The older Herul, Pharas, shook his elongated head. ‘I do not think so, Atheling. They were well informed. They knew which wagons held the Roman diplomatic gifts. But more than that — they fought too hard. Bandits never want to leave twelve of their own behind.’
Hippothous knew that was true.
‘They could have left their banners and armour off, hoping we would think them just a party of bandits,’ Pharas continued. ‘Safrax, the King of the Alani, is cunning. He could hope to get the Roman gold and our horses, maybe to kill the man who defeated him last year at the Caspian Gates, and then if your… if King Naulobates threatened him with war, Safrax can deny it was any of his doing.’
‘If they come, next time we will be ready,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘We have pickets out, a well-formed wagon-laager. Tomorrow, we will keep proper march discipline.’
Hippothous noted what he did not say. There were only just over twenty fit fighting men left with the caravan: Andonnoballus and Pharas themselves, their two Heruli ex-slaves, six Roman auxiliaries, eight Sarmatian drivers, the Gothic gudja, and Ballista, Maximus and Hippothous himself.
‘How long before the two messengers you sent yesterday will reach the camp of Naulobates?’ Ballista asked.
Straight after the retreat of the Alani, even as the dead were being numbered and collected, Andonnoballus had presented the four surviving Heruli slaves with the shields of freedom. Two of them were immediately sent to get help. Thoughtful of encirclement, Andonnoballus ordered them initially to ride in different directions; one to the north-east, one due north.
‘It is some distance to the summer camp,’ Andonnoballus replied.
‘How long before they get there, and how long before Naulobates’ men will reach us?’ Ballista was insistent.
Andonnoballus and Pharas looked at each other. Pharas shrugged.
‘Riding hard — and they each have four spare horses — they might get there by nightfall today.’ Andonnoballus stopped.
‘And how long before we can expect relief?’ Ballista was not going to be deflected.
‘It might take a couple of days for King Naulobates to gather a large war party. After that, three days to ride down here.’ Andonnoballus smiled. ‘But, of course, we will be moving towards them ourselves.’
‘Four days at the minimum, more likely five, and it could even be six,’ Ballista said. ‘That is, if your men got through.’
‘If they got through,’ Andonnoballus agreed.
XIV
Calgacus was being trampled and kicked. The hooves were coming down so hard the ground was bucking, throwing him from side to side. The worst was the horse stamping on his right shoulder and arm. It was quite deliberate. The pain was unbelievable. He cried out. Someone was lifting his head. A flask was put to his lips. Liquid ran into his mouth and throat. It tasted bad. He choked, coughing it up. The flask was back at his lips. A familiar voice was talking some soothing but insistent rubbish. Swallow it, swallow it. He swallowed the stuff. They laid his head down. The noise and movement and pain receded. The darkness came back.
They were back in Sicily, out on the estate on the lower slopes of Aetna. Maximus had bought a horse. It was a big bay Sarmatian, called Akinakes. Anyone but the half-witted Hibernian could see it was unbreakable — cunning as a snake, vicious beyond reckoning. The thing was even named after some eastern weapon. Ballista had been holding the twitch when Maximus put the roller on its back. Feeling the unaccustomed weight, the mad animal had reared. Ignoring the pain of the twine twisted tight around its upper lip, it had torn the wooden handle of the twitch clean out of Ballista’s hands.
The pain was white, then a dark red. Figures moved in its murk. One had bones in his hair. He was talking quietly to Ballista. It was the gudja. More of the unpleasant liquid at Calgacus’s mouth. Everything slipped away again.
Somehow, the Hibernian had got a saddle on the horse. They were in the big stone barn. It was always cool and dark in there. The Sarmatian was standing, ears back, showing a lot of white of eye. Sure, I will be fine. Maximus vaulted on to its back. For a moment, nothing happened. Let go the bridle. Ballista let it go. The horse took off. Ballista dived back over the gate out of the way. Rearing, plunging, the horse careered around the confined space. Maximus clung on like a monkey.
The horse stopped. It was snorting. Maximus grinned. The horse backed towards the wall. Maximus booted it forward. The horse ignored him. Maximus booted it some more. The horse reared high on to its back legs. Maximus clung on. The horse threw itself over backwards. It smashed Maximus against the wall. It slid down. Maximus was trapped, the immense weight of the horse grinding him against the rough stonework.
The horse scrambled up. Maximus lay unmoving. Long whip in hand, Calgacus jumped off the gate, Ballista with him. Quite deliberately, the horse kicked out at Maximus’s prone body — once, twice, three times. Then, careless of the lashes, it trotted to the far end of the barn. Bastard animal, utterly evil; as bad as any man.
The dark receded. The pain was back; the jolting, the thumping, the deafening noise. Gods, it all hurt. Calgacus opened his eyes.
Ballista was leaning over him. The lad smiled. He was trying not to look worried.
Maximus peered down at Calgacus. ‘You are not dead then.’ The Hibernian handed some coins to Ballista. He looked at Calgacus with grave disappointment. ‘I had a bet you would die.’
Ballista helped Calgacus sit up a little, gave him a drink. Watered wine, no hint of anything else.
Calgacus was in their wagon. It was rattling along faster than he had yet known. They had put lots of cushions and rugs under and around him, but they were still being jarred around. The motion was agony. His arm was splinted, and his shoulder strapped.
‘How long?’ Calgacus said.
‘Bugger,’ Maximus said. He handed more coins to Ballista. ‘I said your first words would be a more traditional Where am I? ’
‘Three days inclusive,’ Ballista said. ‘You came round later that day. We gave you the poppy and a lot of drink, kept you near-unconscious all yesterday.’
‘My arm?’
‘Broken. The gudja set it. He is not happy with your shoulder either.’
‘Nor am I.’
‘You remember what happened?’ Maximus asked.
‘Of course I fucking remember. A horse buried me.’
‘Actually, no,’ Maximus said. ‘You jumped clear. You just fell awkwardly, bust your arm, knocked yourself out; all very clumsy.’
‘Wulfstan?’ Calgacus asked.
‘Fine,’ Ballista said. ‘He has cooked you some food, been keeping it warm on a brazier, nearly set fire to the wagon.’
‘Chicken soup, sure it is finer than your mother made,’ Maximus put in.
‘Anyone else?’ Calgacus said.
‘No one that matters; except Castricius is missing. So is the centurion,’ answered Maximus.
‘Missing out here is not good,’ said Calgacus.
Wulfstan came into the covered part of the wagon with the food. The other two left. Wulfstan helped him eat, gave him more wine and more poppy. Calgacus fell into a narcotic half-sleep.
When next Calgacus woke, Tarchon was staring at him.
‘I am most pleased you did not die,’ the Suanian said.
‘So am I.’
‘If you have been dead, I could not have repaid my debt.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Calgacus was not sure he was ready for this sort of conversation concerning Suanian honour. He gestured for Tarchon to pass him a drink. ‘And would you open the hangings?’
‘However, Kyrios, if you have dead, I still can repay Ballista.’
‘Will the Alani come again?’ Calgacus asked.
‘Most likely. But we are running away as fast as the wind — well, as fast as oxen go. Also, the longhead Andonnoballus and the kyrios Ballista have been busy, most thorough.’