by Nick Brown
Kallikres reached into his tunic, retrieved a bag of coins and put it on the table. ‘I haven’t taken a single one. Count them if you wish. Let’s just pretend this never happened.’
Alexon glanced at his sister. She pushed her hair away from her face and discarded her sewing.
‘I think we all know it’s a little late for that,’ said Alexon.
‘You have my word. I’ll say nothing. Here.’ Kallikres pushed the bag across the table and got to his feet.
‘Stay where you are.’
Alexon was sure Kallikres had never exchanged more than a greeting with his sister. Her words halted him.
Skiron walked around the terrace and stood behind their guest.
‘With respect,’ said Kallikres, ‘I am a city sergeant. I can do as I please.’
Amathea gestured at the meadow below them. ‘We’re a long way from the city. This is not going well for you. Sit down, or I promise you it will get a good deal worse.’
Alexon kept quiet. He supposed other men might have felt ashamed. But not him; he loved and admired her too much.
Kallikres looked at him, then back at Amathea, who pointed at his chair. The sergeant smiled in disbelief. Alexon guessed he had never been told what to do by a woman before. But he sat down.
Amathea turned to Skiron. ‘Bring them.’
The steward whistled and a lad ran out of the house. Skiron whispered to him and he hurried back inside.
Nothing more was said for a while.
Kallikres tried to appear calm by finishing off his wine. ‘What are we waiting for?’
Amathea watched the three men file on to the terrace. ‘Them.’
The trio were dressed in long green tunics with breeches cut of the same hardy material. They had thick, dark beards and unkempt hair. Each was carrying a long bow on his shoulder and a knife and quiver at his belt. They appeared unrelated but shared the same rangy physique, leathery skin and resolute gaze of those for whom violence is a way of life.
‘Itureans,’ explained Amathea with some relish. ‘Hunters from the hills below the great mountain. We don’t even have to pay them, would you believe? All they ask for is enough to eat and drink and a girl each. They all insisted on blondes, of course.’
One of the maids was dusting furniture just inside the door. A word from Amathea and an order from Skiron sent her running up to the table. She wasn’t overly pretty but had a pleasant enough face and a fine head of straw-coloured hair. She and the other two were from Germania and had cost a small fortune; but they could at least double as domestic staff.
Amathea was still looking at the hunters. ‘Every one of these fellows can skewer a pear at a fifty paces.’
Kallikres wiped his clammy face. ‘You wish to intimidate me, is that it?’
Amathea said, ‘It is one thing to hear of such skill, but another to see it. Girl, are you Lyra or Chloe? I always get you two mixed up.’
‘Lyra, Mistress.’
‘Take a pear from the bowl there.’
The girl did so.
‘Amathea.’ Alexon spoke softly. He expected to be ignored but felt he had to say something. Surely this would cause more problems than it would solve.
Amathea appeared not to have heard him. ‘Lyra, walk down to the meadow beside the drive. Stop when you’ve taken thirty paces, then turn towards us and put the pear on your head.’
Kallikres put up both hands. ‘This is not necessary. Why involve the girl?’
‘Off you go,’ said Amathea.
Lyra looked at Skiron, who cursed at her in Latin. Instead of obeying, she turned to one of the hunters, eyes pleading. The man spoke to Skiron in Aramaic. The steward translated.
‘Mistress, he doesn’t want his girl harmed.’
‘Then he’d better shoot straight,’ said Amathea.
The hunter understood that he had been given his orders. He took Lyra’s arm and led her to the steps. She descended them shakily.
‘Let’s end this now,’ said Kallikres, retrieving his money. ‘You’ve made your point. I’ll cooperate.’
Amathea ignored him too.
As Lyra continued down the slope, the hunter took his bow from his shoulder. He tested the string a couple of times then shook his head and spoke once more to Skiron.
‘He says he was drinking last night, Mistress. His hands are shaking. He can’t be sure of making the shot.’
Kallikres looked despairingly up at the sky.
