Across the river, something was wrong. Shouting, a crowd gathering by one of the camp fires. A man was staggering, flailing about. It was Agathon. Ballista went to the trapdoor, climbed down the ladder. He grabbed his sword belt from his quarters, carried on down.
Calgacus met him on the floor below. ‘Agathon…’
‘I know – stay here, post a guard, shut the door after us.’
The others were on the second floor. ‘Maximus, come with me. The rest of you stay here.’
As Ballista and Maximus went down the outer steps, Tarchon joined them. There was no shaking the Suanian. The heavy oak door slammed behind them. Ballista wondered if they should have taken the time to put on their mail coats.
When they reached the other side, they had to shoulder through a dense throng of onlookers. Agathon was on the ground. He was clawing at his eyes, his body jerking. He had fouled himself. The Suani watched him with expressionless black eyes. Ballista and Maximus knelt either side, gripped him hard, restrained him. A final convulsion and Agathon died.
In the complete silence, Tarchon got to his knees and cradled the head of the dead slave. He put his face very close to but not touching that of the corpse. Tarchon sniffed. He said something in his native tongue, then one word in Greek: poison.
XXV
The killing of Agathon changed things. Ballista and the familia now habitually went fully armed. By day, pickets were posted. At night, Cumania was shuttered and bolted. A watch was kept. All food and drink for the familia was kept in the fort, where it was prepared by Polybius and Wulfstan. It had been brought home to them that they were far from help, hemmed in by wild mountains and any number of potential enemies. At least Cumania was virtually impregnable. A siege mentality was fast developing.
Yet the construction proceeded well. The Suani outside the fort seemed unaffected by the poisoning. Seen so much of it, Maximus suggested. The dressed stones of the gate went up tier by tier. The wooden walkway over the river was completed. There were practical difficulties tying it into the natural rockface to the west, but nothing Ballista could not resolve.
It was seven days before the kalends of August, fifteen since Agathon had been murdered. Nothing else bad had happened. The fortifications were nearly ready. Ballista thought they might be finished by the kalends. It was all in hand.
The messenger arrived mid-afternoon. He came from the south, had a letter for Ballista. It was in Greek, in a woman’s hand. She hoped it found him well, asked if the gemstone had helped, thanked him for entertaining her so well. He had no doubt it came from Pythonissa. She wanted him to ride down to the house she had in Dikaiosyne that night. For discretion, it was better he came alone.
With the exception of Maximus, the familia was unanimous that he should not go. It was madness. The letter might not be from her. Even if it were, it could be a trap. From her or not, the situation was too dangerous. Someone in these ghastly mountains wanted them dead. These Suani were not to be trusted.
Ballista was determined. He would go. If so, they said, he could not ride alone. Even Maximus joined in the chorus. These mountaineers would cut a lone stranger’s throat soon as look at him. Ballista relented: he would take one man. The Suani Tarchon, in the little Greek he had picked up, demanded that he accompany the kyrios: blood oath, he had sworn blood oath, very happy to die. Words failing him, he mimed covering his head, sneaking along. Maximus was having none of it: all these years, and he was not going to be elbowed aside by some filthy fucking goat boy who probably did not know one end of a fucking sword from another.
Ballista exercised tact. He reminded Tarchon that Calgacus had also saved him. The blood oath was to the old man as well. Tarchon must stay and keep him safe; if that failed, he could die happy for him. With much doubt in his eyes, Tarchon agreed. Maximus would accompany Ballista. They would return the following night. On the day they were away, Calgacus would command. Everyone must take their orders unquestioningly from him. No Suani, with the exception of Tarchon, were to enter the fort. Did they all understand?
Not long after dusk, when the sky in the west was still purple, three men in native costume crossed the stepping stones over the Alontas and went to the horse lines. They tacked up, mounted and rode south.
At first they rode in silence. The night darkened, the heavens were painted with stars. It was good to be out of the fort, away from the pass. It was good to be riding at night. The Alontas rattled away past them, the horses stepping quietly. Sometimes they pricked up their ears, looked out into the darkness at things the men could not see.
When the rock walls rolled back and the country opened they felt like talking. Maximus untied the folds of the native turban that had been covering the lower part of his face. ‘Do you think I will catch something from this?’
‘Almost certainly: lice.’
They spoke in the language of Maximus’s home.
‘Are you thinking it is altogether wise us risking our lives just so you can fuck her?’
‘Muirtagh of the Long Road would never do anything like that.’
‘Never in six lifetimes. Do you think she might have a maid or two?’
‘No, just the eunuchs. But I am sure they will be grateful for your attentions.’
They crossed a stream joining the Alontas. Water splashed up in the starlight, stones clinked under the horses’ hooves.
‘You remember that night we dressed up to walk the walls at Arete?’
‘When that soldier said Ballista’s bodyguard was one of the ugliest fuckers he had ever seen?’
‘That is the one. Then there was us as fishermen at Corycus.’
‘Sebaste.’
‘What?’
‘It was Sebaste.’
‘Wherever, gods below it took me days to get rid of the smell. And that time at Ephesus you had me blacked up as the king of the Saturnalia to start a riot.’
‘Happy days. You remember what you were wearing in Massilia?’
‘Sure, you always have to bring that up, just when I am happy.’
About the middle watch, they came to a place where two small rivers came down on either side to join the Alontas. Beyond was Dikaiosyne. The villages of Suania had no walls. There was no need for them with every home a miniature fortress. The messenger led them through the alleys to a closed gate in a blank wall. He whistled and the gate opened.
Ballista left Maximus with the porter and the horses. He followed the messenger up several flights of stairs. The house was large, a more Mediterranean style than most. On the top floor, one of the eunuchs sat, dozing on a tasselled cushion outside an ornate door. As he got to his feet, the messenger wordlessly went back down the stairs.
‘Wait please, Kyrios.’ The eunuch tapped on the door, slipped inside.
Ballista waited – a long time.
The eunuch re-emerged. With a courtly bow, he waved Ballista to enter.
There were several little lamps burning, but the wide, tall room was still dim. It was perfumed and opulent with rugs and hangings. A large bed against the far wall was plump with mattresses and cushions. Pythonissa walked out of the shadows. This time she was not naked, not quite. She wore a silk gown, diaphanous and clinging like a statue of a goddess. It emphasized her body, more than nudity ever could.
‘ Kyrios,’ she said. As she bowed the gown slid open. He could see her breasts. There was a sheen to her skin.