Turpio to keep the boys in line, Ballista edged forward up the side of the column.
Drawing closer, Ballista recognized the officer as Camillus, the tribune commanding Legio VI Gallicana, the Danubian Aurelian's old legion, transferred from Mogontiacum on the Rhine. Ballista had met him several times, and knew him for a sound man.
'No, Dominus, I am afraid there is no doubt,' Camillus was saying. 'My legion marches at the head of the infantry. My eyes have not played a trick on me. When we stopped for that loose horse, they carried on. The cavalry have gone. All of them.' Camillus added under his breath, 'Again.'
'What is to be done?' Valerian asked plaintively.
'No cause for alarm, Dominus,' said Quietus. 'See, Anamu is here.'
The old emperor looked at the Arab like a lost child recognizing its parent.
Anamu's long face smiled. 'They have some of my guides with them, Dominus. They know the route. When they realize we have lost touch, they will halt and wait for us. No cause for alarm in the Achaean camp before Troy. We have left the easterners far behind. There is not a Sassanid for miles.'
'I would not be so sure,' said Camillus. 'I have heard men on horses shadowing our march.'
'Wild talk which lowers morale,' the Princeps Peregrinorum, Censorinus, interjected softly. 'It cannot be allowed.' Camillus fell silent. When the head of the frumentarii made a veiled threat, most men fell silent. The tribune of Legio VI Gallicana was no exception.
Valerian seemed not to notice the interchange. 'Then we just continue the march?' It was more a question than a statement.
'As ever, Dominus, you make the wisest decision.' Anamu kissed his fingertips and bowed towards the emperor. 'With your permission, Dominus, I will return to the head of the column.' He turned to Camillus. 'Perhaps the tribune will ride with me?'
Camillus saluted Valerian, shot an unhappy look at Ballista, and turned his horse to follow.
As inconspicuously as possible, Ballista moved back to his place in the column. As they moved forward again, he told Turpio what he had heard.
'A loose horse. The cavalry vanish. But not Anamu. Quietus and Censorinus to hand,' Turpio mused. 'An odd accident.'
'No accident at all?' asked Ballista.
'Maybe not.'
'Still,' said Ballista, 'it was a beautiful horse.'
'Very,' said Turpio.
They rode on through the night, over the dark, rolling hills. They halted, set off, halted again. They skirted the black, folded mountains, turning west then east. Sometimes they doubled back on themselves. Once, off to the left, Ballista saw a solitary rock with the profile of a crouching lion. He checked the stars to make sure they were not back near where they had started, marching south. No, at that point they were heading north.
Tired, lulled by the rhythmic creak of leather and the hypnotic tread of Pale Horse, Ballista's thoughts wandered. A man had tried to kill him. A few days earlier, Quietus had said the northerner's usefulness was at an end. If there had been any doubts in Ballista's mind, the behaviour of Censorinus had dispelled them. Two years ago, in Antioch, the head of the frumentarii had worked hard to try to discover who the northerner's would-be killers were. This time, he had not even gone through the motions. Two years ago, Censorinus had not been a close amicus of Macrianus the Lame.
With a jolt, Ballista wondered if Macrianus might be right. The army was stumbling to disaster. Had the gods deserted them because they had not eradicated the atheist Christians? Had Ballista contributed to the divine displeasure by freeing the Christians from the prison by the state agora in Ephesus?
But, on the other hand, was it just possible the Christians were right? Only one previous emperor had ordered an empire-wide persecution. Soon after, Decius had been cut down by the Goths. Valerian had commanded the second, and now he looked likely to share a similar fate at the hands of the Persians. Was there one all-powerful, vengeful god who was not to be mocked?
It was inherently unlikely. All the different peoples – the Romans, the Persians, the chaste Seres, the adulterous Bactrians – how could one god fulfil their different needs, enforce their different moralities? If there was one all-powerful god, why had he made such a bad job of making his presence known to the majority of mankind? No, a god of compassion could never have a son who would say that a man who loved his father or his mother or his children more than the by-blow of divinity was unworthy.