‘Let us all calm down,’ said Amathea. ‘If he hits her and she is disfigured we’ll have her replaced.’
Upon hearing this, the hunter conceded. He moved up to the fringe of grass at the edge of the terrace and selected an arrow from his quiver. The other two moved aside and looked on.
Amathea stood up, then walked out from under the parasol and positioned herself behind the hunter. ‘You won’t be able to see much facing that way,’ she told Kallikres. ‘Come here and join us.’
Skiron stood over him again, hand hovering by the broad dagger at his belt. Kallikres complied.
Lyra had stopped. ‘I’m sorry. I lost count.’
‘That’s about twenty,’ said Amathea. ‘Keep going, girl.’
Girl. Alexon reckoned Lyra wasn’t far off thirty, several years older than Amathea. He looked over at the walls and trees, to make sure no one was watching. His sister rarely considered such details.
‘Skiron, my wine.’ She took her glass from the steward.
‘Don’t do this,’ said Kallikres.
‘I wish we didn’t have to.’
Alexon doubted whether anyone present believed her. Despite his determination to stand by his sister, he was suddenly struck by a vision of an arrow embedding itself in the maid’s face. He walked over and whispered to Amathea. ‘Sister …’
She held up a hand. ‘That’ll do, girl!’
Lyra stopped and turned.
‘Back straight, head straight,’ instructed Amathea. ‘Then put the pear on top.’
The hunter was flexing his shoulders and wrists.
Lyra began to lift the pear then stopped. ‘Mistress … Mistress, please …’
‘Just put it on your head. I promise he won’t harm you.’
‘But …’ The girl was crying.
Amathea tutted. ‘Alexon, where are they from again?’
He knew she wouldn’t stop now. ‘Germania.’
‘So they worship …’
‘Aericura.’
Amathea raised her voice. ‘Aericura will watch over you.’
‘Mistress, how can you be sure?’
‘Do you give offerings? Say your prayers?’
‘I do.’
‘Then he will watch over you.’
‘She,’ said Alexon.
‘She will watch over you,’ said Amathea. ‘Be a good girl and just put the pear on your head. It will all be over soon and you can go back inside.’
‘Do you promise I’ll be all right, Mistress?’
Amathea was now struggling to sound pleasant. ‘I promise!’
The hunter exhaled loudly, then checked the arrow and nocked it against the string. He turned side on and raised the bow.
Alexon watched Kallikres. The sergeant was wringing his hands like an old woman.
Lyra placed the pear on the top of her head. She held it there for a moment then put her arms by her side.
The bowstring groaned as the hunter drew it back. He closed one eye. The only noise was the ever-present buzz of crickets in the grass.
‘By the gods, I can see his fingers shaking,’ said Kallikres.
The hunter lowered the bow and glared at him.
Kallikres turned to Amathea. ‘How can he make the shot if his hand is shaking? That poor girl …’
Without any prompting from his employers, Skiron walked over to Kallikres and stood beside him.
But now the hunter seemed unsure about continuing.
‘Can he do it or not, Skiron?’ snapped Amathea.
‘Perhaps one of t
he others?’ suggested Alexon.
After a brief consultation, Skiron answered. ‘No, Mistress. If one of the others does it and … something goes wrong, it will cause a problem between them.’
Lyra reached for the pear. ‘Should I …’
‘Don’t move!’ yelled Amathea. ‘I was told fifty paces.’ She pointed at the hunter. ‘This is thirty. Tell him to fire now.’
The hunter needed no translation. He raised the bow and drew the string back once more.
Lyra checked that the pear wouldn’t fall then clasped her hands and closed her eyes.
Alexon and everyone else behind the Iturean was watching his fingers on the string. They were shaking, the tip of the arrow too.
The hunter let go.
The arrow flashed away and thumped into the turf well behind Lyra. It had missed the top of her head by at least a foot.
The hunter spoke.
‘A sighter,’ explained Skiron. ‘Now the real shot.’
