Fireball

by John Christopher

  “The planning’s over. From here on we’re into armaments. I’ve got a foreman’s job at last.”

  “Away from here?”

  Brad shrugged. “Has to be. No room here to swing a feles, let alone stockpile longbows.”

  Simon said nothing. The place was going to be even duller, he realized, without Brad. Brad said: “Don’t you want to know where the factory’s to be?”

  He shook his head. “Not much.”

  “Has to be off the beaten track, to escape prying eyes. And within reach of a good supply of the right wood. So, would you believe, it turns out Quintus Cornelius has a plantation of yew trees on the other side of the valley from the villa. They make a special line of furniture from them.”

  Brad was smiling. “Anyone down there you’d like me to give regards to?”

  • • •

  The next day Simon was given another errand. Two prototype longbows had been made. Brad had taken one to the villa; the other was to be delivered to Bos. It was raining when he set out, the bow concealed in a bolt of cloth on his shoulder. There were few people about; anyone with any sense would stay indoors.

  He was hoping for a rest at the tavern and a chance to dry off a bit in front of a fire; but Bos was eager to try the weapon out, and they set off again at once. They slogged on through still meaner streets, in thickening rain, to a disused brickfield on the outskirts of the city. It was about a hundred yards long, surrounded by a broken-down wooden fence. Piles of bricks stood like islands in the mud, and a lean-to provided some shelter at one end. There Simon unwrapped the cloth and gave Bos the bow.

  Bos said: “The Parthians use little ones, shooting them from horseback. I have seen them in the Games. But you could not fire this from a horse. You have arrows?”

  “One.”

  He produced it. It had a tip of beaten iron, which Bos examined critically. Simon said: “You fire these standing. I’ll show you.”

  He fitted the arrow to the string, drew it back, and let fly. It landed some fifty feet away. He said: “I’ll get it back and try again.”

  “Leave it to me,” Bos said.

  He tentatively shook one of the timbers supporting the lean-to, then with a grunt uprooted it. It was about eight feet by two and a couple of inches thick. Bos carried it effortlessly about twice the distance Simon’s arrow had travelled, and wedged it upright in a pile of bricks. He picked up the arrow on the way back.

  Taking the bow from Simon, he flexed it experimentally. Simon’s effort had scarcely bent the bow; in Bos’s hands it gave like rubber.

  Simon said: “The arrow’s supposed to be capable of penetrating a breastplate.”

  Without answering, Bos fitted the arrow, took aim, and fired. Even the hiss through the air sounded different—a stabbing, purposeful snake instead of a feeble, listless one. The arrow stuck quivering in the plank, and Bos and Simon went out to look. The head had gone through the plank as though it were cardboard, and stood inches clear on the other side. Bos nodded approval, shaking raindrops from his grizzled hair.

  “A good weapon, but it wants learning. I aimed for his chest, and it went a foot over his head.”

  “All right for someone with your muscles,” Simon said. “Mine wouldn’t have scratched a bare chest.”

  “It will come with practice.”

  Bos twitched the arrow and broke the shaft close to the point of impact. He drew it through and gave both parts to Simon.

  “Go back and tell His Holiness if he gives me fifty such weapons, I will find him fifty good right arms to use them.”

  • • •

  Three weeks later the bows arrived and had to be delivered to the barracks. Simon and Bos joined forces at the tavern. It was a bright, cold day, with a wind that found the chinks in Simon’s birrus. He felt a different kind of chill as they approached the grim facade he had first glimpsed stumbling through summer dust. If they were caught smuggling in weapons . . . He imagined he could hear the snarl of the lions.

  Bos steered the donkey to the right-hand side of the archway and chatted amiably while the guard ran casual hands over the bundles tied to the donkey’s flanks. With a final exchange of jests they were waved on through.

  “Like I told you,” Bos said. “Easy.”

  Simon released breath. “What if he’d decided to make a thorough inspection?”

  “No question of that.”

  “You couldn’t be sure.”