Ballista thought about his family. He did not want to die here in the dark on this lonely plateau swept by a cold south wind. He wanted to see his family again: Julia's dark eyes, her strangely self-controlled smile; the line of Isangrim's cheekbone, his blue eyes, the perfection of his mouth; Dernhelm's round baby face beaming with triumph as he stood unaided for a few seconds before thumping down on his bottom again.
'There is something out there, to our right – troops, I think.' Maximus' words brought Ballista back. He listened. The scrunch of gravel under the horses' hooves. The rattle of equipment. The breathing of men and animals. He could hear nothing beyond his immediate environment.
'There,' whispered Maximus. Ballista pulled Pale Horse out of the line. He took off his helmet, cupped a hand to his ear and turned his head slowly, scanning through 180 degrees to the right. Still nothing. Then, from far away, he heard the call of an owl. Many cultures considered it a bad omen. Ballista could not see why. He had always found it a homely, comforting sound. He listened for the reply of another owl. It never came.
A clink of metal on rock. The Hibernian was right. From out of sight in the darkness, not far behind where they rode, came the sounds of armed men. Ballista strained to hear. Was it the missing Roman cavalry? Was it the Sassanids?
Just then came a confused series of shouts from the praetorians. 'Enemy to the right!' 'Halt!' 'Form to the right!' 'Javelins ready!' Shields slammed together. Weapons rattled. The sounds seemed to echo back from the night. The outline of a close-packed body of troops loomed out of the dark.
'Halt! Hold the line!' Then, a nervous praetorian centurion yelled the command for his men to throw. The command was repeated up and down the line. In no great order, each century acting on its own, the front rank ran three, four paces and hurled their weapons. They flew into blackness. Men screamed out there. Shouts echoed back.
For a few heartbeats, nothing. Then the whistle of incoming missiles. Heavy javelins sliced down among the praetorians. They thumped into shields, clanged off helmets and armour. Now, men close by screamed.
Ballista's small party was in no immediate danger. The incoming missiles were falling to their rear, beyond the packhorses. Asking Turpio to hold the men where they were, and telling Maximus to follow, Ballista wheeled Pale Horse off to the left. They cantered down behind the imperial baggage and the backs of the praetorians. No incoming arrows, just javelins. No sound of horses, just foot soldiers. Not the missing cavalry? Not Sassanids? A javelin overshot the praetorians. It skidded along in front of Pale Horse. Even in the gloom, Ballista knew it was not an eastern weapon.
'Cease shooting! Form testudo by centuries!' Ballista was on horseback. He had a voice accustomed to issuing commands. The praetorians hurried to obey this unknown officer who had appeared behind them. The ragged line resolved itself into small clumps of men, roofed over with shields fitted together like tiles. Javelins continued to scythe in out of the darkness. Maximus swore as one flew far too close.
'Cease shooting!' Ballista bellowed at the outline in the dark. 'Pietas!' – he roared the night's watchword. One or two more javelins fell. Then they stopped.
Nothing moved… but there was a chest constricting tension in the stillness. Ballista moved Pale Horse to one of the gaps between the praetorian centuries. The darkness stretched in front of him. A rocky ground. An indistinct outline at the limit of his vision. He walked Pale Horse out into no-man's land. Suddenly, it was very quiet, just a few men moaning in the distance and the sound of the gelding's hooves on the hard ground. Ballista felt very exposed. 'Pietas!' he called again.
'Pax Deorum!' came the correct answer. Ballista exhaled with relief, but he kept Pale Horse to a very slow walk. Men on both sides were jumpy.
'Identify youself.'
An officer on foot detached himself from the mass and walked to meet Ballista. 'Marcus Accius, tribune commanding the third cohort of Celts. And you?'
'Marcus Clodius Ballista. The men behind me are the Praetorian Guard.'
