Ballista suspected that his attempts to encourage by example – attempts he was sure would have worked with Roman soldiers – had failed completely. When Ballista, Maximus and the others stripped off their tunics and heaved buckets up the perilous timber scaffolding or stood waist deep in the fast, chill water to manhandle beams into position, the Suani just despised them all the more.
Ballista and old Calgacus wandered down the track, past the hammering and sawing, off to the north. It was hard getting any sustained work out of the Suani. The carpenters, stonemasons and blacksmith were not too bad – they had a craft – but the labourers … Ballista would have to ask Azo about it during the prince’s next fleeting visit. Still, it was not raining; for once, there was not even any mist. The sun was actually out. The sky was a translucent blue, with a few very high white clouds.
‘Another few weeks, even at this rate, and we are done,’ said Ballista.
Calgacus shook his head. ‘We might as well let the lazy bastards take their time. We cannot leave without imperial orders. Until we get new mandata, we are stuck here at the arse end of the world.’
Out of the noise and dust, Ballista was not going to let the Caledonian spoil his mood. Where the sun fell on the tops of the gorge, the rocks glowed pink. There was an incredible clarity to the air. ‘Do you see that eagle up there?’ They both craned their necks.
A terrible, loud crack, like a siege engine breaking. Ballista and Calgacus whirled around – hands on hilts. The noise echoed off the canyon walls, confusing its origin. A deep groaning of wood, followed by a volley of further cracks. Shouts and screams from back down the track. Men running towards them. Others running away, hurling themselves into the river. The scaffold high above the track over the beginnings of the gate shifted outward. It held for a second or two, slightly swaying. There were men clinging to the top of it. Another series of cracks, vicious splinters flying, a definitive lurch and the edifice collapsed out and down into the river. The limbs of those falling pumped futilely. With hideous abruptness, they vanished into the spray that masked the stony bed of the river.
A great pall of dust mushroomed up from where the timber structure had been. The noise of the river, the screams of the injured; all sounds seemed to come from a long way away. The water whirled a beam past where they stood. Then a man. He was floundering, but alive. He grabbed a half-submerged rock. Ballista shrugged out of his sword belt.
‘No, you fucking fool,’ Calgacus shouted.
The water was not deep, not up to Ballista’s waist. It was icy cold, the bed treacherous, stones shifting underfoot. He waded out. His boots were full of water. The man was only three or four more paces away. He was clinging desperately. There was blood – a lot of it – on his arms, his head.
‘Look out.’
Another chunk of timber was swirling down towards them. Ballista scrambled back – the curious, slow high-steps of a man in water. Not enough time. He hurled himself backwards. He went under, the water rushing in his ears, eyes blurred. As he came up, the shattered end of the beam caught him on the left shoulder. The pain was intense. There was blood in the water. He held the wound tight with his right hand.
‘Come on.’ Calgacus was with him.
‘I am fine. Help me get him.’
They waited, timing it, while other debris scoured the space between them and the injured Suanian.
‘Now!’ They spoke at once. Five, six stumbling steps. They had him, a hand under each armpit, dragging. They made no attempt to keep his head above water – drowning was the least of his problems in those few moments to the riverbank. They were there – crawling out, spitting, spluttering.
XXIV
Sabotage. There could be no doubt. It had been sabotage. They squatted on their heels in the dust and inspected the evidence – the neat cuts where several of the support beams had been sawn part way through, and the contrasting tortured ends where the wood had twisted or snapped.
‘Not too skilled,’ Ballista said. ‘They could have sawn through fewer beams and had a greater certainty of collapse.’
‘Sure, that is good,’ Maximus said. ‘No need to confine our suspicions to the trained carpenters.’
‘Two dead, two more likely to die, another dozen hurt; it will be bad for the spirits of the workers,’ Mastabates said.
Calgacus snorted; a horrible sound mingling contempt and derision.
‘Was it an attempt to kill you?’ Mastabates asked Ballista.
It was Hippothous who answered. ‘It is not likely. Ballista has been up on the scaffolding – we all have – but not continuously. The odds were exceedingly against him – any of us – being anywhere near it when it fell.’
