“I require five men, in the best condition.”
“I will set to purpose,” Oenomaus replied. “But the next exhibition is not until-”
“Not for Capuan rabble,” Batiatus explained. “Those ungrateful vermin will have to wait their turn. A new audience awaits us, in Neapolis.”
“Ah,” Oenomaus said. “I have heard speak of the death of Pelorus.”
“Word would not travel so fast,” Batiatus muttered, “if I were to remove tongues with knife.”
“Older voices recalled days spent under roof of this ludus,” Oenomaus said. “They meant no malice in its telling.”
“No matter,” Batiatus said. “The men will be on cart tonight, and bound for Atella by mid-morning, and Neapolis by night.”
“Mercury would struggle to sprint such a course,” Oenomaus observed guardedly.
“I myself will be spending the next two days in cursed litter,” Batiatus scowled. “Find carter to add human cargo for extra coin.”
“I shall make preparations for us.”
“You will remain.”
“But-”
“You will train the men in preparation for exhibition here in Capua. Ashur will handle accounts in my absence.”
Oenomaus looked troubled.
“And Domina?”
“Lucretia?” Batiatus laughed. “The woman only wants the wants of her ‘friend.’ And her friend has business in Neapolis. Trust me, doctore, she makes preparation for departure as we speak!”
III
He dreamed of forests in snow, a sunset shot through with pink and bright orange that lingered on the ground, and icy trees, making the winter seem warm-until one touched it. He tramped through the trees in armor bought at a high price from Greek merchants. He was one of many Thracian warriors strung out through the forest like grazing deer, their breath lingering on the air like phantoms. Each man bore the round shield and crested helmet of a hoplite, with greaves and spear and leaf-shaped sword.
The Greeks avoided war in winter. They rarely fought on mountains. Their battles all so conveniently arranged when everyone was available to meet on the plains, and before the weather turned bad. Their armor similarly was seasonal, and with little thought of the uses to which it might be put to in cold, forbidding Thrace.
Buskins beneath the greaves kept much of the cold away from his legs. An animal skin, lashed tightly to his chest, kept snow at bay with its tawny fur. Only his hands felt the cold-barely able to grip the heavy spear as he advanced, just one warrior in the ragged line of Thracians, picking through the forest.
There was a howling. A distant, mournful howling like that of a wounded wolf. He knew what it was, and that it required hilltops and a strong breeze. He peered through the trees in search of a distant ridge, in time to catch the sight of a dragon’s head flashing bronze in the dying sunlight. It appeared above the hill, a long streamer-flag playing out behind it, more and more of its long metal neck becoming visible as its bearer reached the summit of the hill.
Another! There was a second dragon head-it, too, a decorative mounting on a long metal tube, held aloft by one of the bestial standard-bearers of the Getae. The winter wind gusted along the hilltop and into the dragon’s mouth, creating the mournful howling, extending the streamers out behind it almost horizontally.
Sura had warned him of a red serpent. Was this what she had meant?
He sniffed, the Thracian cold biting at his nostrils, and squinted at the standards on the hills. His fellow auxiliaries stared along with him, peering into the fading light, searching for archers. But there were only the twin metal standards and their characteristic sound… and a chariot, pulled by two horses.
“The leader of the Getae?” Bronton mused from close by, leaning on his lance.
“No,” he said. “See how the tattered dress flaps in the wind. See how the arms are raised in incantation, dripping with charms and bones and bracelets. It is one of their warrior-priestesses.”
The wind dipped, lessening the unearthly lament from the horns, affording the briefest of moments when a human voice could carry down from the hill. It was an unearthly, ululating cry, like the call of some mythical carrion bird. The priestess jumped from her chariot and danced on the hilltop, jerking to a music that only she could hear, stamping on the ground and calling down unseen retribution from the multicolored sky.
“Their spells will not save them,” Bronton muttered. It was at that moment that the axe hit him.
It clanged into the side of his Greek-made helmet, bouncing harmlessly off into the trees, but heralding a danger closer at hand than a mountain-top sorceress. Getae warriors leapt from behind trees, and out of holes in the ground, throwing off snowy cloaks in a sudden mist of white powder.
He watched as Bronton swung to meet the new assault, screamed a futile negation as Bronton’s spear caught on a tree-root, watched in melancholy slow-motion as the hulking warrior struggled, slowly, too slowly, to prepare himself to meet the Getae charge.
The soldier disappeared, engulfed beneath a wave of the animal skins and skull-masks of the wild Getae warriors. The Thracian line was stretched out too far. Its Greek armors were designed for a phalanx-a push-and-shove with locked shields on a notional Boeotian plain, far, too far, removed from this cold, chaotic day on the uneven ground of a winter forest.
But, like Bronton, he would not go down without a fight. He hurled his spear at the onrushing wall of Getae, whipping out his sword and yelling in defiance. His first victim fell screaming, tripping those behind him as they tumbled over his fallen body. He was waiting for them with his sword and shield, the latter shunting foes aside, the former cracking through their fearsome bone masks into the soft flesh beneath.
He heard other Thracians rushing to the point of ambush. He delighted in the wet thuds of spears and swords connecting with Getae bodies. He exulted as their enemies’ shrieks of battle-readiness gave way to cries of pain and surprise, as the Thracians converged on his position.
In the distance, he could hear the babbling incantations of the Getae sorceress, but paid her no heed. There was business to attend to closer to hand. His dented shield was torn from his arm. He grabbed a Getae warrior by his topknot and dragged him before him, slitting his enemy’s throat, and keeping the body clutched in front of him as a human shield. The man twitched and jerked as Getae spears prodded at his dying form, while fresh blood coursed down his killer’s body, bringing welcome warmth to a cold battle.
The snow-covered ground became a clash of pinks and crimsons, darkening with the death of the day, not from the sunset, but from life-blood splashed in torrents. Warm steam rose from the ground, creating an unearthly mist, as if the surviving warriors were surrounded by the departed souls of their fellows.
He fought amid such ominous shades, seeing only the foes in front of him, trusting to his Thracian comrades to shield his flanks from the Getae. Their darting, whirling attacks seemed to slow, as if coming at him through water. His reactions, too, dawdled to a crawl, and, though his mind remained as swift, his body was slow to react, like a plough pulled by tired oxen.
There were flashes of other memories. Of places and times that were far removed.
Sura giggled and splashed water at him, knee deep in the rushes at the bank of the River Istros, in spring.
Their mouths met, their lips entwined, their bodies naked in a warm summer field.
She glowed with pride, as he handed her father the casket containing her bride-price. It had been autumn.
And Sura was at his side in the snow. That was not right. He remembered this battle. He had fought in this battle for real, when he was a younger man. His wife had not been there. He tried to tell the dream that his wife should not be there, but his mouth was too slow to respond.