I was married to his beloved son.’
‘Hamazasp will kill me, unfortunately, not quite as soon as look at me.’ Ballista took her lack of response for agreement. He clicked his tongue and the horse walked on.
‘Albania then.’ Pythonissa was full of resource. ‘You said your friend Castricius is at the court there. My mother was Albanian. King Cosis will welcome the chance to acquire influence in Suania.’
‘Which is why Hamazasp of Iberia will never let Albanian troops cross his territories to get to Suania.’
This time Pythonissa had no more ideas. The horses walked on down the track.
Ballista made up his mind. ‘If we need warriors to defeat Saurmag and his Alani, there is only one place we can raise them – to the south-west of the Caspian Sea in the lands of the Mardi and the Cadusii.’
Pythonissa looked at him with incomprehension. ‘Their revolt has been crushed by the Sassanid prince Narseh. There is still a Persian army there.’
‘Yes.’
She saw what he meant. ‘They will kill you.’
‘They might not.’
XXVII
As the dawn chased away the night, they came to another pass – perhaps fifteen miles south of Dikaiosyne, certainly less than twenty. Its native name was unpronounceable by Ballista and Maximus. Rendered into Greek, it was Dareine. They could smell the camp fires a way off, before the smoke was visible in the mist. They halted: six huddled centaurs in the dimness.
‘Fuck,’ said Maximus.
‘Is there a way round?’ Ballista asked.
Pythonissa made a negative gesture with a hand. ‘Not unless we go a long way back towards the village.’
‘Fuck,’ said Maximus.
‘And they will be Saurmag’s men?’ Ballista asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck,’ said Maximus again.
Ballista looked all around. The bare slopes were grey in the half light. Above, the snow of the peaks was pink with the morning sun, the rocks showing through a deeper red. Resting on them, the sky was blue, but with ugly scrawls of dark cloud which promised foul weather. Down below on the pale track were the six muffled riders, much alike in their cloaks and bulky coats.
Ballista spoke to Pythonissa. ‘Your two warriors go in front. They must try and talk us through. Maximus and I go next. We may have to cut our way out. If someone goes down, no one can stop.’ He looked over at Maximus and knew the falsity of his words.
Pythonissa spoke in their own language to the two Suani warriors. Their identical, dark-eyed faces regarded her dispassionately. When she had finished, they moved their horses to the front. She backed her horse next to the eunuch. They all set off at a walk.
The tide of sunshine was flowing down the western slope. The bottom of the pass was still in shade. Clouds of fresh smoke billowed out from the small camp fire on the side of the track. There were four guards feeding the flames. The smell was aromatic, homely. The other, larger fire was some way off on a shelf to the left. Above it there was just a waver of smoke. It had not been made up for hours. The unreckoned number of men there were not yet stirring. The tethered horses looked down solemnly.
A challenge was called from ahead. One of Pythonissa’s men answered. The men by the fire were not Alani but Suani. It might help. The travellers walked their horses up to the picket and stopped. The sentinels had spread out; two in the track, one to either side; bows in hand, arrows notched. They kept their distance. There was an exchange of words. By the larger fire, men were getting to their feet.
Unslinging a goatskin of wine from one of the horns of his saddle, Ballista unstoppered it and took a swig. He used his knees to pace his mount towards the guard off the track on the right. Getting close, he leant down and offered the drink. As the warrior reached for it, Ballista stabbed him in the side of the neck. The dagger went in hard to the hilt. The man dropped the flask and his bow. He did not scream. His hands grabbed Ballista’s forearm. Ballista used his boot to shove him away. The man fell back with a frothy, choking sound.
Shouts – a prolonged scream. Ballista wheeled his horse. Automatically wiping the blade of his dagger on his thigh, he sheathed it and drew his sword. His hand was sticky with blood. Another of the guards was down, not moving. A third guard was dodging this way and that. Pythonissa’s two Suani were circling him, cutting down with their long swords at his head. The man had his arms up. Blood was running down them. He was screaming. The final guard was running up the slope towards his companions at the larger camp fire. They were snatching up their weapons, throwing saddles on to their horses, untethering them.
‘Move!’ Maximus was already a little way down the track. His horse was stamping, throwing its head about at the scent of blood.
Pythonissa’s mount surged past. Ballista brought his around behind that of her eunuch, slapped the flat of his blade across its rump. The eunuch’s horse leapt forward like a scalded cat. Ballista booted his after it.
The two Suani were still chopping at the remaining guard. ‘Leave him,’ Ballista shouted as he passed. The two men sawed at their reins. As they came around, an arrow took one in the face. He was knocked sideways in the saddle. His horse shied. The Suanian crashed to the ground. More arrows were slicing down. ‘Leave him,’ Ballista shouted over his shoulder.
The fallen Suanian was alive. The arrow protruding from his jaw, he was struggling to his feet. His face a mask of blood, he reached for his horse. It skittered back, and bolted after the others. His companion sat in indecision. Arrows fell around him. One thumped into the baggage strapped across the rear of his mount. He kicked his heels, and raced after Ballista.
The five remaining riders were strung out along the track, the loose horse running with them, threatening mayhem. Maximus slowed, pulled to the side, let Pythonissa and the eunuch overtake him. The Hibernian fell in beside Ballista. Their surviving Suanian was only a dozen lengths behind.
‘How many?’ Ballista said above the thunder of hooves.
‘Twenty, maybe more.’
‘Suani or nomads?’
‘Plenty of both.’
‘Fuck,’ Ballista said.
The first few miles were a straight chase. They were in the pass; there was nowhere else to go but down it. They rode as fast as they could. Stones rattled and flicked up from the horses’ feet. Thankfully, the loose horse dropped back. Again and again they forded the stream in a chill spray of their own making. The day was not getting lighter. The clouds were coming down. The pass twisted. On the longer straights they could see the dark mass of their pursuers, a mile or so behind, an amorphous animal set on revenge.
Pythonissa reined in at the entrance to the pass. They pulled up around her, horses and riders steaming. A steep slope down to a green valley, a river winding through it. ‘The Aragos,’ she said. ‘We follow it.’
Leaning far back in the saddle, carefully, they negotiated the incline. At the foot, she led them to the left, downstream. They had covered no great distance when those hunting them appeared at the top. Despite the hunters whooping at the sight of their prey, Ballista called for Pythonissa to slacken the pace. They would draw ahead again as the hunters came down the slope. This was going to be a long chase.
Some of the hills along the Aragos were timbered, but not enough to offer concealment. The fissures in its flanks were equally unpromising. Of course, they could not be like the two north of Dikaiosyne, Ballista thought bitterly. You could hide any number in them, or in the one they had ridden by between the village and the pass.
Although, generally, the valley of the Aragos was wide, at times it hemmed in on them. At these places the cliffs were vertical; devoid of vegetation, grooved as if by the chisel of some inexpert giant stonemason. Ballista contemplated making a stand, only to dismiss it as a futile last resort.