  “Sure enough!” Bos laughed. “Since he’s one of us.”

  “A Christian? But he’s a Roman soldier.”

  “No, not a Christian. Not yet anyway. But one of us as far as this little game is concerned.”

  After that Simon was not surprised to find that the clothing quartermaster, a thin dark man with a pointed beard and knowing eyes, was also in the conspiracy. The three of them stacked the bows and arrows, covering them with linen. He was impressed by what Bos had already achieved, but it reminded him of something he would have preferred to forget: that these were preparations for a real event. What Bos called a little game actually meant the launching of a handful of men against the might of Rome. Like Spartacus, another gladiator. He remembered how that story had ended, with three hundred crosses lining the Appian Way into Rome, a hundred years before the crucifixion of Christ.

  On the way back they had a drink at the tavern. It was a dark red wine, almost black, and very strong. Imported from Iberia, Bos said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “We shan’t be drinking together for a while. Confined to barracks from tomorrow—getting ready for Julian’s Games.”

  He had forgotten the gladiators’ month of confinement before the Games. At least it meant preparations for the revolt would be held up. He said as much, but Bos winked.

  “I can’t get out, and you can’t get in. But Roman soldiers can do both. Don’t worry. Everything will go ahead.”

  He thought of saying that was not what he was worrying about—of urging Bos to drop the whole thing. But he knew it would be pointless; he could imagine the broad face creasing in bewilderment. It was he, after all, who had been the means of involving him.

  They finished their wine and said farewell. The big man hugged him, and Simon hugged him back. Then he set off with the donkey through streets where lamps flickered in the gathering dusk.

  • • •

  There was news next morning which drove thoughts of Bos right out of Simon’s head: He was to go back at once to the villa. He assumed this was because he was no longer of value as a contact with Bos, but discovered there was another reason on arriving there. A calvalry squadron was being formed, under the command of Marcus Cornelius, a nephew of Quintus, and both he and Brad were included in it.

  Simon disliked Marcus on sight. He was quite old, thirty at least, thin and very dark, with a classical Roman nose. His characteristic expression was a superior grin, but with little, in Simon’s view, to be superior about. He had a high-pitched nasal voice which sharpened to a screech when he issued commands. He was stupid as well as complacent, frequently wrong but incapable of admitting or, for the most part, realizing it.

  They exercised in open country further down the valley, practising formation riding and, more important, the mounted swordplay which the use of stirrups permitted. They rode against targets, slashing down wooden men. It was fun if you didn’t think about the end in view. Or, of course, of your own part in that end. Simon had assumed their involvement in the Bishop’s plans would be confined to the preparatory stage. It was an unpleasant shock to find they were expected to take part in the fighting. He said so as they trotted back from exercise.

  Brad said: “You didn’t really think the Bishop would pass up on anything he could use, did you? It’s one of the things I admire about him. He’s thorough.”

  “I should have thought he’d had enough out of us.”

  “Enough? This is for God, remember.”

  Simon was still resentful. “It’s not our fight.”

&
nbsp; “Isn’t it?”

  “Not our world even.”

  “You still hoping the fireball will come back?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Then it’s our world.”

  “We don’t have to get involved in changing it.”

  “No? You’re being stodgy British again. And we’ve been through that.” They were approaching the villa. “Anyway, if you don’t like the heat, I guess you could always get out of the kitchen. No stockade, no guards.” He grinned. “Someone might miss you, though. And I really don’t mean me.”

  • • •

  Being with Lavinia again certainly made up for a lot. She had volunteered to continue tutoring him, in the written language, and he had accepted with alacrity. There could be no question, at this season of the year, of using the summerhouse: they were obliged to sit in the impluvium, with servants and occasionally her grandfather passing through. The under-floor heating was in operation now, making the tiles warm to the touch. On clear days, air rose like steam from the open roof.

