by Unknown
Ballista was surprised at the man’s candour. ‘I have imperial mandata to persecute the Christians. Should you be talking to me like this?’
Corvus opened a wineflask and drank. ‘You will not inform on me. Your face in court yesterday was a picture. You hate it as much as I do or, if not yet, you soon will.’
‘My feelings do not come into it.’ Ballista took a deep breath. ‘I have my mandata. I will do my duty.’
Corvus just smiled and passed down the wineflask. ‘There is a ludicrous rumour that the young men who escaped went into one of the caves outside the city, lay down and went to sleep. The Christians say the sleepers will wake when the emperor is a Christian.’
Ballista grinned. ‘They might have a long sleep.’
‘And would the world be a better place when they woke up?’ Corvus took the wineflask back. ‘You two had better get ready. We are almost in position.’
The old fisherman brought the boat broadside to the island. He used the spritsail to shield the far side of the boat. Ballista and Maximus rose to their feet. They were blackened from head to toe with a dye they were assured would not wash off in the sea. Ballista had tied his long fair hair in a strip of black material. Maximus had daubed an extra dollup of the tarry mixture on to the white scar where the end of his nose was missing. Corvus and the soldier helped them strap the packs on their backs. Ballista clasped hands with Corvus and, as quietly as he could, lowered himself over the side.
The water was shockingly cold. Ballista bit his lip to stop himself gasping. But once you were in the water, it felt fine. With just his fingertips on the gunwale of the boat, Ballstsa looked round to find his bearings. On the mainland, in the far south-east of the bay, he could see one or two chinks of light from the village of Phygela. From there, the dark line of the hills ran round to the west. They ended in a large independent hill like an upturned bowl. He knew it was directly south of the island.
Maximus joined him in the water with a sharp intake of breath. The fisherman angled the spritsail to catch the faint offshore breeze, the boat pulled away and, there, to the west, was their target. Pigeon Island was a dark outline in the moonlight. It was steep, heavily wooded. It reminded Ballista of the boss of a shield or one of those fancy cakes the Greeks offer to the gods. Near the summit, the large campfire blazed. The smaller one flickered about halfway down. The island was about two hundred and fifty paces away. Aiming to the left of the fires, Ballista started to swim.
There was just the gentle offshore breeze and a faint swell; otherwise, it was a flat calm with a clear, moonlit sky above. Ballista and Maximus swam with slow, even strokes, not wanting to stir up phosphorescence in the very still waters. Pumped up with anticipation, in no time Ballista sensed the seabed shelving up. Hardly swimming now at all, just the occasional slow stroke, he drifted until there was sand beneath him. Maximus came to a halt a few paces to his left.
They lay full length, just their heads out, the water lapping up to their noses. The beach here was about twenty paces wide. At first Ballista could see nothing but the black tree line beyond. Then he made out the shape of the longboat, just off to the right, its stern sticking out from the trees. He lay motionless, searching for sentries.
Now and then, voices floated down from higher up the island. Ballista did not look up towards the campfires; he did not want to ruin his night vision. He scanned the trees around the longship until his sight blurred and his eyes ached. Nothing. When he had almost decided the ship was unguarded, he heard a voice, much nearer, to the right of the boat.
At night the trick is not to look directly at something. Look to the side or above it. After a time, Ballista made out the shapes of two men to the right of the longship. They were sitting with their backs to a tree.
Gently bringing his hand out of the water, Ballista indicated to Maximus that they should go up by the left side of the boat. Quietly pulling himself up, Ballista set off. The sand was very white in the moonlight, horribly exposed. Crouched over, Ballista moved up the beach. At every step he expected a shout from the sentries. None came. He reached the lee of the boat. Maximus dropped down next to him. The Hibernian was grinning. Thy shrugged off their packs and drew their swords.
Ballista touched Maximus on the shoulder and indicated that they should go up the left side of the boat and work their way round through the trees and come up to the guards from behind. Maximus gestured that he understood. Leaving the packs behind, they set off.