‘Then who benefits by sabotaging our mission?’ Mastabates went on to begin to scout answers to his own question. ‘The Caspian Gates are designed to keep out the Alani.’
‘I have not seen any nomads around,’ said Maximus.
‘Would we recognize them?’ Ballista shrugged, then the pain made him wish he had not. ‘A lot of the Suani dress like men from the steppes – the caps with lappets, the furs, those animal-style buckles and clasps. I am still enough of a northerner to find it hard to tell one of these easterners from another. A Hellene such as Hippothous would be no better – worse probably. Apart from Mastabates, do any of us know enough of the language of the Suani to notice an unusual accent?’
‘It is against Sassanid interests for us to do well.’ Mastabates tried another tack. ‘Those bushy-bearded mobads hanging around Polemo would be in a good position to organize something like this.’
Everyone nodded at the truth of the words.
‘But it could be something more local, more personal,’ the eunuch continued. ‘Iberia is only a few valleys away. We all heard Pythonissa remind you that old King Hamazasp still hates you.’
This time Ballista remembered not to shrug. ‘A reciprocal thing,’ he murmured.
‘Of course, it could be something yet closer to home.’ Mastabates’ thoughts pressed on. ‘The eldest two sons of Polemo of Suania have met violent deaths. Members of that family do not die in their beds, nor does any dynasty in the Caucasus. Everyone in the mountains is enmeshed in feuds. If you have eyes to see, it is evident that the princes Azo and Saurmag hate each other. And who could tell what the girl Pythonissa wants – a priestess of Hecate, said to be skilled with poisons, angry, frustrated, a latter-day Medea.’
It was an informal consilium that advised Ballista on the banks of the Alontas: Maximus, Calgacus, Hippothous and Mastabates. The four slaves, Agathon and Polybius along with Mastabates’ Pallas and Hippothous’s Narcissus, had been left across the river in Cumania to keep an eye on their possessions. It left just young Wulfstan in attendance. He had been joined by the Suanian who had been fished out of the water. His name was Tarchon. Despite all the blood, he had not been badly hurt. Now he would not let them out of his sight. Through the translation of Mastabates, Tarchon had repeatedly thanked them for saving his life. As far as could be understood, the incident had apparently made them his blood brothers in some obscure but fierce Suanian way. Now his honour seemed to demand that he die for them. Tarchon looked forward to it with pleasure.
The consilium was over. Nothing for it but to carry on: rebuild the scaffolding, keep more on their guard. They dispersed. Watching the labourers get back to work, Ballista let Calgacus and Wulfstan change the bandages on his shoulder. The ragged wood had torn the flesh nastily. Having the splinters out had been excruciating. It still hurt a great deal. He had a black eye and a range of other bruises from his tumble in the river.
‘Pythonissa,’ Tarchon said, then some things which probably meant a lot in his own language but merely sounded vaguely positive to the others.
The riders were rounding the next bend in the gorge, coming up from the north, moving at a gentle canter. The girl was in front. She was riding a chestnut with a nice action. Her blond hair was uncovered. Otherwise, it would not have been easy to distinguish her at a
distance. She wore a baggy tunic, rode like a man.
One of the baggage animals had a deadweight lashed across its back; two others had something heavy slung between them. Ballista quickly counted heads: twenty-three, what he thought they had started out with.
Pythonissa reined in. ‘Kyria.’ Ballista greeted her in Greek. He bowed, blew a kiss from his fingertips. The things on the pack-horses were game. He felt relieved.
‘Kyrios.’ She performed proskynesis from the saddle. In another it might have been offhand, in her it had an elegance. She looked around at the debris. ‘Accident or design?’ She appeared to have the laconic style of her brother Azo.
‘Sabotage.’
She nodded, as if it were to be expected. ‘Artemis smiled on us, we have a boar, a deer and several brace of partridge and snipe. If you have bread and wine, we can have a feast.’
The cooking was a drawn-out and rather fraught business. The language barrier separating Ballista’s Agathon and the various self-styled experts in field cooking in the train of Pythonissa simmered all afternoon, often threatening culinary disaster, if not physical violence. The linguistic and diplomatic skills of Mastabates were pushed to their owner’s exasperation. Yet when the sun went down, all was ready.