  He tried to hold hands at first, but she drew away with a small shake of her head and a reproving smile. He guessed that was to do with the lack of privacy. He didn’t know the ground rules for a young Roman lady who was also a Christian, but suspected they might be tricky. There were enough accidental contacts of hands or arms anyway, to make the lessons something to look forward to. And there was the additional satisfaction of knowing Brad to be out of the running. He seemed more interested in the coming revolt than in Lavinia, something Simon found very hard to understand.

  Altogether, time passed quickly. It was with another unpleasant shock that he heard Brad say, as they rode up the valley one morning: “Only two more days to the real thing.”

  “It can’t be so soon!”

  “You’ve not been paying attention, have you? Too concerned with Latin grammar or whatever. Marcus told us it was scheduled for the opening of the Games of Julian and the People. They start nine days before the Ides, and that’s the day after tomorrow.”

  He rode in silence, digesting the news. A gust of wind blew leaves across their path, and Brad’s horse shied. He controlled it well; he’d turned into a good rider in recent weeks.

  “No more Latin,” Brad said. “And no more Lavinia. And off to the wars as well.” His voice was infuriatingly cheerful. “It’s a tough life, kiddo.”

  • • •

  Lavinia suddenly proved elusive. Simon had known he would not see her that day because she was visiting an aunt, but he expected her to be back by nightfall. But a message came that her aunt was unwell, and she was staying the night with her. She still wasn’t back when he returned from exercises next morning, and the afternoon of a dark, drizzling day went by with no sign of her.

  The litter brought her back at dusk. Her grandfather asked interminable questions about her aunt’s health, while Simon hovered beside them. The old man went at last, and Lavinia said she must go to her room, too, to dress for dinner.

  He put his hand on her arm, and she looked at him.

  “Please,” he said. “Just a few moments.”

  They were in the impluvium, with lamps glowing warmly in niches on the walls and round the edge of the fishpond. She said: “What is it, Simonus?”

  “You know we leave tomorrow, before dawn?” She nodded. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

  “Perhaps you’ll be back soon.”

  “When I do come back . . .”

  There was a sound of footsteps. Words would have to wait. He kissed her, this time finding her mouth. She quickly pulled away, but she was smiling.

  “I must dress.” The footsteps were nearer. “Take care, Simonus. Come back soon.”

  9

  THEY RODE TO LONDINIUM BEFORE first light, but stopped short of the city gate. They waited in the huts of a small Christian community, tethering their horses in the chapel.

  Brad said: “I believe the local priest objected, but His Holiness overruled him. If the operation as a whole is dedicated to the glory of God, minor items of sacrilege can be overlooked.”

  They were eating a breakfast of bread and cold meat and wine. Simon said: “We’re to make our move at the same time as the gladiators?” Brad nodded. “Which is when, exactly?”

  “They’re due in the circus at the beginning of the fourth hour, so they’ll leave the barracks about two hours from now. Weapons will be on the supply cart. At the point nearest the forum they grab the guards, kill them, and head for the governor’s palace. That’s when we should be joining up with them.”

  “All timed by water clocks, so give or take a quarter hour. His Holiness never gave you back your watch?”

  “Wouldn’t help if he had. You need two for timing.”

  “Do you think you’ll get it back after the glorious victory?”

  “Maybe he’ll have it mounted in gold and stick it on an altar. If we’re instruments of the divine will, I suppose the same goes for our possessions. In fact, as far as the Bishop is concerned, everything comes into that category.”

  “If there is a glorious victory. If not, I suppose you can regard losing a watch as a very minor worry.”

  “I guess so.”

  There was silence. The air felt cold and oppressive. Simon put down his bread and meat.

  “I don’t think I can eat this.”

  “You ought to.” Brad chewed on his own food for a moment, then put it down. “You’re right, though. Sticks in my throat, too. Have a slug of wine.”

  Simon said thanks, and took the flask Brad passed him.

  • • •

  They cantered down the road two abreast, and as they came in sight of the gate, Marcus Cornelius ordered the gallop. Brad and Simon were six pairs back from the leader, with Brad on the left to take advantage of his left-handedness. Simon saw the Roman sentry emerge from the hut. His sword was scabbarded in his belt; he put a hand up as though to stifle a yawn. Then he stared in stupefaction at the advancing column.