The trees gave good cover, the slope not too steep. They had sighted the guards and were creeping down on them, when one of the men stood up. Ballista froze. The sentry was about thirty paces away. He walked some distance into the trees. He stumbled slightly. Maybe he had been drinking. He stopped in front of a tree and began to fumble with his trousers. Ballista moved to get between him and the other man.
Ballista came up silently behind him. The man was swaying slightly, one hand braced against the tree as he urinated. Ballista’s left hand covered his mouth and, in a flash, the sword in his right found the man’s throat. There was a spray of blood, black in the moonlight. The man’s body shook violently as Ballista held him close. There was an unpleasant stench as the dying man’s bowels opened.
Ballista lowered the corpse to the ground and looked about him. Maximus was crouched in the shade of a tree. There was no sound from below. Working quickly but quietly, Ballista stripped the cloak from his victim. It was fouled. Ballista turned it inside out and drapped it round his own shoulders.
Walking with no attempt at concealment, deliberately finding the odd twig to step on, Ballista went down to the tree line.
‘Feeling better?’ The south German accent startled Ballista. The speaker was one of the Borani, the tribe who had a bloodfeud with Ballista. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you.
‘Much better,’ Ballista mumbled. The man looked up as Ballista walked round the trunk of the tree. His eyes widened, but he had no time to scream as the sword cut into his face. A horrible gurgling sound came from his smashed mouth and jaw. He doubled forward, hands to his face. Ballista chopped the edge of his blade into the back of the Borani warrior’s neck. The man did not move any more.
Shrugging off the cloak, Ballista ran to where they had left the packs. He swung up into the longboat, searching about. He found the furled sail, dragged it out and turned it over so the side unexposed to the dew was uppermost. Maximus passed up the first of the packs. Ballista drew out the containers of naptha, unstoppered them and sloshed the contents over the sail. Maximus passed up the other pack.
As Ballista removed the kindling, his heart sank. It was sodden. The pack had leaked. Nevertheless, he heaped it up over the naptha-soaked sail. Taking the flints, he struck them against each other.
Sparks showered down. Nothing. The kindling was too wet to catch. Cursing inwardly, he worked the stones feverishly. Nothing. A vicious stab of pain as he skinned his thumb. He worked on. Still nothing. This was not going to work.
Ballista jumped out of the longboat. He leant close to Maximus. ‘We are going to have to fetch a brand from the small campfire up above.’ Maximus just nodded.
Ignoring the path that zigzagged up the island, Ballista led them straight up through the trees. The slope became steeper. Sometimes they were moving on their hands and knees. When he needed to look at the small campfire to get his bearings, Ballista closed one eye, again wanting to keep his night vision as much as possible.
They came out on the edge of the path, just above the little campfire. There were half a dozen Borani around it. Huddled in blankets, they were asleep. Ballista and Maximus lay watching them, getting their breath back. Although the fire was low, the crackle and hiss of burning wood was loud in the silent night. Now and then, a voice could be heard from above. Some of the warriors up there were still awake.
There was no point in waiting. ‘Grab a brand, and straight down,’ Ballista whispered. They got to their feet. Drawing a deep breath, Ballista counted to three and set
off down the path.
The warriors stirred as the two naked black figures burst into the clearing. Ballista selected a good-looking brand. He turned to go. A Borani was getting to his feet, blinking the sleep from his eyes, reaching for his weapon, blocking the way. As Ballista swerved past, he arced his sword down into the man’s shoulder. The blade stuck. Ballista had to stop and use his foot to push the injured man off the blade.
Ballista and Maximus launched themselves down the hillside; behind them, a confused, angry babble of voices – then the unmistakable sounds of pursuit. The hillside here was steep. Stumbling. Sliding. Every step threatened a fall. A branch whipped Ballista’s face, bringing tears to his eyes. He felt hot blood on his cheek. The crashing pursuit was close behind.
‘I will draw them off,’ Maximus shouted, and turned to the right. There was no time to answer. Ballista plunged on down the hill.