Kallikres looked away and ran a knuckle across his brow.
Lyra was already reaching for the pear. ‘Is that it? Can I come back now?’
Skiron yelled at her to stand perfectly still.
Once more the bow was drawn. The hunter cocked his head to one side then lowered the weapon. This time nobody needed an explanation; a low-flying flock of noisy geese were flapping across the copse of conifers to the right. The only person who didn’t watch them was Lyra, who didn’t dare move.
Alexon peered at her. He couldn’t see any tears now but her tunic was wet upon her thighs. He wanted this to be over.
Back came the string again. The hunter’s fingers seemed to be steadier this time. He let go.
Alexon did not hear the arrow hit. All he saw was the girl’s hand fly up towards her head. Then her legs went and she collapsed on to the grass.
Kallikres staggered over to the side of the terrace and threw up into a flower bed.
Alexon and his sister watched as the hunters and Skiron ran down the steps then across the meadow.
‘Oh,’ said Amathea.
‘Is she moving?’ asked Alexon.
‘I think so.’
‘By the great and honoured gods,’ muttered Kallikres.
Skiron and the Itureans knelt in front of Lyra.
‘Well?’ asked Amathea. ‘Did he hit it?’
Skiron turned. ‘He did, Mistress.’
‘Bring it to me,’ instructed Amathea. ‘I want to see it.’
One of the hunters slapped the girl and a moment later her head came up. Then two of the men lifted her, one taking her under the arms, one by the legs. While they carried her towards the terrace, Skiron recovered the pear.
Amathea and Alexon walked over as the hunters reached the top of the steps. Lyra was looking at her mistress; everyone else was looking at her. Her face was so pale it appeared almost grey. The arrow tip had carved a thick line across the top of her head where her blonde hair parted. The flesh was horribly red.
‘Is it bad?’ asked Lyra.
‘It will stitch up,’ said Amathea.
The Iturean muttered a curse in his own language.
‘You’ll hardly be able to see it under all that hair,’ added Amathea.
Skiron spoke to the hunters as he came up the steps. They took the girl inside and he handed Amathea the pear, or rather the two halves of it.
‘A fine shot,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Kallikres?’
The sergeant said nothing.
‘Without a drink inside him, I’m sure he could do the same at fifty paces. Are you all right? You’re almost as pale as the girl.’
Kallikres gripped his stomach. ‘May I go?’
‘Of course. As long as we can be assured that you’ve understood the point of all this. Once my brother and I begin something, we always see it through to the end. We expect the same from you.’
Kallikres nodded then walked away down the steps.
Suddenly Alexon and Amathea were alone. ‘Sister, though I’m not sure that was entirely necessary, we seem to have made quite an impression on our guest.’
‘You disappoint me, brother. I told you that we must always appear united when in the company of subordinates. You questioned me.’
‘I’m sorry, Amathea. You’re right.’
‘I’m going to my room.’
He knew what that meant.
She was already on the balcony when he arrived. Alexon bolted the door and walked over to her. He had waited for an hour before coming up. Of their many routines this was the most established; it only increased the longing, the power of which amazed him every time.
Amathea was facing him but looking over the side of the balcony.
‘Anyone there?’ he asked.
‘Only one of the girls. She won’t see you.’
‘You must try to be quiet, Amathea.’
‘I shall do as I please.’
She stretched her arms out along the iron railing, fingers sliding on the metal. The diaphanous robe clung to her thighs, her form surrounded by the pink flowers and vivid green leaves that covered the balcony.
‘Am I beautiful?’
‘The blooms fade into insignificance beside you.’
Neither of them had ever touched anyone else. They found the very thought ridiculous.
‘I am yours,’ said Amathea.
‘And I am yours.’ Alexon dropped to his knees in front of her. He circled her ankles with his hands then slid them up, the robe bunching on his arms as he reached higher.