  He shouted something, but Marcus Cornelius was on him, sword arm raised. The sentry cowered back, his arm now shielding his face. The sword flashed down, cleaving him at the shoulder. Blood, gouting from the collapsing body, sprayed Simon’s leg as they galloped into the city.

  Some people came into the streets to watch them, but the majority would have gone into the city centre for the procession and the Games. Rain began to fall out of the dead grey sky, spotting at first, but then more steadily. Ahead there was a faint dull roar of voices. They came into the broader streets, lined with the high-walled palaces of the rich. Simon saw a heavy gate being slammed into place; the mansions were being turned into fortresses, barring off their treasures from a suddenly dangerous world. The clatter of their hooves echoed back from the walls.

  The tumult was nearer and louder. It was not the normal sound of a crowd but something wilder; it had fear and anger and triumph in it. But whose triumph? Suddenly they reached the scene of the fighting, with the shouting still somewhere ahead. Bodies lay terribly silent, some peaceful as though sleeping, others twisted in a final agony. Almost all wore Roman uniform.

  Marcus Cornelius gave a roar—“Victory to God!”—and led them on in the direction of the shouting. The mob, howling beneath the steps of the governor’s palace, parted for them. Simon saw figures of gladiators under the colonnade at the top, one with his fingers twined in the hair of a severed head. A gilded crown hung from its ear. He saw Bos, too, leaning on a sword, face split in a savage laugh.

  Someone shouted that the remnants of the guard had fallen back to the Temple of Julian, and Marcus Cornelius whipped the troop off in that direction. He would be anxious to make up for having arrived late for the first battle; lack of courage was not one of his faults. They left the crowd cheering for Christus and the gladiators. The rain was coming down heavily, making the stones treacherous under the horses’ hooves.

  The streets by the temple were empty of all but a few, who scurried away as they approached. Sho
uting, Marcus Cornelius rode his horse up the steps. The steps were broadly pitched, but even so, it was crazy. It needed only one horse to go down and the magnificent charge would collapse in a ridiculous welter. Still, there was no choice but to follow.

  Then, incredibly, they were at the top and riding through the colonnade into the temple. Daylight was faint behind them; ahead there was darkness apart from the glimmer of lamps on the walls and a flame flickering out of a hole before a marble altar. The altar was laden with gold ornaments, set with stones that sparkled in the flame’s light.

  The guards, plainly, were not here. Marcus Cornelius called a halt, his voice echoing eerily in the vaulted silence. A marble statue, twice life-size, stood behind the altar: It was the figure of a grave-faced old man wearing a golden chaplet and a laurel wreath. The god-emperor Julian. The air had a heady, pungent scent. Simon felt a fearful awe and had an idea he was not alone in that. No one spoke. The statue stared down at them as it had stared down on fifty generations of worshippers.

  Footsteps broke the silence. A man came out of the shadows at the rear of the temple, dressed in white robes and carrying an ivory rod around which a golden serpent wound itself to display a fanged, hissing head at the top. His face was older even than the face on the statue, but he walked with a steady tread. He was obliged to look up to Marcus Cornelius, mounted above him, but the look was one of authority, expecting obedience. In a deep, resonant voice, he said: “To come armed into the holy precinct is blasphemy. To bring in beasts not dedicated to the god is a worse sin. Begone, before the god strikes you down, into torments from which only death can offer deliverance.”

  The threat, delivered with that air of steely command, was chilling. Marcus Cornelius did not respond at once. The priest started to lift his rod; the golden snake looked live and venomous. Then with a shout—“Only Christ is God!”—Marcus Cornelius slammed down his sword, and the high priest fell across the altar. The cry echoed round them as blood spread over the marble.

  • • •

  “It was a good fight, Simonus,” Bos said, “though short. A pity you came late. But there will be more fighting, God willing.”