Another warrior whose life had been spared for slavery, Cormac, had been in the cart too. Apparently, they had raided a neighbouring tribe of some cattle and some of its warriors had caught up with them. There was a running battle and Muirtagh had been hit in the head by a slingshot and dropped like a stone. Now they were being taken down to the coast to be sold to Roman slave traders.
Cormac had not been sold. A minor wound to his leg had turned bad, and he had died. Muirtagh had. His first owner thought Maximus was a suitable name for a potential recruit to the arena, so he was called Muirtagh no longer. Maximus was shipped to Gaul and sold to a lanista, the trainer of a travelling group of gladiators. At first he had fought with the cruel caestus, the metal-spiked glove of a boxer. But there had been an incident: Maximus and a retiarius, a net and trident fighter, in the troupe had fallen out over money. To recoup the loss incurred by the crippling of the retiarius, Maximus had been sold to another troupe, where he had fought with the oblong shield and short sword of a murmillo.
Maximus had been fighting in the great stone amphitheatre of Arelate when Ballista first saw him. The Angle had paid well over the odds for him, and for good reason. Back then, on his way to the far west, Ballista would need two things: someone to watch his back and someone to teach him Celtic.
Maximus was not obsessed with winning his freedom as other slaves were. The Romans were uncommon generous with manumission – but only because freeing lots of slaves was the carrot that worked with the stick of crucifixion to keep them from acts of desperation, from mass flight or revolt. At an individual level, it was a way for the Roman elite to show their largesse. Freeing large numbers of slaves fuelled the demand for new ones. Freedom, for Maximus, was all bound up with expectations and obligations. Maximus was not too fussed about a roof over his head, and certainly not bothered whether the roof was his own. He wanted his belly full, of booze as well as food; he wanted a string of willing girls, although, at times, reluctance had its attractions; and he enjoyed a fight. He was good at violence, and he knew it. If he had stayed at home and had managed to stay alive, he would have gained these things in the retinue of a local Hibernian king. Here, serving as Ballista's bodyguard, he got all of them, with wine as well as beer, and a greater range of women. And then, there was no question of freedom until he had paid off his obligation to Ballista. It often played through his mind: his hobnails slipping on the marble floor (never wear those bastards again), his sword knocked out of reach as he fell (always have a wrist loop of leather on the pommel), the fierce brown face, the sword arm lifted for the killing blow, and the cut with which Ballista had severed that arm.
When he was young and had travelled nowhere, his endless talk had won him the name Muirtagh of the Long Road. Now the name fitted the truth, only Ballista ever called him that, and then only occasionally.
He was happy enough where he was. Sure, he would like to go back home one day, but only once, and then not for long – just long enough to kill the men who had enslaved him, rape their women and burn down their homes.
The cruise of the Concordia had run as smoothly as the water out of a clock in court. All was warm early October sunshine and gentle breezes for the two days it took to sail from Delos to Cnidus; first east to the island of Ikaros, then south-east down the Sporades chain between the puritans of the island of Kos and the decadents of the mainland of Asia Minor and, finally, to peninsular Cnidus. Here they had stopped for a day to take on water and to inspect the semen-stained thighs of the statue of Aphrodite of Cnidus.
On the morning they pulled out of Cnidus a sea mist had settled. The captain said that they were not that uncommon in these waters of the southern Aegean; not usually as bad as this, but there was some sort of fret at least half the year. With visibility down to under two miles he set a course along the south coast from Cnidus to Cape Onougnathos, then striking out south-east for the north coast of the island of Syme. An anchored merchantman indicated proximity to Syme. The Concordia slid by and shaped to make for Rhodes.
'Two sails. Directly ahead. Pirates. Goths!'
