The great disc of the sun appeared on the horizon, and a pale gold light splashed over them. Aurelian handed his reins to Antistius and prostrated himself on the soaking ground. The others put their fingertips to their lips and, bowing slightly, blew a kiss to the risen god Sol Invictus. Ballista stood quietly, remaining upright, his hands not moving. The sun was not an invincible god in the pantheon of his youth. Indeed, at the end of time, Skoll, the wolf that chased the sun, would catch her in the Iron Wood and devour her, bringing darkness to Asgard, home of the gods, and to Middle Earth, home of mortal men.
Aurelian got up, brushing the leaves and mud from his clothes. He smiled almost apologetically at Ballista. 'My mother was the priestess of the Sun in my home village. Burgaraca was a dump. I enlisted when I was sixteen. But I miss her. And I think she was right. I am still alive. Sol Invictus has held his hands over me.'
They waited in the sunshine, both the men and their horses steaming slightly. Ballista looked back the way they had come. He watched the shadows retreat towards him as the sun rose behind his back over Mount Silpius. The clear sunlight revealed first the wide, flat plain of the Orontes, the little peasant huts small as toys, the smoke from their dung fires plucked away by the wind, then the suburbs of the city and the campus martius across the river and, finally, Antioch the Great herself, the half-built fortress-palace on the island, the broad line of the main street, the glint of the river running through her. Ballista looked all around, at the path they had followed from the west, at the citadel further along the crest off to the north-east, at the land to the east to which they had come to hunt, and then the realization struck him. He had not seen it before. In the week he had spent in Antioch the previous year, he had not found time to climb to the crest of Mount Silpius. The climb from the city had been steep, hard going for the horses. It would have been a Herculean labour of winches, pulleys and ratchets to move any siege equipment up from the city to the crest. But to the east, outside the defences, the land fell away gently, in a landscape of broad upland meadows and open woods. At one point near the citadel a saddle of rock almost overtopped the walls. The northerner filed the revelation away for future use. Despite the river, the walls, the fortress-palace, Antioch-on-Orontes, the Roman capital of Syria, the heart of the power of the imperium in the east, was almost indefensible.
'About bloody time,' roared Aurelian. A huntsman came into view, thick coat, stout boots, and six hounds on leads surging around his legs. They were gaze hounds, hunters by sight not scent, Celtic by the look of them. Aurelian might not have much money, but he loved his hunting. The huntsman led the party down to where the beaters were in position. It was a good spot; a wide, undulating field of grass with some dense cover uphill. Aurelian explained again the particular northern style of hunting they were to follow. No, they were not going to use nets and stakes. No, the hounds would not hunt as a pack. As each hare broke cover, a pair of hounds would be slipped, so the hunters could bet on the result. The huntsman shrugged — the Danubian was paying, the northerners could do what they liked, but they need not expect him to feign approval — and called the beaters into action. The hunting party tethered their horses. Aurelian and Tacitus each had a hound on a slip lead. They agreed a wager. Sandario and Mucapor placed a side bet. Although far from adverse to gambling, Ballista kept quiet.
They all waited, hounds and men keyed up, expectant. Now and then there was a flash of the red-and-white feathers of a scarer as the beaters moved through the cover. A hare appeared. After a few hops it sat up, looking around impudently. Then it saw the hunting party. As it raced away, Aurelian and Tacitus slipped their hounds. As always, Ballista's heart thrilled with the beauty of the dogs' acceleration, the grace of their running. Aurelian's big, black dog forged ahead, its strides half as long again as those of Tacitus' brindle bitch. The black dog closed on the hare, jaws open for the kill. At the last possible second, the hare jinked. The big dog tried to turn to pursue it but his own speed and size were against him. He lost his footing and went tumbling and rolling, grass and mud flying about him. The neat little bitch was on the heels of the hare. She turned it once, twice, three times, and killed it cleanly. She trotted back, wagging her tail. The big dog cavorted around her, though he kept a discreet distance after receiving a warning growl.