The majority were to eat where the food had been cooked, in front of their tents and shelters along the track, not far from the animal lines. Only the select were to dine in the little fort of Cumania: Ballista and the four citizens in his familia, Pythonissa and four of her leading warriors.
It was dim and fuggy in the circular second-floor room. The shutters were pulled back from the arrow slits, but little of the smoke from the torches escaped. Ballista remembered someone once remarking to him that civilization ended where candles and torches replaced lamps. Couches and low tables had been found or improvised. Ballista shared a couch with Pythonissa. Wulfstan and one of her eunuchs stood at the foot to serve them.
The first course was a soup made from dried peas heavily flavoured with cumin. It was a local favourite; the embassy had eaten it several times since reaching Colchis. Usually, Ballista enjoyed it. This evening he was distracted, trying to think of things to talk about with this strange girl. What came into his mind was crashingly inappropriate. Are you involved in many bloodfeuds? Have you poisoned many people? He pulled the bread into little pieces. Pythonissa herself was quiet, seemingly preoccupied. Left to the two of them, conversation soon would have ground to a halt.
Fortunately, the others made a better show. The four Suani spoke Greek. Maximus was his customary ebullient self. His hands waved and chopped as he elaborated ever more implausible stories. He had to gulp his drink whenever his flow of words allowed him a chance. Mastabates also did well. Paradoxically, he was so urbane he did not seem out of place in this rough fort in a wilderness of mountains. Little in these circumstances was to be expected from Calgacus, but he was polite enough when called upon to make an answer. Hippothous, however, was a disappointment. He spoke seldom; instead, he sat intently staring at one of the Suani. Allfather, Ballista thought, it better be physiognomy – if the Greek tries to fuck him there will be bloodshed.
The main course arrived. There was plate after plate of roast meat: venison and boar, partridge and snipe. Not boiling the game birds had been the essence of Suanian objections to Agathon’s cooking. There were few vegetables – just some cabbage and garlic – but more flat bread, and more, much more, goatskin-flavoured wine.
Ballista rallied a little. Pythonissa had asked him about the battle at Soli where he had defeated the Sassanid king. Ballista explained the overall strategy and the specific tactics in some detail. She gave every sign of being interested. Although warmed by the wine, he knew he was being humoured and led. But, far from minding, he felt grateful.
A burst of laughter from the Suani followed Maximus telling the inevitable joke about the young tribune at a remote fort and the camel. Things were going well. They were enjoying themselves. Even Ballista was beginning to relax. Then she asked him, with what might have been an arch look, about his capture of the Sassanid royal harem – was it very opulent, very decadent? She put a certain emphasis on the last. His words dried up.
Ballista preferred not to think about the things he had done in the purple shadows of that silken pavilion. Tipping wine on the altar to extinguish the sacred flame. The two servants – eunuchs – killed on a whim. His treatment of Shapur’s favourite concubine Roxanne. Afterwards, slumped half naked on the throne of the house of Sasan, drinking, the girl crying. Even Maximus, when he came in, looking aghast. Of course, Ballista had thought his wife and boys dead; he had not been in his right mind. But the memory was painful – his complete loss of self-control, his descent to what any Greek or Roman would see as his true bestial barbarian nature.
Seeing something was wrong, Pythonissa took up the conversational running. She talked to him confidingly about the ghastliness of her ex-father-in-law Hamazasp; his ignorance, alarming table manners, and extraordinary taste in women and not just boys but men. The latter was a subject Ballista did not want to dwell on, but he appreciated her flow of talk.
After some pears poached in wine – with an unusual aftertaste of goat – the serious food was over. Just some walnuts, cheese, honey, dried apples, roasted broad beans and yet more bread were put out to soak up the serious drinking.
The talk flowed around and over Ballista. He knew what was troubling him. It was her proximity. The way she spoke and smiled and moved; everything made him intensely aware of her physical proximity.
Eventually, Ballista was relieved to call an end to things. He stood, slightly unsteadily, wished them goodnight. The guests left. Ballista went to the top floor, which he had taken as his quarters. Wulfstan helped him out of his best tunic, put out a bowl of water, and left. Ballista was washing when Calgacus stuck his head around the door.