There was pandemonium on the deck of the Concordia until the captain bellowed for silence. As the hubbub subsided, he ordered everyone to sit down. Ballista walked with the captain to the prow. There they were, emerging from the sea mist about two miles ahead. There was no mistaking the shape of the vessels, the distinctive double-ended outline, as both fore and aft seemed to sweep up into a prow. One central mast, one steering oar over the starboard quarter, lots of shields hung along the sides. The two Goth craft were each about two-thirds the length of the Concordia but, with only one level of rowers, they were considerably lower in the water.
' Judging by the length of them, there should be about fifty of the bastards in each,' said the captain. 'Of course, you would know all about them.'
Ballista ignored the implicit gibe at his barbarian origins. He did know a lot about them. They were Borani, a German people within the loose confederation known as the Goths. All such Gothic pirates in these waters were Borani. In recent years, more and more of them had slipped out of the innumerable harbours and creeks of the Black Sea, run down through the Bosphorus and taken to plundering the coasts and islands of the Aegean. These two ships had taken up a good station on a well-used shipping route between the Diabetai islets and the island of Syme.
'Permission to clear for action, Dominus?'
'Carry on. There is no need to run every order through me. You are the captain of this ship. My bodyguard and myself will just add numbers to your marines and put ourselves at the disposal of your optio, your second-in- command.'
'Thank you, Dominus.' The Captain turned away, then back. 'Would you order as many as possible of your staff to cram themselves in your cabin below deck, and the rest to shelter in the stern awning?'
Demetrius had appeared out of nowhere. As Ballista relayed the instructions, he noticed that the youth looked terrified. 'Demetrius, would you make sure that the staff remain calm?' The boy seemed to rally with the implied trust placed in him.
'Main deck crew, lower the mainyard, then unstep the mast. Lash both down securely. Forward deck crew, do the same with the bowsprit,' yelled the captain. On a warship these would be left ashore during action but the captain was not in a position to jettison good timbers at any possible sighting of pirates.
As Ballista reached the stern, Maximus appeared carrying their war gear, fighting his way against the rush of the staff going below. Ballista slipped his sword belt over his head, unbuckled his military belt and draped them both over his curule chair. He sank to his knees and held his arms aloft to make it easier for Maximus to help him into his mail coat. He felt its weight on his shoulders increasing as he got back to his feet. He buckled his cingulum tightly, pulling some of the mail shirt up through the belt to take some of the weight from his shoulders, and re- slung his sword belt. He tied the thick scarf in the neck of his mail shirt. As he settled his war helm on his head, his fingers fumbled with the laces under his chin. Ballista was always clumsy before battle, but he knew that his fear would go when the action started. By the time he picked up his shield, the three-foot circle of closely joined planks with leather cover and metal boss heavy as he hoisted the central grip, he saw that Maximus had virtually finished wriggling into his own mail shirt, 'like a salmon swimming upstream', as the Hibernian himself would have said.
'Marines, arm. Break out the axes and boarding pikes!' More orders issued from the captain. 'Engine crews, remove covers, check springs and washers. One test shot.'
Both Ballista and Maximus were now armed. 'Another stage on the long road of Muirtagh,' said Ballista.
'May the gods hold their hands over us.'
At Maximus's words each man grinned and punched the other on the left shoulder. As always, Maximus took up his place on Ballista's right. Without any conscious thought, Ballista went through his own silent pre-battle ritual: right hand to the dagger on his right hip, pull it an inch or so out of its sheath then snap it back; left hand on the scabbard of his sword, right hand pull the blade a couple of inches free then push it back; finally, right hand touch the healing stone tied to the scabbard.
'Oh, shit, here we go again. At least this time it's not my responsibility.'
His words were cut off by the twang, slide and thump of the first bolt-thrower's test shot. The bolt flew far out to the left. It was rapidly followed by three more, two to the right, one to the left. The crew of the starboard rear engine worked feverishly, adjusting the tension of the springs, the twisted bundles of hair that provided its awesome torsion power.
Yet more orders flowed from the captain: 'Spare oars to all levels. Spread sand on the deck. Complete silence. Listen for the commands. Only officers to speak.'