It was bright on the beach after the trees. His chest burning, Ballista ran to the longboat. Dropping his sword, he used his right hand to swing himself up level with the gunwales. He brought his left hand over and dropped the burning brand on to the naptha-saturated sail.
Ballista landed back on the sand. He scooped up his sword. He turned to face his pursuers. There were just two of them. Ballista stepped forward, carving figure of eights with his sword. The steel hummed through the air. The Borani skidded to a halt.
Time’s arrow seemed to have stopped as the three armed men faced each other on the moonwashed beach. The Borani started to spread out, to come at him from two sides. Ballista stepped to his right. The Borani stopped. Behind him, Ballista heard a fizz as the naptha caught. Slowly, slowly, he moved backwards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blue flame lick over the side of the ship. The Borani both exclaimed. Ballista did not catch the words.
With a loud yell Ballista feinted forward. Automatically, the warriors facing him gave ground. Again Ballista backed away. Now there were big streamers of fire lifting up from the boat. Ballista turned and ran.
When he reached the water, Ballista swung round, braced for an attack. There was none. One of the Borani was climbing the side of the ship, the other racing back to bring help. The stern of the longship was burning fiercely. Only the gods could save it now.
Ballista waded out. When the water reached his middle, he gripped the sword in his teeth and struck out from the shore. After a time he took the sword in his left hand and swam one-handed, slowly moving west, parallel to the southern shore of the island.
The moon shone on the water. In front of him, Ballista could see the promontory which jutted out, making the end of the bay. At its extremity was a humped rock. The outline reminded him of the silhouette of a whale. He floated on his back. To his right, Pigeon Island was in uproar. The longship was burning bright. Men were rushing down the path towards it. Ballista wondered if the Borani chasing Maximus had given up. He could not see any torches moving west. What had happened to that sodding Hibernian? Without further thought, Ballista swam back towards the island.
It was rocky where he came ashore. Again gripping the sword in his teeth, he hauled himself over great slabs of stone, then clambered through a belt of rough grass and shrubs, feeling sharp thorns scratching his exposed flesh. When he reached the wooded slopes, he stopped a little way in and calmed himself. The trees here were quite widely spaced – palms, firs, wild olives – with little undergrowth. Bars of moonlight shone between the black trunks. There was a great deal of shouting from out of sight at the eastern end of the island; near at hand, nothing but the breeze moving quietly through the foliage.
Walking on the balls of his feet, feeling for twigs and dry leaves as his weight came down, he moved up towards the big campfire on the summit. Every few paces, he stopped and listened and sniffed the air. Moving silently through a forest at night was second nature to him. Following the custom of Germania, as a youth he had gone to learn his warcraft with his uncle’s tribe. His mother’s brother was one of the leading warriors of the Harii. Their fame as nightfighters spread even into the imperium of the Romans.
Ballista had not gone far when he smelled something: a faint odour of fish and tar. He waited, immobile. Soon enough, a ghostly, dark figure appeared, slipping from the shade of one tree to another. Ballista let the apparition pass him, then called softly, ‘Muirtagh of the Long Road, you are out late.’
Maximus whirled in a fighting crouch. His blade glittered in the moonlight. ‘Ballista, is that you?’
‘And who else on this island knows your original name and speaks your native tongue?’ Grinning, Ballista stepped out and hugged his friend.
As they crept upwards, almost at the summit, a new series of sounds came to their ears from below: the ring of steel, the disjointed shouts of men in combat. The galleys had arrived. Men were fighting and dying down on the beach.
