Fire in the East wor-1

by Harry Sidebottom

  Iarhai looked at him.

  'Answer me.'

  'No.' A muscle twitched in larhai's broken cheekbone. 'Yes, I have become a Christian. I am sickened by life, sickened by killing. Theodotus offered me redemption. But no, I had no idea he would do this.'

  Ballista tried to rein in his anger. He believed Iarhai. 'I will give you a chance of redemption, in this life if not the next.' Iarhai regarded Ballista incuriously. 'If I can help it, I do not intend to die in this fly-blown dump of a town. I have horses waiting saddled in the palace. If I can reach there, I have a plan which may work. I will take your daughter with me. But we will never reach the palace unless someone holds up the Sassanids.'

  'It will be as God wills,' Iarhai said in a flat monotone.

  'Get up and arm yourself, you gutless bastard,' Ballista shouted.

  'Thou shalt not kill,' intoned Iarhai. 'Never again will I take the life of another man.'

  'If there is one thing in this world that you love it is your daughter. Will you not stir yourself even to try to save her?'

  'It will be as God wills.'

  Ballista looked around in fury. Bathshiba was standing near. Without warning, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to him. She shrieked in surprise and pain. Ballista held her in front of him, his left hand in a strong grip around her throat.

  Iarhai half rose. Automatically his hand went to his left hip, seeking the sword that was not there.

  'Will you let her fall into the hands of the Sassanids?' Ballista spoke quietly. 'You know what they will do to her.' Iarhai said nothing. 'They will rape her. One after another they will rape her. Ten, twenty, thirty men, a hundred. They will mutilate her. She will beg them to kill her long before they do.'

  There was a look of agonized indecision on Iarhai's face.

  'Is this what you want?' With his right hand, Ballista gripped the neck of Bathshiba's tunic. With a savage yank he ripped it down. Bathshiba's breasts spilt free. She screamed and tried to cover her dark-brown nipples with the palms of her hands.

  'You bastard.' Iarhai was on his feet, a look of indescribable pain on his face.

  'Arm yourself. You are coming with us.' Ballista let Bathshiba go. She ran from the room. Iarhai went to a chest in the corner. From it he took his sword belt and buckled it on. Ballista turned and left.

  At the gate there were just the six men who had arrived with Ballista.

  'The mercenaries have run,' said Maximus.

  In a few minutes Iarhai appeared from the depths of the house with Bathshiba. She was wearing a new tunic. She did not look at Ballista.

  'Time to go.'

  At a steady jog they set off north towards the palace. There was a nightmare quality to the journey. None too far in the distance they could hear screams. Already there was a smell of burning in the air. At every street junction they had to fight their way across the streams of panic-stricken people running east to the Porta Aquaria and the river. Ballista knew that there would be scenes of almost unimaginable horror down on the riverbank at the jetties, where thousands of terrified individuals would be fighting for a place on one of the very few boats. Children separated from their mothers, trampled underfoot: it did not bear thinking about. Ballista put his head down and ran north.

  They had just passed the temple of Zeus Theos, were within a block of the open ground on the other side of which was the palace, when they heard the pursuit.

  'There he is. Ten pounds of gold for the man who takes the King of Kings the head of the big barbarian.' For a second Ballista thought he recognized the voice of the Persian officer he had tricked that dark night in the ravine, but he realized it was only his own tired thoughts tricking him.

  The Sassanids were still a hundred paces away, but there were a lot of them and they looked fresh. Ballista and those with him were exhausted.

  'Go on,' said Iarhai. 'The street is narrow. I can delay them.'

  Ballista looked at Bathshiba. He expected her to scream, to cling to her father and plead with him. She did not. She looked at her father for a time, then turned and ran.

  'You will not delay them alone. I will stay.' Acilius Glabrio turned to Ballista. 'You do not care for patricians. But I will show you how one of the Acilii Glabriones dies. Like Horatius, I will hold the bridge.'

  Ballista nodded and, with Maximus, ran after the others.