III
The coast road rarely strayed more than a hundred yards from the sea. It ran over countless rocky headlands and bridged ravines where water hissed and rumbled below. The only difficult section was north of Berytus, where the road steepened and twisted high above what was known colloquially as the Dog River. There they had passed the ancient statue of a wolf which was supposed to howl warnings to the locals if enemies approached. Some of the inscriptions on the rocks there were five hundred years old, dating back to when the Phoenicians had controlled the region.
The trio had been riding for seven days. It had taken four to reach the coast at Tyre, where they’d turned north, bound for Tripolis. Cassius was not in any great hurry; he’d sent a letter ahead to a man named Quentin, the treasury agent in charge of the counterfeiting investigation.
He never have imagined being glad to be back in Syria. Arabia – Bostra in particular – held dark associations for him now; he had left behind Abascantius, Governor Calvinus, the pressures of the troubling situation with the Tanukh and – most importantly of all – whomever had tried to capture him.
As suggested by Abascantius, Cassius had taken a series of precautions to remain undetected: they had left Bostra before first light, used a roundabout route out of the city, and been escorted by four cavalrymen for the first day. Though clearly bemused by such a duty, the soldiers had taken their responsibilities seriously, doubling back regularly to check the road behind them and leaving only when their charges found safe accommodation for the night.
Cassius was not in uniform and had used a false name at the inns where they stayed. As the days passed, he had grown more relaxed and was looking forward to what would surely be a comparatively leisurely and safe assignment. It was now mid-afternoon and – according to the milestones – there were only five miles left to Tripolis. They would arrive well before dusk with plenty of time to meet Quentin and arrange their lodgings.
Indavara – who was riding to Cassius’s left, closest to the sea – unleashed an almighty yawn. ‘Hot again.’
‘You ate too much lunch. Again.’
Indavara ignored him and pawed at an insect that had settled on his bulging right bicep. Though clearly happy to be on the move, the bodyguard never liked disruption to his conditioning regime and had to improvise exercises on the road. He’d spent half of the previous evening doing hundreds of push-ups and lifting a barrel above his head. His recovery had been remarkably speedy and he’d spent only two days
languishing in the cart. Even so, he was inflicting daily progress reports on his companions – apparently the pain was now negligible but the purple bruising had turned black.
Indavara looked over his shoulder. ‘All right there, Simo?’
Cassius turned round. The attendant, who was driving the horse and cart, had set up a makeshift awning to protect himself from the sun.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Patch?’
‘Seems fine.’
The hardy donkey who had been with them since their journey into the Arabian desert was tied to the rear of the cart. Indavara and Simo didn’t even bother to pretend that they actually needed the beast for their luggage any more. Cassius allowed them this indulgence but was constantly amazed by how much care and attention they lavished on the creature.
‘Can you think of any more?’ asked Indavara. The game of ‘guess the emperor’ had been going on for some time.
‘I believe we’ve exhausted our entire supply,’ replied Simo. ‘Perhaps another game?’
‘I don’t think you’ve heard this one,’ said Cassius, looking down at the white sandy beach where four fishermen were bringing in a net.
‘I once had a special collapsible boat constructed then used it to try and drown my mother.’
‘Mmm.’ Simo seemed perplexed.
‘Let me,’ said Indavara. ‘Was it Caligula?’
‘No,’ said Cassius.
‘Tiberius?’
‘No. Last guess.’
‘Nero.’
‘Very good.’
‘Ha.’ Indavara slapped his thigh. ‘Did it work?’
‘The boat? Yes. But she managed to swim back to shore – that must have been an awkward conversation.’
Indavara shook his head. ‘Emperors – mad buggers every one.’
Cassius pointed at him. ‘Don’t say that in company. And remember you’ve taken an oath to Aurelian. We should all consider ourselves lucky; we’ve not had such a capable character in the purple for quite a while.’
‘Do you think he’s seen the black stone yet?’ asked Indavara.
‘Probably.’
‘Perhaps he’ll see the god Elagabal like we did.’