Ballista backed to the left-hand side of the alley, to the nearest porch. He tried the door. It was bolted. He hammered on it with the hilt of his sword. The sound echoed back dully and the door stayed shut.
The three men were closing in now. Ballista stepped out into the alley and sidled along until the porch would impede an attack from his left and the wall of the house covered his back. The men were fanning out, as far as possible, surrounding him. The one in the centre was directing them. He wore the face of a miserable old woman, heavily lined and pouchy-eyed. There was a jagged scar on his right hand.
'A long way from your charcoal stack, brother.' As he spoke, Ballista lunged forward, his sword seeking the man's chest. At the last moment, a clumsy but effective parry turned the point of the northerner's blade. Without pause, Ballista took two short steps to his right and unleashed a downward cut. The man there leapt backwards. A movement in the corner of his eye, and Ballista swivelled. Automatically, his sword came down across his body. A clash of steel and the assassin's blade was forced wide.
The snow was still falling. It formed a golden corona around the lamps. Weird shadows flickered about the alley as the four men danced their macabre, rhythmic dance: feint, probe, lunge, block, cut. Ballista fought doggedly. His mind was blank. After years of training and experience, the memory in the muscle was keeping the man-killing steel from his body. But he knew that if he made one slip, it would all be over.
The masked men gave a little ground. A man on horseback rode into Ballista's view. He had a drawn sword in his hand. Unlike those of the the others, the mounted man's mask was metal, the silver face of a beautiful youth, lips and eyebrows gilded, an expensive, full-face cavalry parade helmet.
The horse stopped. It stamped in the snow. The impassive silver face regarded the frozen tableau of the fighters.
'Finish him. Get in close and finish the barbarian filth, you cowards.' Through the thin mouthpiece, the Latin sounded strange, unrecognizably distorted.
The pantomime masks closed in on Ballista. Faces immobile but eyes wild, long plaits swinging as the swords flashed. They had not the skill of the northerner and they were encumbered by the masks, but there were three of them. A flurry of blows, sparks flying. Ballista was driven back against the wall. No room to move. Off balance, parrying a heavy blow, Ballista was driven to his knees. A sword knocked chunks of plaster from the wall next to his ear.
And then the masks were receding. Ballista scrambled upright, getting the sword out in front, securing some space. Snow deadens sound, but Ballista could half-hear something off to his left, beyond the porch, out of sight. The eyes behind the masks seemed to be flicking glances in that direction. Ballista got his breathing right, waiting for his opportunity. It never came. The face of the beautiful girl and that of the harridan looked in at the swordsman with the scar on his hand. The mask of the miserable old woman jerked. And all three were running off to the right, their boots kicking up flurries of snow.
The horseman looked down at Ballista. The silver face remained unmoving, but the eyes behind it were full of hate. He pulled the reins and walked his horse after the others, the way Ballista had come.
At the entrance to the alley, the masked man Ballista had cut down had risen to his feet. His leg was pouring blood. The horseman stopped. He held out his hand. A silver ring with the portrait of Alexander the Great glittered. The wounded man stumbled painfully across, his useless left leg dragging. He put up a hand to be helped up on to the horse. The horseman leaned out and gripped the proffered arm with his left hand. A glittering arc of steel, and the blade in the horseman's right hand crashed down on to the man's exposed head. There was a sickening sound like stepping on rotten fruit. Fountaining blood, the man fell away.
The man in the silver mask turned to look at Ballista. The light of the lamps shone on the mask of the beautiful youth. His arm came up. The bloodied sword pointed at the northerner. Then he kicked his boots into the horse's flanks and was gone.
Ballista leant back against the wall. He was drenched in sweat, limbs trembling with fatigue. Blood dripped into the slush at his feet. For the first time, he noticed four or five minor defensive wounds on his forearms.
The noise was getting louder: the sound of men pounding through the snow. Ballista pushed himself away from the wall and raised his sword again. My enemy's enemy is my friend. But you can never be sure.
A flood of torchlight, and Demetrius appeared. He had one of the Superintendents of the Tribes with him. They were backed by half a dozen Club Bearers of the watch. Ballista lowered his sword and embraced Demetrius, their faces together. 'Thank you, boy. How?'
'I knew something was wrong. Cupido never volunteers for anything.' Demetrius' face was earnest. 'I disobeyed you, Kyrios. I went out and found a party of the watch, led them to the Jewish quarter.'
'You showed initiative. It is lucky one of us kept his wits about him.'
Ballista released Demetrius and went over to where Cupido lay. The ex-gladiator was not moving. Covering him with his sword, Ballista searched him for concealed weapons. 'A doctor,' Cupido moaned.
Ballista looked at the wounded arm. He was fast bleeding to death. 'Who hired you?'
'Doctor…' The stale copper-coin smell mingled with that of fresh blood.
'Who hired you?'
'A man in a bar. I do not know his name. The one wearing the old-woman mask. Scar on his hand.'
Ballista looked down at him, considering.
'I need a doctor,' Cupido whimpered again.
'Too late, brother.' Ballista lined the sword up and thrust it down into the man's throat. It was finished. The snow was turning to sleet.
VII
It was early, the second hour of an overcast, gloomy day. The black clouds piling up over Mount Silpius threatened rain. It seemed to have rained every day since the attack in the alley. From the second day of the Saturnalia, 18 December, to six days before the ides of January: twenty-four days, calculated Ballista, counting inclusively, as everyone did. Twenty-four days since the third attempt to kill him and, despite both the municipal Epimeletai ton Phylon and the imperial frumentarii scouring the city, there was no trace of the would-be assassins.
The dead assassin's mask, the beauty of its young girl's face marred by the blood soaked into the linen, had been no help. There were more than thirty theatrical mask makers in Antioch. Unsurprisingly, none admitted it was their work. And no one had come forward to claim the body.
There was little to go on. Three hired swords: two faceless men and a nondescript man with a scar on his hand – a nondescript man who in the charcoal burner's clearing had shouted, 'The young eupatrid sends you this' – in a city of more than a quarter of a million people.
The identity of the young eupatrid on the horse was still a mystery. The type of cavalry parade mask he had worn was very expensive, but they were readily available all over the imperium. It need not even have been made by a silversmith in Antioch. The horseman had spoken Latin. But his voice had been so distorted as to be unrecognizable.
One thing, however, had struck Ballista. The silver-masked horseman had called him a barbarian. That would come naturally to Acilius Glabrio, or the sons of Macrianus, yet surely it was unlikely that Videric, the son of Fritigern, King of the Borani, would call him a barbarian – unless he had become thoroughly romanized in his months as a diplomatic hostage. Or unless he had said it deliberately to throw suspicion elsewhere.
There was so little to go on; still, the northerner had hoped that something would have turned up before he had to leave.
Ballista sat on Pale Horse outside the Beroea Gate, waiting. He looked up at the nearest window in the great, square, projecting towers of the gate. The bright lamps inside made a halo of golden hair low down in the window. Higher and less distinct, slightly behind the boy, was the dark hair of his mother. Ballista had said he would leave Maximus to protect them, but Julia would not hear of it. She had pointed out that while someone had three times tried to kill Ballista, there had been no attempt on his family. She had stated firmly that the two remaining ex-gladiators would be enough protection while Ballista was away. The northerner felt some guilt at his relief that he would have the familiar presence of his Hibernian bodyguard at his side. He waved, and saw the light blur of his wife's and son's hands waving back.
