XVII

The palace of the Proconsul had the best site in Ephesus: facing west, high on the central mount, perched above the theatre. If the view did not inspire you, there was something wrong with your soul. To the left, the neighbouring mountain range curled round towards the sea, slanting down before rearing up in a last, solitary peak topped with a bastion. The red-tiled roofs of close-packed houses climbed the lower slopes; above, the hard, grey limestone poked through the brush. Ahead, your eye soared down dizzily over the steep bank of the theatre to the wide, column-lined road that ran ruler-straight to the curved harbour with its toy-sized ships and on to the glittering Aegean beyond. Off to the right meandered the mud-coloured Caystros, through the broad, flat plain the river's own silt had created, and, beyond, usually blue with distance, were more mountains.

The best site in the city but, Ballista thought, everything comes at a price. The path down was steep. A close-laid buttress wall to the left, a vertiginous drop to the right; to start, the path ran above the theatre. Gesturing at the tiered seating, the northerner said that, long ago, a Christian holy man and wonder worker had been tried there. Despite being both an ex-tax collector and a notorious troublemaker, somehow the man had got off. His name was Paul, Saul… or something like that.

Demetrius snorted with derision. For his own good, Ballista thought, I must give him his freedom soon, or rein him in.

'Christians to the lion,' said the Greek youth. 'A real holy man performed a genuine miracle there. No Christian trickery. There was plague in the town. The Ephesians begged Apollonius of Tyana to come to them and be the physician of their infirmity. He led them into the theatre. There was an old blind beggar sat there, squalid, clad in rags, a wallet with a scrap of bread by his side. Apollonius spoke to the men of Ephesus: "Pick up as many stones as you can and hurl them at this enemy of the gods." The Ephesians were shocked at the idea of murdering a stranger. The beggar was praying and pleading for mercy. But the man of Tyana urged them on. He was implacable. He cast the first stone himself. Soon, stones were flying. As the first ones hit, the beggar glared at them, his blindness gone. There was fire in his eyes. Then they recognized him for what he was — a daemon. He turned this way and that, but there was no escape. The stones flew thick and fast — so many they heaped a cairn over him. Apollonius told the Ephesians to remove the stones. With trembling hands, they did. And there lay a huge hound. It had the shape of a Molossian hunting mastiff, but it was the size of a lion. Pounded to a pulp, it was vomiting foam, as mad dogs do. The plague-bringer was no more.'

'Great stuff,' said Ballista. 'Although I do not remember the holy man casting the first stone in Philostratus' Life of Apollonius.'

'My rhetoric may have overcome me,' admitted Demetrius.

'I do not believe it,' said Maximus, 'a Greek getting carried away with his own words.'

'You know how it is.' Demetrius grinned.

'Me? Gods below, never in life,' the Hibernian answered.

As it neared the main thoroughfare, the path became so steep that it was cut into steps. The three men walked carefully, in single file. As they emerged on to the Embolos, the sacred way, Ballista looked to the left, towards the civic centre and the scene of his distasteful judicial duties of the day before. By one of those quirks that can happen even in the most populous of cities, there was not a soul in sight. Between its columns and honorific statues, the road ran away up the slope, broad and white, beneath a sky of intense blue.

Turning to the right to face downhill, Ballista now saw the people. Above their bobbing heads, just beyond where the Embolos appears to end but actually turns sharp right, was the library of Celsus. He and the others walked down to it and stopped in the square in front.

The library was not just a memorial to Tiberius Julius Celsus Polemaeanus, benefactor of Ephesus, magnate of nearby Sardis, consul of distant Rome, it was also his final resting place. His son, Aquila, had had it designed so that Celsus could be buried somewhere beneath it.

Ballista had never really studied it before. Now, between yesterday's unsettling task and the one he would soon have to undertake, he paused and studied the library-tomb. On either side of the steps were statues of Celsus on horseback. In one he was dressed as a Greek, in the other as a Roman. There were four standing statues on each level of the two-storey facade. Ballista moved closer and read the inscriptions on the lower ones. Sophia, Arete, Ennoia and Episteme — female personifications of wisdom, virtue, good sense and knowledge — all most suitable qualities for a member of the Greek elite. Craning his head back, Ballista looked at the upper storey. Up there were three more versions of Celsus, clad as a Roman general, a Roman magistrate and a Greek civic dignitary. The final statue was the dutiful son Aquila, also in the guise of a senior Roman military commander.