  Soon there was the sound of fighting. When he had passed the artillery magazine Ballista stopped and drew breath. There was only fifty yards to go to the palace. He looked back. The end of the street was full of Persians. He could not see Iarhai. The caravan protector had not had time to put on his armour. He could not have lasted long. But there was Acilius Glabrio, a small figure in the distance ringed by the enemy. Ballista ran on.

  'You took your time.' Calgacus was beaming.

  Ballista smiled weakly. He was too tired to answer. He leant against the stable wall. Compared with earlier, the stables were deserted. Ballista roused himself to ask the guardsman where the other equites singulares were. The man looked embarrassed.

  'We… they… ah, they thought that you were not coming back. There is only Titus outside and me.'

  'There were a few moments when they were nearly right.' Ballista ran his hands over his face. 'What is your name?'

  'Felix, Dominus.'

  'Then let's hope that your name is an omen.' Ballista asked Calgacus about the slaves attached to the palace and was told they had all vanished. He shut his eyes and breathed in the reassuring smells of the stables. His chest hurt. All the muscles in his legs were jumpy with fatigue. His right shoulder was raw where his sword belt had made his mail coat rub. He was tempted just to lie down in the straw. Surely he would be safe, surrounded by these homely smells, surely the Sassanids would not find him here? He just needed to sleep.

  The northerner's childish fantasy was shattered by the arrival of Maximus.

  'We are ready to go. Everyone is outside and mounted except us.' The Hibernian threw across a water skin. Ballista tried and failed to catch it one-handed. He juggled it with two hands until he had it secure. He unstoppered it, tipped some water into a cupped palm and washed his face, rinsing his weary eyes. He drank.

  'Time to go then.'

  Outside, the moon was up, nearly full. The narrow alley between the palace and the granaries was bathed in its light. Ballista tried to remember if this was the harvest or hunter's moon at home. He was too tired to remember. He walked to the mounting block. Demetrius led up Pale Horse. Ballista mounted painfully.

  In the saddle he felt a little better. He looked up and down the alley at the horses and riders. Apart from himself there were fourteen riders: Maximus, Calgacus, Demetrius, Bagoas, Turpio, the two remaining members of his official staff – a scribe and a messenger, the two equites singulares Titus and Felix, and another four soldiers who had crossed the town with him – three troopers from Cohors XX and another guardsman. And there was Bathshiba. There were three horses loaded with supplies.

  'What shall we do about the other six saddled horses in the stables?' Calgacus asked.

  Ballista knew that he should order them killed or hamstrung in case they aided the pursuit. 'Cut the girths and bridles.' Calgacus swung off his horse, disappeared into the stables and was back in a few moments. When the Caledonian had remounted, Ballista gave the signal to move out.

  For the second time that night Ballista led a column of riders around the temple of Jupiter Dolichenus. They came out on to the broad road heading to the campus martius and Ballista pushed Pale Horse into a gallop. In case he should fall, he had hurriedly told Maximus, Calgacus and Turpio his plan, such as it was. They had not looked thrilled. He had not told the others. There was no point in scaring them even more.

  The military quarter through which they thundered was empty. The Romans had fled; the Persians had not yet arrived. Smoke blew across the road from the south. As he flashed by the military baths Ballista noticed that the comatose soldier had gone from the steps. So had the g
irl. Good luck to you, brother, he thought, and to your girl.

  The cavalcade careered down the street, the sound of thundering hooves echoing back off the walls.

  From a street off to the left came the sound of fighting. Ballista glimpsed one of the mercenaries backed up against the wall of the amphitheatre, his sword flashing in the torchlight as he tried to keep at bay a howling mob of Sassanid warriors. In a moment the sight and sound were cut off by the building on the next corner.

  'Haddudad!' Bathshiba shouted. She reined in her horse savagely. Those following her had to swerve or pull up quickly to avoid her.

  'Leave him,' Ballista shouted, 'there is no time.'

  'No. We must save him.' Bathshiba turned her horse and, kicking her heels in, set off back towards the corner.

  'Bugger,' muttered Ballista. As he turned Pale Horse he called to Turpio to carry on with the others, Maximus to come with him. He set off after Bathshiba. What was it with her? She had left her father to certain death with no more than a significant look, but now she was risking her life for one of his mercenaries. Was it guilt at leaving her father that was making her do this? Was it something about Haddudad? Ballista felt a stab of jealousy.

