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 the 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.