Winter had come with a vengeance. In the dark, the wind tore down the rocky Galilean hills. It tugged at the olive trees and dwarf oaks. It gusted rain. The weather would choose tonight to turn, Ballista thought sourly.
The wind had veered straight into their faces. The men marched hunched over, heads down and turned away, trying to find some shelter from the blasts.
Not long after midnight, the rain had stopped. Soon after, the first watch fires glittered on the hills. The bandits of Arbela knew they were coming. Ballista was unsurprised. As far as he had gathered, the Jews had no love of the Roman occupiers. Caesarea had a large Jewish population, and Sepphoris was a Jewish town. It was no wonder the brigands had been forewarned. One man's bandit was another's freedom fighter. Ballista set his shoulders. There was nothing to be done but press on.
Ballista trudged behind the native guides. The strap of the shield slung over his back dug painfully into his left shoulder. The sword belt over his right was only a little less painful. He did nothing to shift the weights. Any movement would expose part of him to the wind. Allfather, it was cold.
'Dominus.' Maximus's voice broke into Ballista's discomfort. 'I cannot see Calgacus. The old bastard must have dropped back.'
Reluctantly, Ballista looked around. It was a dark night. He could not see far, but Maximus was right. Raising his voice over the keening wind, Ballista told Rutilus to take command and keep going; the standard bearer Gratius and secretary Hippothous were to carry on with the troops.
Ballista and Maximus stepped off the path. Slowly the soldiers passed, like mourners in a procession, only quieter.
Calgacus was near the rear of the column. He was staggering slightly. Ballista and Maximus fell in on either side. The Caledonian did not appear to notice.
'Calgacus,' Ballista called.
The old man did not respond. Swaying slightly, he carried on walking.
Calgacus stumbled, almost fell. They caught his arms.
'I'm fine. Leave me alone.' Calgacus's speech was slurred.
'Halt — that is an order.'
Calgacus stopped. He started to fall. Maximus grabbed him.
'Halt the column,' Ballista shouted to the nearest trooper. 'Pass the order up the line.'
The backs of the nearest troops stopped moving. They stood bent over like beasts of burden.
Ballista and Maximus manoeuvred Calgacus to the side of the track, lowered him to lean against the trunk of a tree.
'I am fine. Get the fuck off me.' Calgacus's words were thick, like those of a drunk. He shut his eyes and groaned. Now they had stopped, Ballista could feel the muscles in his own legs twitching, trying to cramp.
'Dominus.' It was a Dalmatian trooper. 'Dominus, the rest of them, they have gone.'
Ballista peered into the night. His eyes streamed from the wind. The soldier was right. Six troopers and an empty path. Fuck. Someone had not heard the command over the noise of the marching and the wind. Or someone had been too far sunk in cold misery to understand what had been said. Fuck.
Ballista stood, wondering what to do. The wind plucked at his cloak. There were four watch fires visible on higher ground around them. Nine men left behind, one of them incapacitated. They were cut off, surrounded.
Ballista crouched down, gazed into Calgacus's face. It was very pale in the darkness. The old man was shivering violently. That was good — he was not yet in the last stages of dying from exposure.
'How goes it, old man?'
Calgacus smiled. 'Fine.' Drowsily, he shut his eyes.
Ballista slapped his face. 'Wake up, you old bastard.'
Calgacus opened his eyes. They were not properly focused.
Ballista hugged the old man close. He spoke fiercely into his ear. 'Go to sleep and you will die. And you are not going to die on me.'
Calgacus nodded.
Ballista got to his feet. The nearest fire was not far. There was no other way.
'You four' — Ballista pointed — 'huddle round him, give him your body warmth. You two, keep watch each way down the track, keep moving, try and keep warm. Maximus and I will get fire.'
They got ready. At Maximus's suggestion, they left their shields. A brigand may have a shield, but not a big circular army one. Now their silhouettes would not give them away.
'You remember Pigeon Island?' Maximus asked. It was getting on for two years ago, but to Ballista it seemed half a lifetime ago. On a little island south of Ephesus, the two of them had carried out a similar raid to snatch fire from a Borani watch camp in order to burn the barbarians' longboat. 'Sure, but this will be fun too.'
'You are a very strange man,' said Ballista.
They set off up the hill. Initially, Ballista led them away from the nearest fire. They needed to come up on it from downwind. There was no necessity for extreme caution. The howling wind should cover the noise of their approach, but they moved carefully anyway, a few steps apart, as if patrolling. The concentration needed took their minds off the cold.
Time largely loses meaning when you are climbing a dark, windswept hill with part of your mind on what will happen at the end of the climb. The wind sighed through the trees, branches creaked, stones turned under foot and mud tugged at their boots. It started raining again.
When they grew close, they slowed. About thirty paces away, they stopped behind a dwarf oak. Wiping the rain out of their eyes, they peered around the gnarled, slick trunk. Now the cold returned. Maximus passed Ballista some air-dried meat. He chewed it without thinking; it prevented his teeth chattering.
They could see two guards. They threw elongated, shifting shadows as they paced about, stamping their feet. There were other, indistinct, shapes huddled in blankets by the fire.
