Pushing hard, Maximus and the others had galloped out of the valley of tears. They did not see Valerian, Ballista and the other comites hauled from their mounts and, dusty and bloodied, hustled away into captivity. They had no time to spare a glance for the remainder of the Roman field army of the east, surrounded and hopeless on the hill. They had a large party of Sassanid light cavalry only just over two bowshots behind them. They rode hard to the hills of the north-west.
Darkness had saved them. It seemed an eon coming, then all at once it was there. A dark, dark night; the night before the new moon. Calgacus, whom Ballista had chosen to be in charge, had ordered them to double-back to the south-east. After a time, he had found a place for them to lie up. The land here was rolling hills, sometimes bunching into mountains. On the flank of one of these lay a hollow, deep and wide enough to hide eleven men and horses. There was a small stream nearby. As he rubbed down Pale Horse, the mount that Ballista had entrusted to him, Maximus approved of the Caledonian's choice. His hands working hard, he tried not to think about the grey gelding's owner; once his owner, now his patronus, the friend he had left behind.
Maximus had been woken the following morning by the sound of goat bells. Despite the many years since he had been taken as a slave out of his native Hibernia and brought to the southlands, goat bells somehow still sounded exotic. Although alien, they were usually reassuring, speaking of a gentle, timeless Mediterranean order. That morning, they had not been. They were drawing closer.
Looking round, Maximus saw that everyone other than old Calgacus was still asleep. The Caledonian was stretched out on the ground, peering over the lip of their hiding place. Maximus had scrambled up next to him and risked a quick look over the top. It was a small flock, no more than twenty head, strung out behind a lead animal. They were coming to the stream to drink. The purposeful tread of the leader would take them right by the hollow, would give the goatherd a perfect view of the fugitives.
Maximus had been surprised when Calgacus gestured for him to go to the far end of the hollow. The goats were close, the tinkling of their bells loud. As Maximus moved past, two or three of the Dalmatians stirred. He motioned them to silence. In position now, he looked back at Calgacus.
Unhurriedly, Calgacus rose to his feet and stepped up over the lip of the hollow. He stood still, hands empty by his sides.
Pulling himself up, Maximus peeked over the top. Through the legs of the animals, he saw the goatherd. He was an elderly man with a huge beard and the air of a patriarch. He was leaning on a staff, calmly regarding Calgacus. The goatherd's untroubled manner suggested that ugly old Caledonians or even daemons popped up out of every other gully he passed.
'Good day, grandfather,' said Calgacus.
For a time the goatherd did not respond. Maximus had begun to wonder if he did not speak Greek. He was wearing baggy eastern-style trousers, but then, everyone in Mesopotamia did.
'Good day, my child,' the local replied at last. Maximus felt an urge to laugh building inside him.
'Is it safe to be out with the goats with the Sassanids all around?'
The goatherd considered Calgacus's question, weighing it up. 'I keep to the higher hills. The goats must drink. If the Persians see me, they may not kill me. What can you do?'
The local had his back almost completely to Maximus. Now the latter saw the point of Calgacus's silent instruction. Quietly, he stood. As Calgacus glanced over, he touched the hilt of his sword. There was a pause before the Caledonian gave a tiny shake of his head.
'May the gods hold their hands over you, grandfather,' said Calgacus.
With due deliberation, the goatherd turned his patriarchal gaze first on Maximus then back to Calgacus. 'I think they may do already.'
The staff tapped the lead goat on the rump. The herder turned to go. Above the swelling tinkle of bells, he called back, 'May the gods hold their hands over you, my children.'
Maximus stepped over to Calgacus. 'If they catch him, the reptiles will torture him. Not many men could keep a secret under that.'
The old Caledonian shrugged. 'What can you do?'
Maximus laughed. 'How true, my child, how true.'
'Shut the fuck up, and take the next watch,' replied Calgacus affably.
They had saddled up at dusk. With the true night came thousands of stars and the thinnest of thin new moons. According to the ways of his people, Maximus made a wish on the new moon, a wish he could never divulge, for certain to do so would spoil its purpose.
Calgacus had led them to the north-west. With two riders out in front, they took it easy. There could not be many miles to the Euphrates. Unless the Sassanids intervened, they would be in Samosata well before dawn.
They had been travelling for some hours, their hopes rising, when, as the malignant gods willed it, the intervention came. A Persian challenge, loud in the night. A cry of alarm, then further shouts in an eastern-sounding language. Calgacus circled his arm, wheeling the tiny column; everyone booted their horses. All around was the rattle of hooves, the ringing of equipment and, from behind, the roar of pursuit.
Maximus had sensed as much as seen the solid black line of an arrow as it shot past him, accelerating ahead into the night. A second later, he had heard the wisp of an arrow's passing. Momentarily, he wondered if it was another unseen arrow or the sound of the first. Shrugging this germ of a huge idea out of his mind, he slung his shield over his back. As he rode, it banged painfully into his neck and back. At this short range, an arrow would probably punch clean through its linden boards, but somehow its weight and discomfort made him feel a little better.
They galloped on, over the pale, rolling hills, round dark, up-thrust mountains, past gloomy vineyards and orchards, through burnt hamlets and by abandoned farms. They crashed through small, upland streams; their beds stony, the water no more than hoof-high.
It is hard to outride men in fear for their lives. The clamour of pursuit had dropped back, faded to inaudibility beneath the sounds of their own movement. One more rise, and Calgacus signalled a halt. All the men dropped to the ground, taking the weight from their horses' backs.
Maximus looked round, counting. There were too few men in the pale light, just seven of them. Four of the Dalmatian troopers were gone. Had they been killed? Had they been taken? Or had they chosen a different path, either heroically, to lead the Sassanids away, or out of ignorance and terror? Neither Maximus nor anyone else in the party would ever know. They had vanished in the night.
Calgacus had handed his reins to the Greek boy Demetrius and was walking back to the brow of the hill. Hurriedly, Maximus did the same. Keeping low, they gazed back the way they had come.
The Sassanids had not given up. Not much above half a mile to the north, strung out at no great interval, torches flared across the hills.
'Persistent fuckers,' said Maximus.
'Aye,' agreed Calgacus. 'Having lost sight of us, they have thrown out a cordon to sweep the country.'
In silence the two men watched the easterners ride over the hills towards them. The undulating line of torches resembled a great snake coiling sideways, a huge mythical draco.
'If they want to stay in touch with each other, they will have to go slowly,' said Maximus. 'It will be fine for us.'
'Maybe,' said Calgacus, 'but if they get close we will try the trick Ballista used the time we were chased before the siege of Arete.'
Memories jumbled into Maximus's thoughts: waiting in a stand of trees down by the river, the smell of mud, a scatter of stones, a desperate fight in a gully.
'When Romulus died,' said Calgacus patiently.
Maximus was grateful for the hint. Although the Hibernian had a high opinion of himself, it did not run to priding himself on his powers of recall. On that occasion, Ballista had tied a lantern to a packhorse. His standard bearer Romulus was to lead the Persians away while the rest of Ballista's men rode to safety. After a time, Romulus was to turn the packhorse loose and make his escape, but something had gone wrong. He must have left it too late. Antigonus had come across Romulus a few days later – or what was left of him – staked out and mutilated. It had not ended well for Antigonus either: not long afterwards, a stone shot by a siege engine had taken his head off. Now, Maximus felt a rush of pity for his companions who had been lost along the way. He steadied himself. As he had sometimes heard Ballista say: Men die in war. It happens.