XXXII
The horse was at the foot of the kurgan on which they had seen Hippothous. It was tethered by the opening.
Maximus remained off to one side, watching the horse and the opening from a distance. Ballista and Rudolphus scouted all around the kurgan. It was a huge burial mound, big in circumference and tall as a three-storey house. Bald grass on top, it was overgrown with thorns on its lower slopes, although not enough to conceal a man. The only tracks were those going to the top and back, and quite a few around the opening. Hippothous had been in and out several times. There were no other tracks, no other place to hide. He was in there now.
‘I will get his horse,’ Ballista said.
‘I will come with you; cover the opening,’ Maximus said.
All three dismounted. Maximus and Rudolphus each knee-hobbled the horse they had been riding, leaving the others on the lead. Ballista tied his spare mount to the string of Maximus. He got back into the saddle and waited for Maximus to get ready.
The two lines of riderless horses turned their backs to the rain. A couple pulled at the grass, the other five stood in head-down unhappiness. The thunder crashed above them.
Maximus untied his bowcase from his horse and strapped it to his belt. Hunched over to protect it from the rain, he checked his bow and selected an arrow. He held the arrow in his right hand and put the flap of the gorytus back over the bow and his left hand, which he left resting on the weapon. He walked along the base of the kurgan until he was standing just to the left of the opening. He nodded at Ballista.
With pressure from his knees, Ballista got the Sarmatian moving. Taking it up to a canter, he hooked his left leg around the left rear horn of the saddle and leant right forward along the right side of the animal’s neck.
Hippothous’s horse made an ideal ambush. It was right in front of the black opening. All too easy to imagine an arrow whistling out at anyone who went to untether the beast.
Ballista reined up and rolled down on his feet as he came to Hippothous’s mount. Keeping the animal between him and the opening, he cut the tether, grabbed the bridle, and ran, pulling the horses with him as shields. When the angle was too acute for a man to shoot without emerging from the tunnel, Ballista stopped.
Nothing had happened.
Ballista remounted and, leading the Greek’s horse, rode all around the kurgan to rejoin the others without passing the menacing opening.
He got down and added the horses to the strings. Hippothous’s was exhausted, but it was not lame. It could have gone a bit further before foundering. The Greek had decided to make a stand.
‘You could wait him out,’ Rudolphus said.
‘No.’ Ballista and Maximus spoke at the same time.
‘You will need torches,’ Rudolphus said. ‘I will see to it.’ The Herul stomped off into the bushes on the mound.
‘I would be happier if we had bigger shields,’ Maximus said, looking at the small nomad buckler in his hands.
‘These may be handier in a tunnel. Should we take bows?’
Maximus thought it over. ‘Might be worth the second man having one.’ He began to unstrap the gorytus from his hip.
‘I will go first,’ Ballista said.
‘No.’ Maximus looked straight into Ballista’s eyes. Both were blinking from the rain. Maximus was one of a handful who knew of Ballista’s fear of confined spaces.
‘I will go first,’ Ballista said.
‘I use a gladius; the shorter sword is more suited than the spatha you carry.’
‘Calgacus has been with me all my life.’
‘A fair bit of mine too,’ Maximus said. ‘If one of us gets killed, who would your boys mourn most?’
Ballista snorted, but said nothing.
‘You would not send a man who could not handle heights first in a storming party up a wall.’ Maximus put both hands on Ballista’s shoulders, drew him close, spoke in his ear. ‘If you go first, you endanger both of us.’
Ballista still did not speak. After a moment, he nodded. They embraced, kissed on both cheeks and stepped apart.
Ballista strapped on his gorytus. If Maximus was killed, Ballista knew he would not forgive himself. This was cowardice. Some men were naturally brave: Maximus, Calgacus. Courage was something Ballista had to steel himself to display its image. It had always been a test. This was the test he had failed. No matter what happened, he would always feel worse about himself. Someone had once said to him that courage was a treasure house from which you could take things, but never deposit them.
They were either side of the horrible mouth of the tunnel. Swords drawn, they carried the torches Rudolphus had improvised in their left hands. The Herul was back with the horse strings.
They looked at each other. Maximus mouthed, ‘ One-two-three.’ He started to move. He was gone.
Allfather, Deep-hood, hold your hands over me. Ballista forced himself to follow.
Maximus was moving fast.
Ballista had to crouch. Do not think, just act. The tunnel ran down steep. The circular band of the light of Maximus’s torch was racing ahead. Ballista blundered after; helmet, elbows scraping the earth.
The tunnel opened into a chamber. Ballista saw Maximus go left. Ballista went right.
A large, domed space; the soil of the walls very light in the torchlight, a chalky paleness. There were many skeletons. The legs of one sprawled obscenely. It lay next to a decayed cushion, from which spilled desiccated eelgrass. Concentrate — do not think, just act. There were two other openings off the chamber. Maximus was flattened against the wall next to one. Ballista went to the other. He was fighting to get his breathing right.
Ballista looked across the chamber. They would enter the tunnels at the same moment. Maximus mouthed, ‘ One-two-three. ’
Torch and shield thrust out, Ballista threw himself into the entrance. This was higher, some sort of corridor. Age-rotted wood splintered under his boots. A bone snapped as he trod on it. Fifteen, twenty steps in, it ended in a wall of rubble; a burial shaft that had been filled.
Ballista ran back, across the chamber and into the gap through which Maximus had gone. Another corridor, this time faced with wood. Another chamber at the end; weird dancing shadows visible in it.
Something tripped him. He fell forward, skinning his elbows, grazing his face. The torch rolled away. He was face down in the remains of a centuries-dead fire, cooking utensils around him. He scrambled to his feet, snatched up the torch and pressed on. He realized he was panting out monotonous obscenities: fuck, fuck, fuck.
Another round chamber, hollowed out of the pastel-coloured, almost white loess. Just one exit, Maximus back to the wall against it. Ballista joined him. He was gasping for breath. He knew it was fear. Although a long way down, the air was not stale.
‘Fucking rabbit warren,’ Maximus whispered.
Ballista tried to grin.
No noises except their rasping breathing and the hiss of the torches as their flames shifted.
‘Has to have gone up here,’ Maximus said. ‘Take our time, get ourselves set.’
Ballista managed to grin.
Suddenly, a crash of thunder echoed around the chamber. Odd, this far from the entrance.
Ballista very much wanted not to be here. If only they could just retrace their steps; get out of this subterranean hell and not have to face the steel of a madman lurking in the dark.
‘You ready?’
Ballista nodded at Maximus. The Hibernian’s face was sheened with sweat.
This was the tunnel of a graverobber. Low and narrow — little wider than Ballista’s shoulders — it climbed sharply. They had to crawl, wriggle up it. Ballista had to hang back to avoid burning Maximus with his torch. It was slow going. The tunnel twisted. The excavation was crude. There were no pit props, nothing holding the roof. Loose soil sifted down. Ballista tried not to think what that might signify.