The huntsman took the prey from her jaws, and made much of the bitch. Tacitus took the money from Aurelian but, for a man who, like his host, was renowned for his love of the chase, he seemed strangely subdued. Having settled their wager, Sandario and Mucapor led up their hounds.
Almost straight away, there was much hallooing and crashing from within the cover. The hounds quivered with excitement. A huge stag leapt from the trees. He stood, his magnificent, wide-spread antlers accentuating the motion as he looked this way and that. Seeing the hunters, he turned and began to run diagonally across the field. Although the stag appeared unhurried, he was speeding away, each bound covering more ground than seemed possible.
Among the hunting party there was pandemonium. All the hounds were slipped. Aurelian and the two young Danubian officers untethered their horses, hurled themselves into the saddle and dashed after the stag. Ballista and Tacitus took a little more time. The two servants would take for ever packing up all the gear. The huntsman and the beaters would have to follow on foot, as they had no mounts.
Ballista cantered beside Tacitus. Across the field, down a steeper slope, and along a track, all in silence. The hounds and the other three hunters had pulled ahead, out of sight. The servants would be an age behind.
The two silent riders came to the top of a rise and reined in. They caught a glimpse of the hounds, already far below in the valley. Not far behind, they saw the flash of a bright hunting cloak. Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista saw another horseman, higher up the mountainside and moving parallel to them. In a moment he was gone, lost in the trees.
As they rode on, Ballista broke the silence. 'Forgive me, my dear Tacitus, but you seem strangely preoccupied, almost out of sorts.'
'I am sorry I am not better company. I have had some strange news from my half-brother, Marcus Annius Florianus.' Tacitus stopped talking. Clearly, he was debating whether to tell Ballista the news or not. They rode further. In the midst of the completely wild landscape, Ballista's eye was caught by a man-made terrace off to the right, a thin line of smoke rising from it; someone was burning charcoal.
'We were brought up together, Florianus and me. We have always been close. Not long ago we bought an estate together, at Interamna, about sixty miles north of Rome. We are building a family mausoleum there. He arranged for our statues to be erected. Two big, marble statues, about thirty foot high. Rather ostentatious, I thought.'
Tacitus paused, then took a deep breath and continued. 'I received a letter yesterday. Both statues were hit by lightning, blown to pieces. But that is not so much what is on my mind as the words of the soothsayers consulted by Florianus. They declared that it means that an emperor will arise from our family. He will conquer the Persians, the Franks, the Alamanni and the Sarmatians, establish governors on the islands of Ceylon and Hibernia, make all the lands which border the ocean his territory and then abolish the office of emperor, restore the free Republic, retire to live subject to the ancient laws. He will live for a hundred and twenty years, and die without an heir.'
Ballista looked across at the serious face. Tacitus did not look at him.
'Allfather, Bringer of Despair, do not mention this to anyone else,' said Ballista. 'This is treason. Imagine if a frumentarius overheard, somehow got wind of it… It would not be you alone that would be questioned in the palace cellars. Think of your half-brother, your wife, your friends.'
'Think of you?' There was a hint of a smile on the earnest face.
'Well, I have no great desire to be tortured because of the ravings of some charlatans consulted by your half-brother, a man I have never met.'
Tacitus smiled broadly. 'As you say, they are probably charlatans and, an
yway, they prophesied that the emperor would not take the throne for another thousand years.' He threw his head back and laughed. 'Still, it makes you think. Now, let's ride.'
Without warning, Tacitus kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse and was gone. Within but a few paces he had pushed it into something close to a flat-out gallop. Left behind, Ballista more slowly did the same. Yet no sooner had Ballista's mount reached full speed than the northerner felt something was wrong. Gently, he pulled the horse up. He leapt down from the saddle, made the horse walk a step or two, picked up a hoof, studied its leg intently, made the horse take another couple of steps. The horse was lame, near foreleg, but it was only a sprain. Ballista felt a flood of relief. Pale Horse was not badly hurt.
