'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, anyway, 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.