work their way round through the trees and come up to the guards from behind. Maximus gestured that he understood. Leaving the packs behind, they set off.
The trees gave good cover, the slope not too steep. They had sighted the guards and were creeping down on them, when one of the men stood up. Ballista froze. The sentry was about thirty paces away. He walked some distance into the trees. He stumbled slightly. Maybe he had been drinking. He stopped in front of a tree and began to fumble with his trousers. Ballista moved to get between him and the other man.
Ballista came up silently behind him. The man was swaying slightly, one hand braced against the tree as he urinated. Ballista's left hand covered his mouth and, in a flash, the sword in his right found the man's throat. There was a spray of blood, black in the moonlight. The man's body shook violently as Ballista held him close. There was an unpleasant stench as the dying man's bowels opened.
Ballista lowered the corpse to the ground and looked about him. Maximus was crouched in the shade of a tree. There was no sound from below. Working quickly but quietly, Ballista stripped the cloak from his victim. It was fouled. Ballista turned it inside out and drapped it round his own shoulders.
Walking with no attempt at concealment, deliberately finding the odd twig to step on, Ballista went down to the tree line.
'Feeling better?' The south German accent startled Ballista. The speaker was one of the Borani, the tribe who had a bloodfeud with Ballista. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you.
'Much better,' Ballista mumbled. The man looked up as Ballista walked round the trunk of the tree. His eyes widened, but he had no time to scream as the sword cut into his face. A horrible gurgling sound came from his smashed mouth and jaw. He doubled forward, hands to his face. Ballista chopped the edge of his blade into the back of the Borani warrior's neck. The man did not move any more.
Shrugging off the cloak, Ballista ran to where they had left the packs. He swung up into the longboat, searching about. He found the furled sail, dragged it out and turned it over so the side unexposed to the dew was uppermost. Maximus passed up the first of the packs. Ballista drew out the containers of naptha, unstoppered them and sloshed the contents over the sail. Maximus passed up the other pack.
As Ballista removed the kindling, his heart sank. It was sodden. The pack had leaked. Nevertheless, he heaped it up over the naptha-soaked sail. Taking the flints, he struck them against each other.
Sparks showered down. Nothing. The kindling was too wet to catch. Cursing inwardly, he worked the stones feverishly. Nothing. A vicious stab of pain as he skinned his thumb. He worked on. Still nothing. This was not going to work.
Ballista jumped out of the longboat. He leant close to Maximus. 'We are going to have to fetch a brand from the small campfire up above.' Maximus just nodded.
Ignoring the path that zigzagged up the island, Ballista led them straight up through the trees. The slope became steeper. Sometimes they were moving on their hands and knees. When he needed to look at the small campfire to get his bearings, Ballista closed one eye, again wanting to keep his night vision as much as possible.
They came out on the edge of the path, just above the little campfire. There were half a dozen Borani around it. Huddled in blankets, they were asleep. Ballista and Maximus lay watching them, getting their breath back. Although the fire was low, the crackle and hiss of burning wood was loud in the silent night. Now and then, a voice could be heard from above. Some of the warriors up there were still awake.
There was no point in waiting. 'Grab a brand, and straight down,' Ballista whispered. They got to their feet. Drawing a deep breath, Ballista counted to three and set off down the path.
The warriors stirred as the two naked black figures burst into the clearing. Ballista selected a good-looking brand. He turned to go. A Borani was getting to his feet, blinking the sleep from his eyes, reaching for his weapon, blocking the way. As Ballista swerved past, he arced his sword down into the man's shoulder. The blade stuck. Ballista had to stop and use his foot to push the injured man off the blade.
Ballista and Maximus launched themselves down the hillside; behind them, a confused, angry babble of voices – then the unmistakable sounds of pursuit. The hillside here was steep. Stumbling. Sliding. Every step threatened a fall. A branch whipped Ballista's face, bringing tears to his eyes. He felt hot blood on his cheek. The crashing pursuit was close behind.
'I will draw them off,' Maximus shouted, and turned to the right. There was no time to answer. Ballista plunged on down the hill.
It was bright on the beach after the trees. His chest burning, Ballista ran to the longboat. Dropping his sword, he used his right hand to swing himself up level with the gunwales. He brought his left hand over and dropped the burning brand on to the naptha-saturated sail.
Ballista landed back on the sand. He scooped up his sword. He turned to face his pursuers. There were just two of them. Ballista stepped forward, carving figure of eights with his sword. The steel hummed through the air. The Borani skidded to a halt.
Time's arrow seemed to have stopped as the three armed men faced each other on the moonwashed beach. The Borani started to spread out, to come at him from two sides. Ballista stepped to his right. The Borani stopped. Behind him, Ballista heard a fizz as the naptha caught. Slowly, slowly, he moved backwards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blue flame lick over the side of the ship. The Borani both exclaimed. Ballista did not catch the words.
With a loud yell Ballista feinted forward. Automatically, the warriors facing him gave ground. Again Ballista backed away. Now there were big streamers of fire lifting up from the boat. Ballista turned and ran.
When he reached the water, Ballista swung round, braced for an attack. There was none. One of the Borani was climbing the side of the ship, the other racing back to bring help. The stern of the longship was burning fiercely. Only the gods could save it now.
Ballista waded out. When the water reached his middle, he gripped the sword in his teeth and struck out from the shore. After a time he took the sword in his left hand and swam one-handed, slowly moving west, parallel to the southern shore of the island.
The moon shone on the water. In front of him, Ballista could see the promontory which jutted out, making the end of the bay. At its extremity was a humped rock. The outline reminded him of the silhouette of a whale. He floated on his back. To his right, Pigeon Island was in uproar. The longship was burning bright. Men were rushing down the path towards it. Ballista wondered if the Borani chasing Maximus had given up. He could not see any torches moving west. What had happened to that sodding Hibernian? Without further thought, Ballista swam back towards the island.
It was rocky where he came ashore. Again gripping the sword in his teeth, he hauled himself over great slabs of stone, then clambered through a belt of rough grass and shrubs, feeling sharp thorns scratching his exposed flesh. When he reached the wooded slopes, he stopped a little way in and calmed himself. The trees here were quite widely spaced – palms, firs, wild olives – with little undergrowth. Bars of moonlight shone between the black trunks. There was a great deal of shouting from out of sight at the eastern end of the island; near at hand, nothing but the breeze moving quietly through the foliage.
Walking on the balls of his feet, feeling for twigs and dry leaves as his weight came down, he moved up towards the big campfire on the summit. Every few paces, he stopped and listened and sniffed the air. Moving silently through a forest at night was second nature to him. Following the custom of Germania, as a youth he had gone to learn his warcraft with his uncle's tribe. His mother's brother was one of the leading warriors of the Harii. Their fame as nightfighters spread even into the imperium of the Romans.
Ballista had not gone far when he smelled something: a faint odour of fish and tar. He waited, immobile. Soon enough, a ghostly, dark figure appeared, slipping from the shade of one tree to another. Ballista let the apparition pass him, then called softly, 'Muirtagh of the Long Road, you are out late.'
Maximus whirled in a fighting crouch. His blade glittered in the moonlight. 'Ballista, is that you?'
'And who else on this island knows your original name and speaks your native tongue?' Grinning, Ballista stepped out and hugged his friend.
As they crept upwards, almost at the summit, a new series of sounds came to their ears from below: the ring of steel, the disjointed shouts of men in combat. The galleys had arrived. Men were fighting and dying down on the beach.
The big campfire was not quite deserted. In one corner of the firelight, a woman was sobbing. In her arms, she held her daughter. Her young son crouched behind her. When the two naked, blackened men stepped out into
