The seven remaining horsemen had pushed south. They rode hard, but not flat out. The stars wheeled and the moon tracked across the sky. There was no need for dangerous tricks with lanterns. Gradually, the lights of the Sassanids had fallen behind. After a time they could be seen no more.
Calgacus had kept them moving, when they could, avoiding the skyline, always aiming south-west. When dawn's rosy fingers showed in the sky, the elderly Caledonian had begun to hunt for a place to lie up. Eventually, when the sun was almost up, he turned aside into an olive grove which ran up the flank of a hill. They had dismounted and pushed through straggly vines and up under the trees.
The dappled sunlight was warm on Maximus's face when Calgacus shook him awake. Unnecessarily, the Caledonian had put his finger to his lips. Silently, Maximus rose and followed him to a space where the gnarled silver-grey trunks were more widely spaced. They looked down to the valley floor.
One thin column of dust followed by a wide, dense one. A solitary rider was being hunted down by at least thirty horsemen. No one in the olive grove spoke. In the randomness of his fear, the hunted man was riding directly towards them.
'The eye of Cronus is on us,' muttered Demetrius. The others said nothing. As the fugitive drew closer, they saw that he wore a light-blue tunic.
'Gods below,' said Maximus, 'it's one of ours.'
The lost Dalmatian trooper was almost in arrow shot when his horse stumbled. The man lost his seat, slid forward down the animal's neck. Trying to regain its balance, the horse plunged. The trooper fell. His momentum made him bounce once, high in the air, then, limbs flailing, he crashed to the ground. He scrabbled to his feet, his pursuers surging all around him.
There was a moment of stillness: the Dalmatian stood, the Sassanids in a ring around him. The trooper's horse ran away to the right. One of the Sassanids followed to catch it.
Slowly, almost apologetically, the trooper drew his sword. He threw it down. The mounted men laughed. One spurred forward. The trooper turned, started to run. A long blade flashed in the sun. There was a scream, a spray of bright blood, and the Dalmatian fell. The Sassanid cantered back into the circle. The wounded man got to his feet again. Another horseman rushed in. Again the flash of a blade. More blood, and again the man went down.
Maximus looked across at Calgacus. The Caledonian shook his head.
After the third pass, the Dalmatian remained on the ground, curled up, his arms covering his head. Their sport spoilt, the Sassanids called out insults, imprecations. Their prey remained down in the reddened dust.
The Sassanid who had gone to the right returned, leading the trooper's horse.
One in the ring of horsemen called an order, and the men unslung their bows. Another word of command and they drew and released. Almost as one, the arrowheads thumped into the Dalmatian's body.
The watchers on the hill had not moved.
A Persian slid from the saddle. Tossing his reins to a companion, he walked over to the corpse. With his boot on the body, he pulled out the arrows. The shaft of one had snapped; the others he handed back to their owners. The riders laughed and joked, teasing each other about their shooting. One carefully tied back his long hair with a bright strip of material.
Maximus became aware of his sword in his hand. He had no memory of unsheathing it. He held it behind his back so that it would not catch the sun. He forced himself to look away, at the others. Their whole attention was on the foot of the hill. They were all willing the enemy to leave.
Finally, when the watchers had thought they could bear no more, when even discovery and doomed violence had seemed better than the agony of waiting, a Persian shouted a word of command. The easterner on foot remounted, and the troop trotted off the way they had come.
Around him, Maximus had heard several men exhale noisily. He realized that he was one of them. 'Bastards,' he said.
Calgacus had not taken his eyes off the Sassanids. 'And would our boys have behaved better?'
Maximus shrugged.
It had not proved easy to sleep having just seen one of their commilitiones killed in cold blood, his butchered remains lying in view. Calgacus had moved the men further up the hill. It had done no good. A careless glance through the green leaves still revealed a glimpse of soiled blue tunic. The Greek youth Demetrius had said they should retrieve the man's body, offer him proper burial, at least a coin for the ferryman. Calgacus had overruled him. The Persians might return, they would be suspicious. But, Demetrius had argued, others might be drawn to the sight. Calgacus shrugged: it was the lesser of two evils.
Twilight had found them more than ready to move. Calgacus had outlined the new plan. Since the gods clearly did not care for the idea of them reaching Samosata in the north, they would go west to Zeugma. They would soon come to a broad, high plain, almost twenty miles across, then a range of hills from which the Euphrates would be visible. They could do it in one night. Once in Zeugma, they would be safe. They had passed through the town on the march out. Its walls were sound, manned by the four thousand men of Legio IIII Scythica and another six thousand regulars. Best of all, they were commanded by the ex-consul Valens, and he was no friend of either the Sassanids nor treacherous bastards like Quietus, his brother Macrianus and their scheming father Macrianus the Lame.
Calgacus had been about to give the word to set off when, boots slipping in the powdery soil, Demetrius ran up through the trees. When he reached them, he doubled up, panting like a dog after a run in the hot sun. One of the troopers, a good-looking man, helped him up into the saddle.
'Just a coin, a handful of dust.' Demetrius spoke to Calgacus, his tone defensive. 'I know if the reptiles come it will show that we have been here. But I had to. I could not let his soul wander for ever.'
Calgacus just nodded and gave the word to move out.
It had taken much longer to reach the plain than the Caledonian had suggested. When they did, it seemed to stretch on without end. On and on they had ridden, the stars high above as distant and heartless as the eyes of a triumphant mob. On either side, flat, grey nothingness. The men were bone-tired. They had lived with constant fear for too long. In the face of the plain's immensity, even Maximus had felt his composure slipping, his mind summoning up ghastly imaginings. After a time, it had seemed to him that it was the plain that moved while they stood still. It was like those stories Demetrius told: they were already dead, their sins on earth had been judged. They had been sent to Tartarus and it was their fate to ride this dark plain for ever, never reaching safety, never again seeing the sun.
Yet the grey light of pre-dawn had come all too soon. It revealed the hills in the west, but they were still a way off. All around them lay the emptiness of the plain. There were a few shrubs, the odd wind-bent tree; nothing to hide them. About a mile ahead, stark and incongruous, was a lone building. Anyone with any pretensions to fieldcraft knows not to hide in a solitary building; it is the first place searchers will look. Nevertheless, Calgacus led them straight towards it. There was nowhere else.