Ballista was now standing in the middle of nowhere, Pale Horse nuzzling his arm. Tacitus had clattered out of sight. The servants were somewhere miles behind. Ballista looked round. The wind had dropped. The late-autumn sun was warm and the birds were singing. It was idyllic, a landscape from a pastoral poem or the beginning of a Greek novel — but Ballista was totally lost, with a lame horse. Over to the right, nearer than before, a thin line of smoke climbed into the sky. Making soft, comforting noises, he led his lame horse in the direction of the charcoal burners.
To burn charcoal, you need a completely flat surface. The charcoal burners had cut a small terrace out of the slope of Mount Silpius. Yet, apart from that, everything was as it had been in the clearings in the northern forests of Ballista's youth when he had helped his father's men tend the stacks: the barren ground where the heat had sterilized the soil; the round hut made of misshapen branches, a stump as a seat outside; the scatter of tools — shovels and spades, a rake and a sieve, a curved ladder. On the far side of the clearing, about half as tall again as Ballista, was the stack itself, looking like an upturned cup. The northerner could tell at a glance that this one had been alight for some time, at least two or three days; the earth crust packed round the wood had darkened to near-black, and from the low vents came a steady trickle of white smoke.
Ballista called. No one replied. A charcoal burner would be along soon. A stack needs looking at three times an hour at least, to dampen the crust, check there are no cracks in it, generally to make sure that the air cannot get to the wood, cause it not to char but to burst into flames. Ballista would never forget the tiredness that came with seeing to a stack overnight when he was little more than a child.
Ballista set to looking after Pale Horse. He unsaddled the gelding, fed him a carrot from the saddlebag and began to rub him down. The northerner's thoughts drifted comfortably. The homely smell of horse in his nostrils and the repetitive, instinctive work of his hands made the ritual of brushing as soothing to rider as to horse. At last it was done. Ballista went to fetch Pale Horse a drink. There was a bucket near the stack, but it was lying on its side, a dark stain next to it where the water had run out. Ballista picked it up. There was a water butt next to the hut, and he filled it from that.
After his mount had had a drink — not too much — Ballista put the bucket back where he had found it. He had been there a long time now, and no one had come. He reached out and touched the earth crust of the stack. It was hot, crumbly and dry under his palm — far too dry. He walked around the stack. There was a circular depression about a foot across in its side. Inside, some of the charcoal must have slumped down, taking its covering of the earth crust with it. So far, the cave-in was still black, but invisible cracks must have opened, for the smoke issuing from the nearest vent was no longer white but blue. The air had got into the stack and, inside, the wood was burning.
A man walked into the clearing. He was carrying an axe slightly awkwardly over his shoulder. 'Welcome to my home, Kyrios,' he said. His tunic had a damp stain on the front but, otherwise, was clean. His hands were also clean. On the back of the right one was a jagged scar.
'Good day, woodsman, how are things?' Ballista asked politely. The man looked round the terrace, he studied the stack, and said that, the gods be thanked, things could be worse. Ballista said that he had some wine — would the charcoal burner care to share some? The man said he would.
Ballista turned away. He paused for a moment then turned back. The broad blade of the axe glittered wickedly as it arced through the air. It was coming down vertically, straight at the northerner's head. Ballista hurled himself backwards, losing his balance. The heavy axe hummed just past him and embedded itself in the hard-packed soil. Ballista landed on his arse. His boots skidding wildly on the loose topsoil, he scrabbled backwards to his feet. As he tugged his sword from its scabbard, the other retrieved his axe from the ground.
'The young eupatrid sends you this.' The man laughed. He swung the axe horizontally, low, at ankle level. Ballista leapt back. He felt the wind of the heavy blade's passing.
Now, while his opponent was off balance momentarily, was Ballista's chance. He lunged forward, weight coming down through his bent right knee, left leg straight behind him, blade flashing out towards his enemy's guts. Now it was the axeman's turn to scramble backwards.
The initial flurry over, the two circled each other, knees slightly bent, moving on the balls of their feet. Ballista's eyes never left his assailant's blade. The northerner had the hilt of his own weapon in a two-handed grip, the long, shimmering line of the blade pointing up at the man's throat. Ballista's eyes never left the blade of the axe. They moved slowly, intent on their work. The laughter had died out of the man.
