Harry Sidebottom - The Caspian Gates

Pythonissa’s mount surged past. Ballista brought his around behind that of her eunuch, slapped the flat of his blade across its rump. The eunuch’s horse leapt forward like a scalded cat. Ballista booted his after it.

The two Suani were still chopping at the remaining guard. ‘Leave him,’ Ballista shouted as he passed. The two men sawed at their reins. As they came around, an arrow took one in the face. He was knocked sideways in the saddle. His horse shied. The Suanian crashed to the ground. More arrows were slicing down. ‘Leave him,’ Ballista shouted over his shoulder.

The fallen Suanian was alive. The arrow protruding from his jaw, he was struggling to his feet. His face a mask of blood, he reached for his horse. It skittered back, and bolted after the others. His companion sat in indecision. Arrows fell around him. One thumped into the baggage strapped across the rear of his mount. He kicked his heels, and raced after Ballista.

The five remaining riders were strung out along the track, the loose horse running with them, threatening mayhem. Maximus slowed, pulled to the side, let Pythonissa and the eunuch overtake him. The Hibernian fell in beside Ballista. Their surviving Suanian was only a dozen lengths behind.

‘How many?’ Ballista said above the thunder of hooves.

‘Twenty, maybe more.’

‘Suani or nomads?’

‘Plenty of both.’

‘Fuck,’ Ballista said.

The first few miles were a straight chase. They were in the pass; there was nowhere else to go but down it. They rode as fast as they could. Stones rattled and flicked up from the horses’ feet. Thankfully, the loose horse dropped back. Again and again they forded the stream in a chill spray of their own making. The day was not getting lighter. The clouds were coming down. The pass twisted. On the longer straights they could see the dark mass of their pursuers, a mile or so behind, an amorphous animal set on revenge.

Pythonissa reined in at the entrance to the pass. They pulled up around her, horses and riders steaming. A steep slope down to a green valley, a river winding through it. ‘The Aragos,’ she said. ‘We follow it.’

Leaning far back in the saddle, carefully, they negotiated the incline. At the foot, she led them to the left, downstream. They had covered no great distance when those hunting them appeared at the top. Despite the hunters whooping at the sight of their prey, Ballista called for Pythonissa to slacken the pace. They would draw ahead again as the hunters came down the slope. This was going to be a long chase.

Some of the hills along the Aragos were timbered, but not enough to offer concealment. The fissures in its flanks were equally unpromising. Of course, they could not be like the two north of Dikaiosyne, Ballista thought bitterly. You could hide any number in them, or in the one they had ridden by between the village and the pass.

Although, generally, the valley of the Aragos was wide, at times it hemmed in on them. At these places the cliffs were vertical; devoid of vegetation, grooved as if by the chisel of some inexpert giant stonemason. Ballista contemplated making a stand, only to dismiss it as a futile last resort.

The ceiling of cloud was getting lower, the day darker. The horses were very tired. They rode on at a pushed canter but sitting straight, well back in the saddle.

When they had not seen or heard those chasing them for some time, Ballista called a halt. No sight of the sun, but he thought it about mid-morning. The mountain horses were tough, but needed spelling. They dismounted, let them drink just a little, led them onward.

The sound of a horn – echoing through the granite hills, impossible to tell how far – drove them to horseback again. They rode on downriver. The threatened rain still did not fall. Out of the murk, high on a terrace, a work of man suddenly would emerge, each one startling in its incongruity. Here a ruined stone tower, there a shepherd’s hut; never anything that offered them safety.

When the horses were staggering, they got down again, walked by their heads.

‘Have we crossed into the territory of Iberia?’ Ballista asked. ‘Will they not turn back?’

‘In the Croucasis, territory is a fluid concept,’ Pythonissa said. ‘Its only meaning is where a ruler can get away with what he wishes.’

‘It has always been a rule that the weak should be subject to the strong,’ Ballista said.

She gave him a strange look. ‘The Athenians in Thucydides. It is easy to forget you have become a Greek.’

‘I have been in the imperium a long time.’

‘If my brother’s men recognized us, they will not dare turn back.’

They struggled on through the afternoon. Riding, walking, riding, walking – the times in the saddle getting ever shorter. It was amazing what a horse or a person could do when forced. Eating, drinking, relieving themselves on the track; even Pythonissa taking but a few steps for privacy. Humanity and beasts rendered near one in extremity.