The big campfire was not quite deserted. In one corner of the firelight, a woman was sobbing. In her arms, she held her daughter. Her young son crouched behind her. When the two naked, blackened men stepped out into the light, all three shrank away and began to wail. Ballista put his finger to his lips in the universal gesture for silence. They continued to wail, a thin, keening sound. Ballista walked over. The girl’s clothes were torn. There was blood on her thighs. He spoke to the mother in Greek. ‘There is nothing to fear from us, Mother, we have come to kill them.’ The girl continued to cry. The others stopped. The boy was about ten. Ballista hoped that nothing very bad had happened to him. Ballista spoke to the boy. ‘You must know the woods of your island well. Take your mother and sister to your best place to hide. It will be over soon. When you hear men talking Greek or Latin, come out.’ The boy nodded seriously. With that, Ballista and Maximus turned and went towards the sound of the fighting.
From the tree line, the scene down on the beach was spread out as if at a theatre. The burning longship illuminated it as if it were day. Ballista and Maximus could see every detail. At the bottom of the bare, rocky slope, the Borani stood in a ragged shieldwall of about thirty men. Facing them across twenty paces of beach was a line of about double that number of Roman auxiliaries. More were wading to join them from the two beached galleys. A score or more bodies lay on the sand. Borani or Roman, it was hard to tell. One corpse can look much like another on a battlefield.
Ballista gestured for Maximus to follow, and they jogged back towards the summit. When they reached the big campfire, the family had gone. There was a sudden noise. Both men spun round. Corvus, the fisherman and the auxiliary from the boat stepped out into the light.
‘Corvus, you bastard. You nearly made us die of fright.’ Ballista laughed. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘The old fisherman could not stand the waiting. Needs to know what has happened to his family. We anchored the boat just off to the north. Swam ashore. Thought we would see what was going on.’
Ballista turned to the fisherman. ‘Your son has taken your wife and daughter to his favourite hiding place.’
‘I know where he will have gone. Thank the gods they are alive. Are they…’
Before he could put his fears in words, Ballista told him to go. When he had left, Ballista told the others to each take a burning brand from the fire and follow him.
Alone, Ballista stepped clear of the trees. Down the slope, the Borani were about thirty paces below him. They had their backs to him. The Romans facing him saw him first. Soldiers pointed. Then one or two of the Borani looked over their shoulders and saw the unearthly figure up on the rocks. Then more and more looked up at the naked, blackened man with a torch in one hand and a blade in the other. Shouts of consternation came up from the barbarians. The shieldwall began to waver. Ballista gestured with his torch and, at well-spaced intervals, Maximus, Corvus and the soldier stepped out of cover. Ballista called a command over his shoulder: ‘Troops halt!’
The Borani shieldwall was in confusion. Warriors pushed and jostled. None knew which way to face. Ballista called over their heads to the Roman auxilia
ries on the water’s edge. ‘Are you ready for war?’
A full-throated roar came back. ‘Ready!’
Three times the question. At the third answer they surged forward. Ballista turned and yelled, ‘Charge!’ to his imaginary troops in the trees. Screaming at the top of their voices, he and the other three set off down the rocks.
The one thing all troops fear above all else is to be surrounded. The Borani broke. Throwing away weapons, shields, anything that might hinder their flight, they streamed away up and down the beach. The battle was over. Now all that remained was a night of the wildest hunting of all – the hunting of men.
XVIII
In the extreme north-east of the city of Ephesus, hard by the Koressian Gate, across the street from the Gymnasium of Vedius or, as it was often called, the Gymnasium in the Koressos district, was the stadium. It was not what it had been. The old Greek running track had been altered after the coming of Rome. Its eastern end had been rebuilt. Stone walls and seats had been constructed, circumscribing a circle – a killing circle.
Ballista sat in the box reserved for the presiding magistrate and his entourage, but his thoughts were miles away, back down on the beach at Pigeon Island a month ago, revisiting the fierce exultation of victory, the almost sexual thrill of violence overcome, the heightened awareness of being alive. There had been much to do: getting the auxiliaries in hand, organizing a sweep of the island, putting some of the men back in the galleys – one to intercept Borani trying to swim to the mainland, the other to protect the village of Phygela from any barbarians who made it across. He had been dog-tired, but even the muttering ministrations when Calgacus appeared from out of the ships and started to tend his cuts had not dampened his spirits.