Ballista would have liked to observe longer, but there was no time. He touched Maximus's shoulder. They clasped hands.
Stepping out from behind the oak, they walked forward. No point in running, risking a fall, until they were seen.
The man Ballista was after was unobservant. The northerner ran the last few paces anyway. His sword swung. The man started to turn. The blade caught him on the jawline. He screamed wordlessly. Retrieving the weapon, Ballista finished him with a powerful blow to the back of the neck.
Another man was rising from his blanket. Three quick steps, two chopping blows, and he sank down again. Ballista moved on. The next one had risen to his feet and was struggling to free his weapon. Ballista drove the steel into his stomach.
Turning, scanning for threats, all Ballista saw was Maximus finishing off a man on the ground. Seven dead. All over in a matter of moments.
A branch cracked up the hill. Dark shapes were moving through the trees; five, six, maybe more. Fuck. Surprise was on their side. Ballista and Maximus moved a little apart.
The first one tore downhill at Ballista, sword out in front. At the last moment, Ballista brought his blade down and across, driving his opponent's weapon out to the right. Ballista dropped his left shoulder, braced himself. The man crashed into him. Using the impact, Ballista shrugged him off to the right.
Straightening, Ballista parried the next one's sword to the left. He brought his elbow hard up into the man's nose. As the man staggered back, Ballista cracked the pommel of his sword down into his face. He fell back, howling.
A quick step to the right, and Ballista arced his blade down at the first opponent, now scrambling to his feet. It bit into something. No time to check. Ballista spun round. A third bandit lunged. Ballista leapt backwards, arms up, arching his body. Sparks flashed as the blade scraped along the mail covering Ballista's chest. He and his opponent were wedged together, face to face.
They struggled, feet slipping, too close to use their weapons. Ballista was aware of the second attacker getting up from the ground. The man Ballista was grappling with tried to bite his nose. Ballista twisted away. The teeth tore at his cheek. The blood felt hot. The fingers of the man's left hand were clawing for Ballista's eyes. The northerner slammed the heel of his right boot down on
the man's instep. His grip slackened. Ballista broke free, with his left hand drew the dagger from his right hip, stabbed it hard into the man's crotch.
The last attacker on his feet began to back away. Ballista moved carefully towards him. The man turned and ran. Ballista was after him. The man lost his footing in the mud. He sprawled forward. Ballista was on him, driving the point of his blade down into his back.
Ballista got up quickly. No sound of steel on steel. No fighting. Some low sobbing and a high-pitched wailing. A few paces off, a dark figure moved, a bit shorter than Ballista. The blur of its sword glinted in the firelight as it chopped down again and again. Of course Maximus was fine.
Ballista walked back to his two injured opponents down on the ground. Bracing his boots in the mud, he killed both of them. There was no point in keeping them alive. He did not speak their language, could not interrogate them. He was not in the mood to try.
Ballista retrieved his dagger from the dead man's crotch. He wiped its blade and that of his sword, sheathed them.
'Sure, but you cannot say that was not fun.' Maximus was beaming.
'You really are a heartless, violent bastard.' But Ballista could feel the post-battle euphoria seeping through him. He was alive, unhurt. He had done well, not let himself down, nor anyone else. Yes, in a horrible way, Maximus was right: Ballista had enjoyed it.
'Do you think there will be any more of them along?' asked Maximus.
'No idea. But it would be a bugger trying to light a fire down on that track on a night like this. Go and get the troopers to carry the miserable old bastard up here.'
Maximus turned to go.
'And hoot like an owl when you come back, to make sure I do not kill you.'
'As if you could.'
'As if I could,' said Ballista. It rained on and off all night, but no more brigands appeared out of the darkness. Ballista and his men built up the fire. Sheltering him with their cloaks, they changed Calgacus out of his wet things, massaged him with some oil they had heated, put him in the driest clothes that could be found in the soldiers' packs. They gave him something hot to drink and drank some themselves. The old Caledonian complained a lot — an impressive range of obscenities in a variety of languages. He would be all right.
The morning came up fine; there were just the retreating, tattered remnants of the storm clouds. They went back down to the track and followed it without incident up to Arbela. The village was spectacularly sited on the edge of a cliff. Both units of troops were waiting.
Rutilus made his report. There had been a half-hearted attack just before his column had reached the village. Two troopers had been wounded, neither seriously. Only one dead bandit had been left behind. They had stormed into Arbela at first light. It was deserted. Miraculously, after a lengthy night march, Lerus's legionaries had arrived within half an hour.
'The mission was compromised from the start,' said Ballista. 'No wonder they had all disappeared.'
Rutilus smiled. 'Some of them have not gone very far.'
The tall prefect led Ballista to the edge of the cliff. The view was incredible. Down to the right, the northern end of Lake Tiberias was spread out, shining blue under the winter sun. Straight ahead, far away in the distance, was the snow-capped summit of Mount Hermon. It must have been fifty miles or more away.
On top of the cliff, the wind buffeted them. Ballista looked down. There was a sheer drop of two, three hundred feet of jagged grey rock. Below that, a gentler incline of about the same height. The lower slope had some green cover. A few pale-grey paths graded up it to the foot of the rockface. The tiny figures of Roman soldiers moved down at the bottom of it.