Ballista stamped his right foot, as if advancing. The man flinched. Stepping forward on his left foot, Ballista made a one-handed cut from left to right to the head. As the axe came up to block, Ballista pulled the blow, let his arm swing through and out to the right, then chopped diagonally back in, down towards the man's left thigh. Just in time, the man shifted his grip, sliding his right hand along the haft, and got the axe down in the way. Ballista's blade bit a chunk of wood out of the handle between where the man's hands now clasped it, at the base and below the head.
Without warning, the man rammed the blunt top of the axehead into Ballista's shoulder as if it were a spear. The northerner staggered back. The axeman followed, gripping his weapon by the base, raising it over his head to strike. Still off balance, Ballista twisted his body and thrust wildly. The very tip of his blade caught the man's right shoulder. The man howled and took a couple of paces back.
They resumed their cautious circling. Though the wound could not be deep, blood was seeping down the axeman's tunic.
Ballista was taken completely by surprise when the man suddenly threw the axe. Stumbling back, he awkwardly fended the heavy thing away from his face, the handle catching him a painful blow on the forearm.
The man was running now. He had gained a few paces' headstart. Ballista set off after him. The man was unencumbered by a sword and fear lent wings to his feet. Already, as they plunged into a path from the clearing, he was drawing away. They ran on. Branches whipped at their faces. The man disappeared around a bend. The path here was very overgrown. Ballista could not remember if the man had been wearing a blade on his belt. The northerner skidded to a halt. Cautiously, ready for ambush, he edged round the bend. The path stretched away into the distance. The man was nowhere in sight. Blade at the ready, Ballista turned slowly, scanning the trees. Birds sang. Then, from above, came the sound of a horse's hooves. Ballista caught a glimpse of the man's tunic through the foliage. Then he was gone. The drumming of the hooves was receding.
Ballista turned back and found the charcoal burner. He was just off the path. Neatly chopped staves of wood were scattered all around him. He lay on his back, his tunic deeply stained, his sightless eyes to the sky, his blackened hands clutching a ghastly wound to his neck. Ballista cleaned and sheathed his sword. He was out of breath. He leant forward, hands on knees, panting. The sweat was cooling on his back. Someone had just tried to kill him. Who? 'The young eupatrid sends you this.' What young nobleman would pay to see him dead? Ballista stood up, went over and closed t
he charcoal burner's eyes. He put a small coin in the man's mouth to pay the ferryman.
VI
Ballista walked between the marble columns that flanked the door of his house. It was late. He was tired. It had been a long, long day. He glanced down at the grotesque mosaic of the improbably endowed hunchback. Possibly it had done its job, had averted the evil eye. The axeman in the charcoal burner's clearing had failed. Ballista was still alive. It had only been that morning, but it seemed half a lifetime away.
Coming into the courtyard, he paused beside the pool. Its waters were green in the lamplight. With his left hand, Ballista scooped up some water and bathed his eyes. His right shoulder hurt like hell. Blinking the water out of his eyes, he went on into the house.
Julia was waiting for him. Her face, mask-like, gave nothing away as she spoke the formal words of welcome then told her maid to get the dominus a drink and prepare him a bath and food. She stood very straight and still as her maid served the drink. She did not speak again until the servant had left the room.
'It is very late.' Her voice was tight, angry.
'I thought I should report the attempt to Censorinus and the frumentarii straight away. Otherwise it might look suspicious, as if I had something to hide, as if I were fighting a private war or something. Then Censorinus suggested I go on to the headquarters of the Epimeletai ton Phylon in the agora. The earlier the local police came to hear of it, the more chance of them catching him.' Ballista stemmed his defensive flow of words. 'I asked Aurelian to tell you I was all right.'
'Oh yes,' Julia snapped. 'Your friend turned up eventually. Some time after lunch. He was so drunk it was a miracle he did not fall off his horse and kill himself. The Danubian peasant said your shoulder was wounded.'
'It's nothing, just bruised.' It always irritated Ballista that she did not like his friend, let alone that she despised his origins.
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