Ballista rounded on his bodyguard. 'You want us all to die?'
The noise offrantic work came from the darkmouth of the tunnel.
'You bastard, he is your friend.'
Yes. Yes, he is but, Allfather, I have to do this. Don't think, just act. Plenty of time later for recriminations, for guilt. Don't think, just act.
The men with crowbars and pickaxes sprinted back out of the mine. A couple more legionaries emerged with them. Castricius bellowed more orders. The men on the ropes took the strain and – one, two, three – began to pull.
Ballista watched. Maximus had turned away.
First one, then another of the gangs of men shot forward, stumbling, some falling as the strain came off their ropes. One by one the pit props were pulled away. There was a low groaning, then a strange roaring. A dense cloud of dust enveloped the mouth of the mine.
There was just enough light to see in the Persian tunnel. Although Mamurra kept his eyes shut, he could tell there was enough light to see. He was lying on his back. There was a crushing weight on top of him, a strong smell of leather. He could hear Persian voices. One of them was obviously shouting orders. Strangely, his ankle hurt worse than his head. The harsh, iron taste of blood was in his mouth.
Cautiously, Mamurra opened his eyes a fraction. There was a boot on his face. It was not moving. Clearly its owner was dead. There was a distant groaning, which changed to a roaring. There was a burst of shouting, the sound of men running, and the tunnel was filled with dust.
Mamurra shut his eyes and tried to breathe shallowly through his nose. He did not dare cough. When the moment passed it was quiet. He opened his eyes again. He tried to move, but only his right arm responded and, in doing so, the skin of his elbow scraped along the wall. He shifted the dead man's boot a little to make it easier to breathe.
He was at the bottom of a pile of bodies. Somehow that and the roaring and the dust told him everything. The victorious Persians had thrown him and the other casualties aside, out of the way. They had been following hot on the heels of the routed legionaries when Ballista had collapsed the Roman mine. Bastard. Fucking bastard. There would have been nothing else that the northerner could have done, but the fucking bastard.
It was very quiet. Biting his lip against the pain, Mamurra moved his right arm. Both his sword and dagger were gone. He rested for a moment. It was still quiet. Slowly, stifling a whimper of pain, he moved his right hand up and across, pushing it into the neck of his mail shirt, down under the collar of his tunic. Grunting with effort despite himself, he pulled free the concealed dagger. He let his arm drop, the dagger close by his right hip. He closed his eyes and rested.
Death did not worry him. If the Epicurean philosophers were right, everything would just return to sleep and rest. If they were wrong, he was not too sure what would happen. Of course there were the Islands of the Blessed and the Elysian Fields. But he had never really been able to tell if they were one place or two, let alone discover how you entered them. He had always had a talent for gaining access to places he was not meant to be – but not, he suspected, this time. It would be Hades for him. An eternity in the dark and cold, flitting and squeaking like an insentient bat.
It must be easier for the Sassanids. Fall in battle, become one of the blessed, and straight to heaven. Mamurra had never bothered to ask what their eastern heaven was meant to contain – probably shady arbours, cool wine and a never-ending supply of fat-arsed virgins.
It must be easier for a northerner like that bastard Ballista – for sure he had had no choice, but bastard anyway. The bastard and he had talked of it. Fight and die like a hero and the northerner's high god with the outlandish name might – just might – send his shield maidens to bring you to a glorified northern warlord's hall where, in a typical northern way, you would spend eternity fighting every day and, your wounds magically healed, drinking every night. No, not eternity. Mamurra half-remembered that, in Ballista's world, even the gods die in the end.
No, it was not death that Mamurra minded, it was not being alive. It seemed a monstrous, obscene joke that the world could continue and he not know anything about it. Not knowing.He, a man who had ferreted out so many things he was not meant to know.
He knew what being alive meant. Walking through a field of grain, running your hand through the heads of the wheat as the wind moved them; a sound horse between your legs as you rode into the valley, through the trees and down to the clear running water, and to the hills and trees on the other side – for him, that was not really being alive. No, it was waiting in the dark in an alley for the servant you had bribed or threatened to come and unlock the wicket gate, slipping inside, slipping inside to unravel the dirty secrets of the powerful, the fuckers who thought they were above the likes of him. It was lying in the dark, cramped behind the false ceiling, afraid to move a muscle, straining your ears to hear the drunken senators move from nostalgia to outright treason. That was being alive, more alive than at any other time.
The tune started rerunning in his head: Home we bring our bald whore-monger, Romans lock your wives away!
Mamurra heard the Persians returning. He moved his right hand back into his tunic. His fist closed around the hard metal disc. His fingers traced the words. MILES ARCANA. Very soon he would be a very silent soldier, very silent indeed. If it had not hurt so much he might have laughed. The sounds were getting nearer. He moved his hand back to the dagger by his hip. He had not yet made up his mind: try and take one of the bastards with him or end it quickly? One way or another, the fourth frumentarius, the one the others had not spotted, was prepared to die. The pommel of the dagger was slick in his hand.
The dried peas moved on the skin of the tambourine. Not much, but perceptibly.
Maximus did not like it. It was as if those left below were trying to attract attention. It was as if that great square-headed bastard Mamurra were trying to dig his way out. The poor bastard.
Castricius picked up the tambourine and moved it from the western to the northern wall of the tower. They waited for the dried peas to settle. They lay still for a time, then moved.
They walked outside and looked into the three large cauldrons of water along the wall which faced into the town. The waters were still.
Castricius led them to the north. Here, along the inner face of the town wall at intervals of about five paces, were three more cauldrons of water. The water rippled in the two nearest the tower; it was still in the one furthest away.
'It is clear what they are doing,' Castricius said. 'If poor old Mamurra was right that they originally intended to tunnel clean under the wall to bring troops into the town, they have changed their minds. They know we are expecting that, so they have decided to undermine the south-east tower and about ten paces of the wall to its north.'
He is good, thought Ballista. He is not Mamurra – may the earth lie lightly on him – but he is good. As Ballista framed the conventional line its sheer inappositeness struck him.
'Can we stop them?'
With no pause for thought Castricius replied, 'No, there is no time. They can spring their mine at any moment. When the peas and the waters stop moving, that will be the time. I will send word.'
In the event, Ballista and his entourage had only just reached the Palmyrene Gate when the word caught up with them. They turned and retraced their steps.
Nothing moved on the face of the waters. The dried peas stayed in place. The Persians had stopped digging. There was nothing to do but wait. The tower and the adjacent stretch of wall had been evacuated. Two volunteers had remained on the battlements of the tower. The terms were those usual if it had been a storming party. Should they survive, they would receive a large sum of money. Should they not, their heir would receive the money. Ballista had summoned both the reserve centuries of legionaries, that of Antoninus Prior from the caravanserai and that of Antoninus Posterior from the campus martius. The men were marshalled in the open space behind the tower. They were armed. They also carried entrenching tools. Piles of timber and mud bricks were at hand. That was all anyone could think to do.
Turpio, now acting praefectus fabrum in addition to commanding Cohors XX, stood on one side of Ballista. Next to Turpio was Castricius, now deputy to the new praefectus fabrum. On Ballista's other hand, as ever, were