‘The woman has sent you a gift.’
The two eunuchs entered. Between them they carried a strangely heavy-looking roll of silk carpet. Carefully, they placed it on the floor. One stood forward, bowed. ‘Our kyria said we were to open the gift only when you were on your own, Kyrios.’
Ballista gave Calgacus a look which said that, even naked with an injured shoulder, he had nothing to fear from a couple of court eunuchs. The Caledonian made a strange face – possibly a smile – and withdrew.
The eunuchs gently unrolled the soft, embroidered material. A tangle of white limbs, a mass of blond hair. They helped her to her feet. She was naked. She was biting her thumb to stop herself laughing out loud. The eunuchs bowed to her, to him, and backed from the room.
She took her arms away so he could see her. She was smiling. A necklace, a bangle or two, nothing else. ‘Just like Cleopatra to Caesar,’ she said.
He walked across. She put her arms around his neck, careful to avoid his injured shoulder. He put his around her waist. She tipped up her face. He leant down. They kissed, her tongue in his mouth. He slid his hands down to the small of her back, pulled her to him. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She was tall. He smelt her perfume, her body. She leant back, looking up at him. Her blue-grey eyes were shining. He felt the familiar surge of powerful lust. It was going to be all right, more than all right.
Ballista woke in the early hours of the morning. A feeling of dread was on him. He was sweating, heart racing. The girl was asleep beside him. Moonlight slanted in from the narrow arrow slits. Ballista forced himself to sit up, look across the room at what he knew he would see. There by the door, as he knew it would be, was the tall, hooded figure. The huge, pale face, the grey eyes full of hatred.
‘Speak,’ Ballista said.
‘I will see you again at Aquileia.’ Maximinus Thrax spoke, although he had been dead these more than twenty years.
Holding his courage tight, as he had every time before, Ballista replied. ‘I will see you then.’
Pythonissa stirred, put her arm across him. Ballista looked down at her. She opened her eyes. He looked bac
k towards the door. The daemon was gone, just the odour of the waxed canvas of its cloak lingering.
‘What is wrong?’ She suddenly was very awake. She quickly scanned the room for threats. Seeing nothing, she relaxed. ‘You look as if you had seen Hecate herself.’
Ballista tried to smile, to speak – he could do neither. He lay back.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
He told her – the centurion who had taken him from the hall of his father to be an imperial hostage, the siege of Aquileia, the conspiracy, the wild fight, stabbing the iron stylus deep into the throat of the emperor, the decapitation of Maximinus, the desecration of his body, the daemon that walked by night, the threat of Aquileia – told her all of it.
Pythonissa listened until he was finished. She kissed his chest.
‘You think it is more than a dream?’ he asked.
‘It could be a dream, but of course the dead walk.’ She kissed his chest again. ‘Avoid the Italian city of Aquileia and nothing more will happen.’
Now he could half smile. ‘Unless it is another place of that name, or Aquileia is something else – a state of mind.’
Her blue-grey eyes regarded him. ‘Does the daemon ever return the same night?’
‘No.’
She kissed his lips, then his chest. He felt her hair slide down his body, her tongue licking. She started doing what will take almost any man’s mind off his troubles. At least while it lasts.
Her eunuchs returned an hour before dawn. She told them to wait, turned to him.
‘I am not a young man any more.’
She took no notice.
After she had gone, he had to endure the sly smiles of Wulfstan, Calgacus and the others as he washed, dressed, had breakfast. Maximus kept tiresomely remarking how tired he looked. Ballista wondered what it would be like to live in a culture where you had privacy. In Germania, in the imperium – everywhere he had been it was the same. The poor lived many to a room. The houses of the rich were packed with servants. As some satirist had written, ‘When Andromache mounted Hector their slaves stood with their ears glued to the door, masturbating.’ It would be good to live somewhere where you could have sex with reasonable certainty that no one was listening. Despite such thoughts, Ballista found himself smiling a smile he would have found smug and annoying on someone else. It was interesting that Hector had liked his wife to get on top.
The Caspian Gates Page 25