was Maximus? What had happened to him? ‘Do you need anything?’ ‘No, I do not.’ Inadequate words, if they were to prove their last. Saurmag had not mentioned the Hibernian. There had been no sight of him. Pythonissa had been dragged off. Ballista did not know where. After she had gone, four Alani had hustled him down to the bottom of her house. He had stumbled along, the picture of dejection – waiting for a chance. They had not bound his hands. The chance had not come. At the end of a rock-cut corridor, the trapdoor had been hauled up. He had been shoved down into this solitary cell. The trapdoor had slammed down. Allfather, he prayed Maximus had got away.
The Alani had come up through the Caspian Gates. What of Calgacus and the others? The small fortress of Cumania was as near impregnable as any Ballista had seen. But surprise, treachery, could take any place. If they had had time to secure the fort, they had provisions to last for months. But had they had enough warning? Had they let any others take shelter with them? Others who might turn traitor? If they were attacked night and day, how long before exhaustion wore them down?
Alone in the dark, he thought of his sons, his wife. Perhaps he had been right all those years – take another woman and he would die. The mills of the gods are slow in grinding, but grind fine. From the proverb his thoughts drifted to lines of Euripides: Not to your face, no fear, not to any miscreant’s Will justice strike the fatal blow; but soft And slow of tread, she will, in her own season, Stalking the wicked, seize them unawares.
He refused to give way to self-pity. If nothing else, he might as well die fighting before he let them sew him in the sack.
There were indistinct noises from above. They resolved themselves into footsteps. A heavy tread coming nearer. More than one man. No, thought Ballista, not like Edessa. The horror of that cell came back to him. A Persian called Vardan and Hamizasp of Iberia: beating him, rolling him over, tugging at his clothes. Only a near miracle – the arrival of the Persian boy, the Zoroastrian mobad called Hormizd – had saved him.
The footfalls were directly above. Might as well die today without suffering that, better than dying tomorrow afterwards. Ballista tried to get up into a crouch. His legs were dead, arms shaking.
The light blinded him as the trapdoor was opened. ‘Get him out,’ someone said. He tried to rise. Hands gripped him, hauled him up. He was set on his feet. They were still holding him.
‘Hecate, you stink.’ A woman’s voice. Ballista forced his eyes open. It was Pythonissa – and better, much better than that – behind her was Maximus.
‘How?’ Ballista was swaying, grinning like an idiot, trying to kiss them both. They were alive – free – they had freed him. Allfather, but this was good.
‘Get dressed now,’ She was not grinning. There was a third person, a Suanian warrior. He passed over a bundle of clothes. Ballista started to put on the trousers, tunic, boots, other things; all native costume. He was clumsy with cramp. Maximus helped him.
‘I was out looking for a place where a man might have some fun.’ Maximus shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Nothing at all, dullest place I have ever set foot. No bars, no brothels, no baths, not a drink or a girl to be had in the whole fucking place. You have got your arm down the wrong sleeve. Anyway, I was on my way back, all my hopes dashed to the ground, when who should I see but your man Saurmag coming up the road, and not on his own either. So, I ran back, whistled up our faithful messenger, old Kobrias here’ – he nodded to the Suanian – ‘and one of his friends. We went over the back wall as Saurmag and his boys came bursting in the front. Kobrias’s brother lives an alley or two over. He hid us. Gods, will you concentrate – hold your fucking foot still; it is like dressing a child. We got a boy to watch. The lad comes back, tells us Saurmag has just ridden out as if he were late for his own funeral, taken all but ten of his men with him. So we thought we would come back. There you go. Very fetching you look too, a proper barbarous mountaineer.’
‘He has a gift for killing,’ Pythonissa said.
‘Thank you, Kyria.’ Maximus bowed to her then smiled at Ballista. ‘Your armour and weapons are in the courtyard with the horses.’
‘How many?’ Ballista asked.
‘He killed five of the ten,’ Pythonissa said. ‘Now we must go. Put the hats on, cover your faces. No talking until we are clear of the village. There are others of my brother’s men here.’