  Pale Horse skidded around the corner; Maximus's mount was just a neck behind. Haddudad was still upright. There were a couple of easterners prone at his feet. The press around the mercenary had slackened off with the arrival of Bathshiba. As Ballista watched she cut down a Persian on her near side. But then the mob closed. Two men grabbed her reins. Another seized her right boot and pulled her from the saddle. A loud cheer went up.

  All the Persians' attention was on the girl or the mercenary. They were completely oblivious to the approach of the two horsemen. Ballista held his sword out straight along the neck of his horse, his arm rigid. The Persian jerked his head round just before the impact. It was far too late. The sword punched through the mail coat and on between the shoulder blades. The shock pushed Ballista back in his saddle. He let his arm swing through, down then up straight out behind him as the easterner fell away, the man's own weight freeing the blade.

  Ballista was out of the other side of the knot of Persian warriors. Maximus was next to him. They wheeled their horses. Kicking in their heels, they drove forward again. Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista saw Haddudad launch a fierce attack on the two Sassanids still facing him.

  A Persian aimed a cut at Pale Horse's head. Ballista blocked it with his shield, then brought his sword across and down in a bone-crunching blow to the top of the man's domed iron helmet; sparks flew, a loud crack, and the blade bit down into the skull.

  Again Ballista was through the mob, Maximus as ever at his side. The remaining Persians were running. There were several on the ground. Among them was Bathshiba, motionless.

  Haddudad ran forward. He cradled the girl's head.

  'It is all right. She is coming round.' He helped her to her feet. Her legs seemed unstable. Maximus trotted up, leading Bathshiba's horse. Haddudad helped her into the saddle. Then, with a lithe jump and complete familiarity, the mercenary jumped up behind her.

  'Time to go,' said Ballista, damping down his irritation.

  The horses clattered back the way they had come.

  Ballista and Pale Horse plunged through the inky black shadow between the principia and the barracks and emerged on to the moon-washed emptiness of the campus martius. This time there was no chance that the figure of Acilius Glabrio would appear. Ballista pointed Pale Horse towards the temple of Bel and the north wall.

  He reined in as he reached the northern postern gate. It stood open. Turpio and one of the guardsmen were climbing back into the saddle. They must have had to dismount to open the gate. Most likely its sentries had left it shut when they fled. Ballista wondered where the sentries had gone. They may have taken flight on foot east along the ledge outside the wall. They would be trying to climb down the cliff near the river, hoping to find a boat – although maybe, just maybe, they had had the same idea as himself. Without horses it could not work. Without horses they would have no chance of escape.

  Ballista briskly ordered that the supplies be cut from one of the packhorses. Haddudad jumped down from behind Bathshiba and mounted in their place. Grabbing one of the smaller bags of discarded provisions, Ballista asked Bathshiba if she was all right. She simply said yes.

  'Time to go again.'

  Ballista walked Pale Horse through the gate and turned right. The rest followed. The ledge was wide enough for two horses abreast, but the threat of the sheer drop to their left kept them in single file. He walked his horse until he reached the big landslip he had first spotted all those months ago on the day of the lion hunt. He signalled a halt and turned to face the others. He pointed down.

  Ballista had half-expected a collective gasp, a flurry of protest. None came. He looked down the great ramp formed by the landslip. It started about three foot below the ledge then pulled away at a hideously steep angle, forty-five degrees or worse. In the strong moonlight the soil looked loose and treacherous. Here and there a wicked rock stuck up. It seemed to stretch away for ever.

  Ballista looked back at the others. They were very quiet. No one moved. Under their helmets, the soldiers' eyes were pools of black shadow. Ballista well understood their hesitancy. A rider edged forward. It was Bathshiba. Her horse stopped at the lip. Without a word she kicked her heels and the horse jumped forward. Ballista watched it land. Fighting to keep its balance, its quarters almost on the flat on the ground, it began to scrabble and slip downwards.

