Ballista felt a surge of confidence: he could do this; he was good at this. A perfect Thessalian feint followed by taking the man over the edge. The northerner's euphoria was broken by a vicious pain in his right thigh. There was a thin white line, which suddenly swelled into a red gash. As the blood ran down he shifted his leg. It hurt. It hurt a lot. But it would take his weight. The arrow had caused only a glancing flesh wound.
Crouching low behind his shield, arrows flying in from both sides, Ballista looked over the edge at the siege ramp. He thought he saw a wisp of smoke curling out of the mud bricks at the side of the ramp. It was gone before he could be certain. Sweat ran down his back. Maddeningly, a fly tried again and again to land on his eyes. His leg was throbbing; soon it would stiffen up.
A Sassanid nobleman was shouting at the storming party on the ramp. Any moment now they would recover their nerve. Ballista looked over the edge again.
There! There was a wisp of smoke. This time he was sure. Another, and another.
The Sassanids on the boarding bridge knew that something was wrong. They stopped yelling, stopped screaming at the defenders. They looked from one to another, puzzled. It was the noise, something beyond the sounds of men in combat, something deep, low and elemental, something like a wave crashing on a rocky shore.
As Ballista watched, smoke leaked out from all over the siege ramp. The noise changed to the deep rumble of an earthquake. The ramp seemed to quiver. The boarding bridge began to buck wildly. The looks on the Sassanid faces changed to terror. Slowly at first, then too sudden to follow, the centre of the ramp sank out of sight. The three side walls held for a moment. The boarding bridge swayed above the abyss.
'Jump!'
As he shouted, Ballista spun round and started to run. The. wooden boards under his feet tipped up. He was scrabbling upwards on his hands and knees, his sword swinging dangerously from its wrist loop. The boarding bridge slid backwards down into the void. Its spike snagged for a moment on the parapet.
With a leap born of desperation, the leap of a salmon, Ballista just got the fingers of his right hand over the end of the bridge. There was a deafening roar. A mushroom cloud of choking dust and smoke blinded him. The parapet gave way. The boarding bridge began to slide down into the abyss.
A hand caught his wrist. The grip slipped, then held. It was joined by another hand. Then another. Haddudad and Maximus hauled Ballista up on to the fighting top.
For a time he lay on his back in the dust, holding both hands to the wound in his thigh. Through the darkness he could hear the groaning of thousands of tons of earth, wood and rock shifting, and hundreds, thousands, of men screaming.
Thick sweet coils of smoke meant to keep the swarms of insects at bay rose from the incense burners. Despite the clouds of gnats, evening was the one time of day Ballista still enjoyed in Arete. The artillery fell silent and a cool wind blew across the Euphrates. The terrace of the palace of the Dux Ripae was the best place to enjoy it. Here, the door guarded by the equites singulares and the waspish presence of Calgacus, Ballista could know some privacy.
The northerner picked up his drink and went and sat on the wall, one leg dangling. In the half-light bats flitted along the face of the cliff. Below him the great river rolled past, always changing, always the same. The green of the tamarisks provided a welcome relief for the eyes. Across the river came the bark of a fox.
Ballista put his drink down on the wall and looked again at the amulet that the two guardsmen had brought him. The messenger from the Subura had of course died. They had found the amulet on his body. In life he had worn it under his clothes. The leather thong on which it had hung around his neck was stiff with dried blood. The amulet was a circular disc, not more than two inches across. It was an identity tag, one side blank, the other stamped with two words: MILES ARCANUS. Ballista turned it in his hands.
The northerner's thoughts were interrupted by the approach of Calgacus. 'That hot Syrian bitch and her miserable father are outside. He says he wants to talk to you – probably wants to know why you haven't fucked her yet.'
'That should make for an interesting conversation.'
'What?'
'Never mind, would you show them in?'
Calgacus walked away. 'Your father would have had her on her back months ago. Any man in his right mind would.'
Ballista put the amulet in the purse on his belt and swung down off the wall. He brushed down his tunic. He had not yet had a chance to bathe or eat.
'Dominus, the synodiarch larhai and his daughter Bathshiba.' Calgacus could not have sounded more courtly.
Ballista had seen very little of Iarhai recently. For the last couple of months the caravan protector had seldom appeared on the walls. More and more he had entrusted the running of his troops to the mercenary captain Haddudad. Haddudad was a fine officer, but Iarhai's continuing absences were worrying.
As Iarhai advanced out of the gloom of the portico Ballista was struck by a change in him. He looked thinner, gaunt even. The broken nose and cheekbone looked more prominent. The lines on his forehead and at the sides of his mouth were deeper.
'Ave, Iarhai, Synodiarch and Praepositus.' Ballista greeted him formally, giving him his titles both as caravan protector and as Roman officer.
'Ave, Ballista, Dux Ripae.' They shook hands.
With a thickening in his throat Ballista turned to the girl. 'Ave, Bathshiba, daughter of larhai.' Her eyes were black, very black. They smiled as she returned his greeting.
'Calgacus, would you bring some more wine, and something to eat, some olives and nuts?'
'Dominus.' The aged Caledonian left without a sound.
'If we sit on the wall we can catch the cool of the breeze.' Ballista watched Bathshiba's lithe movement as she sat, curling her legs beneath her. She was dressed as one of her father's mercenaries. She took off her cap and put it behind her on the wall. Her long black hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Allfather, but she had a body made to be against that of a man.
Balhsta knew enough of easterners not to talk first to the daughter. He knew enough of easterners not to ask the father straightforwardly what he wanted.
'Your men have done good work, larhai, very good work.'
'Thank you. It is partly about them that I want to talk to you.' At Ballista's nod the caravan protector continued. 'They have taken many casualties. There are but 150 of the original 300 mercenaries left, and over 100 of the levies have died. I would like your authority to conscript another 100 civilians. While they are being trained they can be stationed on the southern wall, where it is usually quiet.'
'Yes, I have been thinking that something of the sort would soon be necessary. I think that you should try to conscript more, say 200. If suitable free men are hard to come by, we could offer some able-bodied slaves their freedom.'
'My fellow caravan protectors, Anamu and Ogelos, will not like it.'
'No, but as they are not placed on the desert wall, their troops have not suffered comparable casualties.'
'I will speak gently to them about it. I have no wish to upset them.'
Calgacus brought out the food and drink. Ballista took a sip of his own wine and pondered larhai's last words. More than his appearance seemed to have changed.