There were two bodies, much blood, at the end of the corridor. Several more outside.
In the bone-white moonlight, a warrior and a eunuch held the horses. Ballista, more himself now, wriggled into his mail coat, buckled on the belts that held his weapons. His war gear clinked and glittered reassuringly. Maximus tossed him two more knives. He hid one in each boot.
‘Put the hats on,’ Pythonissa hissed.
Ballista and Maximus did as they were told. ‘Your helmet is in the bed roll on the saddle,’ Maximus whispered. ‘There is food and drink.’
‘Enough talk,’ she said.
Ballista noted with approval the bow case hanging from his saddle.
They mounted. A woman appeared from nowhere, unbarred the gate of the house. As the six riders went past, she performed proskynesis full length in the dirt. The gate shut quietly as they rode away.
There was always something strange about riding through a town or village in the dead of night – the flat quality of the light, a stray cat or two where there should be people, a dog barking loud in the stillness – and never more so than when riding through an enemy-held place, when any human encounter most likely would mean discovery and disaster. The priestess of Hecate led the muffled figures down one alley after another, past crossroads haunted by the servants of her infernal deity. The clop of hooves, the creak of leather, the jingle of tack echoing back from the blank walls, the shuttered windows – all inviting anyone awake to wonder who was abroad at such an hour, inviting scrutiny.
At long, long last, they left the last sleeping houses behind. Relief washed through them all. Even the horses seemed to move more freely. Pythonissa quickened the pace to a round canter. They rode on without speaking: the priestess, her lover, his bodyguard, two warriors and a eunuch – a strange company bound by circumstance. The sounds of their passing floated off up the bare slopes.
After half an hour or so, Pythonissa reined in. They slid from the saddle, walked next to the horses to let them get their wind back. The night was quiet all around.
‘Why are we heading south?’ Ballista asked.
‘Saurmag and the Alani have gone to besiege Cumania. Our brother Azo is there.’ She gave a snort of laughter. ‘It seems a rumour had reached my eldest brother that the northern barbarian Ballista had behaved with impropriety towards a member of his family. He is very keen on both family honour and propriety – I think I have been a great trial to him. Yesterday, Azo was on his way to see you. Somehow he slipped past the Alani, and ended up having to take refuge with your men.’
‘How many were with him?’
‘Only half a dozen.’
Ballista calculated: Calgacus, Hippothous, Mastabates, the three slaves and young Wulfstan, the Suani Tarchon, joined by seven other Suani – fourteen of fighting age and a boy. The additional numbers meant less danger of the tiny garrison succumbing to fatigue. If the siege were very long, it might put a strain on supplies. More worrying, Ballista’s men were outnumbered. If one of the Suani turned traitor, things would not be good.
In the gloom, Pythonissa turned a serious face to Ballista. ‘Saurmag has to kill Azo. If he does not then, irrespective of his Alani allies, he will not be king of Suania. With Azo still alive, neither the synedrion nor the rest of the Suani will accept him as king.’
‘What about your father?’
‘He is dead.’
They walked on in silence until it was time to mount up again.
‘If not north to the Caspian Gates, where are we going?’ Ballista asked.
Pythonissa smiled, spoke with a playful edge. ‘To the low country, so the renowned general Marcus Clodius Ballista can gather troops from the Roman garrison in Colchis. With the hero of Soli at their head, they will win a great victory, drive the nomads back beyond the Gates, kill the patricidal usurper Saurmag, place the rightful heir Azo on the throne of Suania, and in so doing both make the new monarch grateful to his sister and ensure he is a friend of Rome. A happy outcome for everyone, except all those you kill and all those connected to Saurmag.’
Ballista settled himself in the saddle. He snorted sadly. ‘A good plan for a Greek novel. There are not enough Roman troops in the whole of the Kindly Sea, let alone Colchis.’
‘Then we will go to Iberia,’ Pythonissa rallied. ‘Hamazasp will give us troops. He will drive a hard bargain, but