Eventually, Ballista saw a large, tumbledown stone building off up one of the slopes. They could not go on. They would camp there. He sent Maximus back to the last turn of the valley. He would replace him in a couple of hours. The rest plodded into the ruin. It looked as if it had been a barn. Now, roofless in this bleak place, it seemed a monument to misguided optimism.

They lit no fire. After perfunctorily rubbing down and seeing to the horses, they slumped to the floor. Too tired to eat more than a mouthful or two, they tried to settle themselves to get what sleep they could. The Suanian warrior sat a little apart, sobbing quietly but unceasingly.

‘What is the matter with him?’ Ballista asked not so he could hear.

‘Kobrias is mourning. His brother Oroezes was the one we left behind,’ Pythonissa said.

Ballista could think of nothing to say. He went to sleep.

About two hours later, he woke, cold and stiff in every joint. His first thought was of his sons. He forced himself to saddle his horse, and lead it out to go and take over the watch. Maximus walked his animal to the barn. The rain still had not come. But the clouds were there, blotting out the moon and stars. Even when Ballista had been out some time, visibility was negligible.

It was cold. Ballista wriggled his toes in his boots, kept the hand that was not holding the reins under his coat. He did not want to move too much: it would make him easier to spot. Sometimes, however, the cold forced him to get up, stamp his feet, walk the horse about. He did not really think the hunters would come up in the night. There may be Alani among them, as Maximus had said, but if so the nomads had no spare mounts with them. Their horses would be as done in as those of their quarry.

Time passed incredibly slowly. The river lapped past in the dark. From far away came the sound of jackals; once, the howl of a wolf. He calmed the horse. Ballista sat in the dark on the abysmal hillside. He thought of his sons, his wife. They would be asleep in warm, comfortable beds in the villa in Tauromenium. He wished he were in Sicily with them. Sicily, in these troubled times, the age of iron and rust: he could not think of a safer place. No Roman army had campaigned there since the civil wars as the old Republic died, nearly three centuries previously. No barbarian incursion had troubled the island for much longer. Nothing since the great slave uprisings, and they were what? – three and a half, four centuries ago. He wanted to be at home with his family. As he framed the thought, Pythonissa’s words slid into his mind. It is easy to forget you have become a Greek . But he knew it was not true, not completely true. He would never be wholly a Greek. Yet now he would never again be wholly an Angle of Germania. Separated from the culture of his birth, he knew he would never fully be accepted as either Greek or Roman. Wherever he went he would be in exile. Whatever, all he wanted now was not to be on this dismal fucking hillside in the middle of nowhere.

The eunuch came along to take his place. Ballista took his horse back to the barn. Maximus was fast asleep. The Hibernian twitched and muttered, caught in a dream of who could tell what lubricious nature. Pythonissa and the other Suanian were awake, heads close together, talking. Ballista felt a pang of jealousy. He dismissed it – she was not his woman. At least the barbarian had stopped crying. Ballista hunkered down, fell asleep thinking again about his sons.

They were up an hour before dawn. Kobrias was on watch. They ate, fed the horses. They were tacking up when the Suanian galloped back. The hunters were coming. Still more than a mile before the turn in the valley, but riding fast. Ballista and the others climbed into the saddle, the threat banishing their fatigue.

Pythonissa led the Suanian warrior aside. She spoke urgently to him in their own tongue. Ballista said they should set off. She gestured for him to wait. She spoke some more to the Suanian. The warrior obviously agreed. She passed him a phial. He drank. She embraced him. ‘Now we go,’ she said.

As the others turned their horses down towards the track, the Suanian sat motionless.

‘What is he doing?’ Ballista asked.

‘He will lead them to the barn. With luck, they will think they have trapped us all inside.’

‘Why?’

‘Yesterday he left his brother to die. Today Kobrias will make amends.’

‘He will die.’

‘And save us. He will have made amends. The thing I gave him will keep his courage up.’

They splashed across the stream, and around the next corner, out of sight.

By nightfall, the four riders came to the confluence of the Aragos and another river flowing from the north. Here, Pythonissa said they should leave the valley and strike due east into hills covered in stands of trees. They did not go far before camping. Again, they made no fire but, away from the valleys, in the immensity of the wilderness, their pursuers were unlikely to discover them.