Pythonissa pulled her gown together. Her nipples stood out through the thin material. She firmly pushed away his hands. She took his native headdress and coat, helped him out of his sword belt and mail coat. She placed them away in a corner. Coming back with a bowl of water and towels, she told him to sit. She washed and dried his hands, helped him off with his boots, washed and dried his feet; all the time fending off his hands.
She went to fetch him a drink. This time he grabbed her. The wine spilt as he dragged her on to his lap. He kissed her, his hands moving greedily over her. She broke her mouth away, laughing. ‘I wondered how long I could make you wait.’ They kissed, pulling at each other’s clothes. They ended up on the floor.
Afterwards, not bothering to dress, she padded to the door. She opened it and told the eunuch to bring food and drink. Ballista stood up, stretched. She came and stood in front of him. She was tall, little shorter than him. She looked at the healing scars on his shoulder, traced them with her fingertips. She dipped her head, her red lips parted, and her tongue traced along the wounds.
The eunuch glided into the room. He set the things out on a table. Pythonissa took no notice at all of him. Her hand reached down, fondling. Ballista went to push her away, stopped himself. She was shameless, impudent. The eunuch bowed. As the servant backed out of the room, she sank to her knees.
Ballista woke late the next day. He was in her big bed. His head ached slightly from the wine, but he felt good. He could smell her on him.
Pythonissa was already up. Wearing another sheer gown, she was telling her servants where to place the breakfast trays. There was an aroma of warm bread, bacon, other good things. She smiled knowingly at Ballista. ‘They have brought a lot of food. It would be indiscreet for you to leave until tonight. You might need to keep your strength up.’
The day passed languorously. The eunuchs carried in a bath, hot water. Ballista and Pythonissa bathed, oiled each other. They ate, drank, talked. At midday, Maximus arrived, asked if he needed anything. He did not. Maximus went away again. Twice more in the afternoon Pythonissa mounted Ballista as Andromache mounted Hector. He had almost forgotten the vigour that came with a new lover.
When it began to get dark he said he should go. She said, ‘Not yet,’ arranged herself on the bed. He took her from behind, hard, almost brutal. It was just as he had remembered it from the first time. When it was over, they lay together, flushed, out of breath.
The door crashed open. Harsh light flooded the room. Men crowded in. Ballista rolled from the bed. Two men were between him and his weapons. Drawn blades covered him.
‘My whore of a sister.’ It was Saurmag. There were six armed men with him – not Suani, nomads from the north. There were more outside.
‘What are you doing?’ Pythonissa was on her feet. Her face white with anger, she made little attempt to cover her breasts, her delta. Inconsequentially, Ballista thought of the Aphrodite of Cnidus.
Saurmag did not answer her. From his coat he produced some white reeds, scattered them negligently on the floor. ‘Cut at dawn at the beginning of the spring. Cut by you, when you sacrificed to Hecate, sang the paean to your bitch goddess. Now they will condemn you.’
Ballista stood very still, measuring, calculating. Only a small table to hand, nothing to use as a weapon. The two men nearest did not take their eyes off him.
‘You fool, Saurmag,’ she hissed. ‘A word from me to our father – what you did to our brothers.’
Saurmag smiled. ‘You forget, I was not alone in killing Mithridates and Tzathius.’
‘Our father will not believe you, nor will Azo.’
Saurmag actually laughed. ‘That really does not matter. They are being hunted down now.’ His face hardened. ‘Because you betrayed me, I have been forced to act sooner than I wished.’
The Suanian prince stepped forward. His men’s eyes did not waver. Ballista wondered where Maximus was.
Saurmag slapped his sister hard. She took a step back, recovered herself. Saurmag pointed at Ballista. ‘I sent you to kill this barbarian. Instead, like the whore you are, you took him to your bed. Because you let him live, the Caspian Gates are nearly complete.’
He slapped her again. ‘Nearly complete, but not finished. The Alani rode through today.’
‘You are a fool.’ Her voice was low, full of menace. ‘The Alani will not let you rule. They will take Suania for themselves.’
‘You underestimate me; like our father, our brothers, the synedrion – all of you.’ Saurmag shrugged. ‘Anyway, you will never know. Your shameless lust has delivered you and your barbarian into my hands. By tomorrow you will both be gone into the Mouth of the Impious. In thirty days’ time the vultures of Maeotis will be tearing at your flesh.’
XXVI
The dark was not absolute. Tiny squints of light peeped through the trapdoor above his head. Ballista wished they did not. They showed just how small was the space.
The cell was underground, apparently cut from the living rock. Ballista had to be careful how he shifted his weight. The surfaces behind his back, under his arse, his heels, were rough, jagged. There was not enough room for him to stand or, sitting, straighten his legs. He could feel the mass of the rock all around, pressing in, restricting him, crushing him. The fear of confined spaces was hard on him. He sat, arms around his knees, in the dark, in the filth. He had no idea how long he had been there.
Up in Pythonissa’s room, Saurmag had been in no hurry to end his pleasure. The Suanian prince had slapped his sister again. She had raised her arms to protect her face. He had laughed, caught her wrists, slapped her two, three more times. Some of the Alani grinned, enjoying her nakedness, her pain. But the eyes of the two watching Ballista did not shift. The northerner slumped, trying to look defeated, hoping for an opportunity.
Saurmag had said something to the nomads in their language. One, probably the leader, had replied. He was grinning, eying the girl. ‘I asked if his men would enjoy you,’ Saurmag had said. He yanked her wrists high, fully exposing her body. She spat. The spittle ran down his cheek. He hit her hard with his fist. There was blood on her lips. Her brother looked her up and down, slowly, nothing fraternal about it. ‘No, if I…’ He hit her again. ‘You can die no more defiled than this barbarian and all the others have left you.’
‘Neither with steel nor poison.’ Her voice had been just in control.
Saurmag had smiled. ‘No poison, no steel. I keep my word: just the Mouth of the Impious. Take them away.’
Down in the cell, the dark pushed in on Ballista. He tried to control his breathing, drive down his fear. Where was Maximus? What had happened to him? ‘Do you need anything?’ ‘No, I do not.’ Inadequate words, if they were to prove their last. Saurmag had not mentioned the Hibernian. There had been no sight of him. Pythonissa had been dragged off. Ballista did not know where. After she had gone, four Alani had hustled him down to the bottom of her house. He had stumbled along, the picture of dejection – waiting for a chance. They had not bound his hands. The chance had not come. At the end of a rock-cut corridor, the trapdoor had been hauled up. He had been shoved down into this solitary cell. The trapdoor had slammed down. Allfather, he prayed Maximus had got away.
The Alani had come up through the Caspian Gates. What of Calgacus and the others? The small fortress of Cumania was as near impregnable as any Ballista had seen. But surprise, treachery, could take any place. If they had had time to secure the fort, they had provisions to last for months. But had they had enough warning? Had they let any others take shelter with them? Others who might turn traitor? If they were attacked night and day, how long before exhaustion wore them down?
Alone in the dark, he thought of his sons, his wife. Perhaps he had been right all those years – take another woman and he would die. The mills of the gods are slow in grinding, but grind fine. From the proverb his thoughts drifted to lines of Euripides: Not to your face, no fear, not to any miscreant’s Will justice strike the fatal blow; but soft And slow of tread, she will, in her own season, Stalking the wicked, seize them unawares.