'There are caves in the cliff,' said Rutilus. 'Some of the brigands have taken refuge in them. We cannot get at them from below. The paths are too steep and narrow. A child could tip stones down and sweep our men off.'
Ballista looked at the cliff, the slope, the valley below, and the opposite cliffs. The latter were too far away — nothing of use there. He turned and regarded the clifftop: the few bent trees, the village of well-built houses, a synagogue at one end.
'We could starve them out,' suggested Rutilus. 'Although,' he added, 'we do not know how well they are provisioned.'
'No,' said Ballista. 'Sitting here doing nothing seems weak. If we show weakness, every bandit in Galilee will be on us.'
They stood, gazing down at the pitted rocks, the dry bits of vegetation that offered no safe handholds. Suddenly Ballista laughed. Rutilus looked inquiringly at him.
'The village — tear it down, have the men collect all the timber, anything of a decent length. Have you sent for the horses? Good. When they come, send men down to the town of Tiberias on the lake. It is a port of sorts. There must be ropes and chains there. Collect all of them. And gearing oil and pitch, get a lot of pitch. Also send men back to Caporcotani. Collect bows from the arsenal in the legionary fortress. Not many, about forty or fifty. And a mobile forge — Legio VI should have more than one.'
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.'
'We are going to build two or three cranes up here on the top of the cliff. We will lower bowmen down in cages. They will burn the brigands out with fire arrows.'
Now Rutilus laughed. 'Dominus, that is brilliant.'
'Yes, it is. Unfortunately, it is not my idea. A client king of Rome had trouble with bandits — it must have been here or nearby. Josephus in his History of the Jewish War tells us what he did. You see, a man who reads history is often prepared.' It took eight days for the preparations to be complete. In the end, available materials dictated that only one crane was built. None of the soldiers was in a hurry to volunteer — it was amazing how few of them admitted any skill with a bow — until Ballista announced that the men in the cage would get a cash incentive comparable to that given to those in a storming party at a siege.
Ballista had never suffered from a fear of heights. That was just as well. The cage rocked horribly as it was swung out over the void. The rockwall looked sharp and unforgiving. The valley was a long way down.
Not a sound came from the well-oiled winches, but inevitably the timber creaked and the ropes seemed to hum with tension as the cage began its jerky descent. Once, a gust of wind threatened to smash the flimsy wooden cage against the cliff face. Ballista clung grimly to the bars. The five soldiers with him cursed or prayed as the mood took them.
Ballista glanced down at the vertiginous drop. Ant-like figures were scurrying up the paths. With luck, the brigands in the caves would be too distracted by the soldiers arriving from above like a deus ex machina to interfere with the ones below.
The mouth of the first cave was a rough black oval in the pink-grey rocks. It was too dark to see far inside. Ballista half-saw movement. He ordered his men to shoot. Moving cautiously, they handed round the one guttering torch and lit the pitch-soaked rags tied around their arrowheads. A word of command and the missiles streaked away. Before the thin, oily trails of smoke had dissipated, there were screams from the cave.
'Surrender,' Ballista yelled in Greek. 'Any old men, women, children will be spared.'
There was no answer. Ballista tried again in Latin. Still no answer. He indicated for another volley. He glanced down. The ascending troops still had a very long way to climb. Looking back, he noticed a faint glow in the cave. Something in there must be alight.
A figure emerged from the depths of the cave. Ballista indicated to his archers not to shoot. The man — in middle age, smartly dressed — looked contemptuously across at the soldiers. He had a drawn sword in his hand.
'Lay down your weapon,' Ballista shouted in Greek. 'Give yourselves up. Women, children, the elderly — all will be spared.'
The man actually laughed. 'Is nowhere safe from you Romans — not even the humblest village, the most remote cave?' He spoke in educated Greek. 'Even your own writers admit that you create a desert and call it peace.'
The incongruity of it struck Ballista — he was dan
gling halfway down a cliff and a Jewish brigand was quoting Tacitus to him in perfect Attic Greek.
'Show yourself a man,' Ballista called. 'Give yourself up and save your loved ones.'
'I will show you I am a man.' He turned and shouted back into the cave in a language Ballista did not know — presumably Hebrew or Aramaic.
A woman came out, leading a boy, no more than ten. The man took the boy's hand. The woman fell to her knees, alternately clutching at the boy and the man's knees. Sobbing, she implored him in the language he had used.
The man spoke brusquely to her, waved her away. Reluctantly, she shuffled backwards.
The man ruffled the boy's hair. He talked tenderly to him. Then he seized the boy's chin, yanked it back. The sword flashed. It is not easy to cut someone's throat. The boy tried to wrench free. The man had to saw the blade across his neck repeatedly. Blood soaked the child, the man's arm. The boy writhed and then slumped. The man pitched the pathetic corpse out into the abyss. It fell, thumping into the cruel rocks.
Ballista and the soldiers stared in silent horror. This Jew was like no bandit they had ever encountered.
Once more the man shouted into the cave. He was answered by wailing. He shouted again, angrily.
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