  Ballista forced himself to look away. He nudged Pale Horse next to the mount of Demetrius. He took the reins from the boy's hands and led the horse to the edge. He looped the reins over one of the horns of the boy's saddle. He leant close and quietly told him to forget the reins, just lean back and cling to the saddle. The boy was bareheaded. He looked terrified. Hold tight. Ballista drew his sword. The boy flinched. The sword glittered as it swung in an arc through the air. Ballista brought the flat of the blade down hard across the rump of the boy's horse. It leapt forward into space.

  'So are you afraid to follow where a girl and a Greek secretary dare go?' Ballista called for the leading rein of one of the packhorses. He led it to the edge. He looked down at the vertiginous drop. Allfather, to think that on the afternoon of the lion hunt I thought I would like to do this for fun. He kicked hard with his heels.

  As Pale Horse dropped, Ballista was lifted up, almost out of the saddle. As the gelding's hooves found the ramp, Ballista crashed back into the saddle, the impact jarring up through his spine. The lead rein went taut, snapping his right arm back, wrenching his shoulder, the leather slipping through his fingers, burning. The packhorse followed and the pressure went.

  Ballista leant as far back as he could, bracing his back against the rear horns of the saddle, wedging his thighs up under the front ones. The ramp dropped in front of him. Jagged, sharp rocks poked up. The floor of the ravine looked infinitely far away. He wondered whether to shut his eyes, remembered how the awful reality had flooded in when he had opened them again in the siege tunnel and fixed his gaze on Pale Horse's mane.

  Down and down they plunged. Down and down. Then it was over. Pale Horse was gathering his legs under him, and they were running on the flat of the bed of the ravine.

  Ballista circled the two horses round to where Demetrius and Bathshiba were waiting. Maximus thundered past, whooping like a madman. One after another, Calgacus, Bagoas, the messenger and the scribe arrived at the bottom. Then disaster struck.

  Halfway down the ramp the mount of one of the soldiers – it was impossible to tell which – lost its footing. The horse tipped forward; its rider was half thrown. The horse landed on him. Together, in an avalanche of stones and earth, they rolled down. The following rider was almost on top of them. At the last moment the bloodied, broken tangle of horse and man toppled to their fate over the far edge of the ramp. The way was clear again.

  All the rest made it to the bott
om. Turpio came last, leading one of the packhorses. Brave man, thought Ballista. The more horses that had made the descent the more the surface of the ramp had been cut up, the more unstable it had become.

  Ballista chivvied them into line. Felix was missing. His name had not proved prophetic. The horse of one of the other soldiers was lame. Ballista jumped down to inspect its leg. It was the near fore. It was far too lame to run. Ballista cut the baggage from one of the two remaining packhorses and told the trooper to mount. He turned the lame horse free. It stood looking disconsolate.

  Waving for the others to follow, Ballista pointed Pale Horse up the ravine away from the river. At the head of the line he kept them to a steady canter.

  They had not gone far when they heard the shouts. Far up above them to the left, torches flared. A trumpet shrilled. Mounted Sassanid warriors were moving along the ledge, following in their tracks. Ballista felt absurdly depressed. Somehow he had hoped to be able to sneak away unnoticed like thieves in the night. Allfather, he prayed, Deep Hood, High One, Fulfiller of Desire, let their horses refuse the dreadful drop, let the courage of their riders fail them. He had little hope that the prayer would be answered. He moved to hoping that their own horses had so dislodged the surface of the ramp that it would give way and betray the Persians to share the bloody fate of Felix.

  As the sounds of the pursuing enemy swelled, Ballista mastered the urge to kick his mount into a gallop. He could feel the thoughts of all those behind him willing him to increase the pace. He ignored them. It would not do. He remembered the rough going from his chase of the onager. He forced himself to keep Pale Horse at a steady canter, letting the gelding pick his own way.

  Soon the bend of the ravine hid them from their pursuers. The heat of the previous day still hung heavy in the depths. Ballista rode through clouds of gnats. They got in his eyes and mouth.

  Ballista approached the fork in the ravine. Before steering Pale Horse into the narrow turning to the right-hand passage, he looked behind. Bathshiba and Calgacus were close. He could not see Maximus. He had not heard a horse fall. There had been no commotion. He was surprised but not unduly worried. He cantered on. The path was beginning to rise more sharply.