It was odd, thought Ballista, how these rich Greeks who prospered under Roman rule clung to their Greekness. Even those such as Celsus, who entered into the heart of the imperium, commanding Roman armies, holding the highest Roman offices, being counted a friend of emperors, wished to be remembered as much as a Greek as a Roman. Read in a certain way, the facade almost seemed to say that all the Roman worldly success of Celsus was underpinned by his possession of distinctively Greek attributes. Ballista smiled as he thought how all of them, Greeks and Romans alike, would have him forget his own northern roots — except, of course, when they wished to despise him for them.

At a right angle to the library was the southern gate of the agora, its stones light pink in the sunshine. Again, Ballista read the prominent inscriptions. They proudly boasted that the agora had been built by two freedmen of the imperial family of the first Roman emperor Augustus. They had been called Mazeus and Mithridates. Ballista wondered how the local Greek worthies would have reacted to its construction. Here was the new order in stone. Right in the heart of an ancient Greek city was a monument dedicated to the glory of the house of the Roman autocrat, paid for by two ex-slaves, whose very names revealed their eastern origins. Being Greek under Rome seemed always to involve many, necessary compromises.

A thought struck Ballista. He turned round. There, on the other side of the square, was a grandiose monument to a Roman victory over Parthia, the eastern power that had preceded the Sassanid Persians. The Parthians were sculpted to look suitably barbaric, the Roman warriors rather like Greeks. Perhaps if you were Greek, there were always ways to make yourself feel better about reality.

Ballista walked through the gate. They followed the course of the sun round the agora, walking in the cool of the shady porticos. Everything you could imagine appeared to be available for hard currency. Apart from the usual foods, oil and wine, both essential and luxurious, the Ephesian agora seemed to specialize in colourful clothing transported from Hierapolis and Laodikeia and locally produced perfumes and silverware.

As they passed a line of shops, each with a silversmith on a stool outside industriously tapping out souvenirs of Great Artemis of the Ephesians, Ballista thought he recognized another shopper. The man — his clothes proclaimed him a local notable — took one look at Ballista and hurried off diagonally across the agora. In moments he was lost from view behind the equestrian statue of the emperor Claudius which stood in the middle of the open space.

It was odd behaviour. Why had the man scurried away? It was most unlikely the man was a Christian. The zeal of the scribe to the Demos, Flavius Damianus, would not have left a prominent citizen who belonged to the cult free to stroll the agora. Flavius Damianus — there was a man with a fire for persecution. Then Ballista half-remembered something. What was it that Flavius Damianus had said in court? The emperors demanded the sternest measures; those around them urged the same. Those around them? Who could it mean except Macrianus, the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae? Macrianus must have communicated with Flavius Damianus. Why? Ballista had publicly insulted Macrianus. He had hit one of his sons. Then the sons had three times tried to kill him. Macrianus was a powerful man who, on any count, should be numbered an enemy. Why had he urged that Ballista be sent to Ephesus in the first place? And now it seemed that Macrianus was communicating with the most important magistrate in Ephesus. What deep and sinister game was Macrianus the Lame playing? Again, Ballista felt like an ordinarius in a game of latrunculi — picked up and dropped by an unseen hand.

In the north-east corner of the agora, beyond the temporary wooden livestock pens, were permanent stone cells for the instruments with voices. Ballista's enjoyment of the colour and bustle of markets was always tainted by this area, but something always forced him to go there, always forced him to do what he was about to do.

Men with broad faces and brutal eyes lounged about. They watched Ballista and his companions approach. One of the men stepped forward.

'Good day, Kyrios,' he said, in heavily accented Greek. 'What are you looking for — a girl, a boy?'

Ballista looked at him, the disgust rising in his throat. Behind him, he sensed Demetrius' fear and Maximus' hostility.

Realizing he was on the wrong tack, the slave dealer flashed an oily smile. 'A maid for your wife maybe? Very clean, very trustworthy? Or another well-educated Greek boy to keep your books? Another pair of strong arms to guard your treasures?'

'I will know what I want if I see it,' said Ballista.

'Of course, of course.' The slave dealer grinned ingratiatingly. 'It is always an honour to serve a kyrios of discrimination, a man who knows his own mind. Please feel free to inspect the goods.'

Ballista stepped past him and regarded the huddled, downtrodden humanity there. Then, in a voice pitched to carry, he called out in his native tongue. 'Are there any Angles here?'

Faces pinched with misery looked at him with blank incomprehension. Ballista felt a wave of relief and turned to go. Corvus was striding purposefully towards him. The eirenarch of Ephesus was followed by a couple of burly Men of the Watch carrying clubs. Between them was a skinny old man in rags. Not another fucking Christian, thought Ballista. They brought it on themselves, but he had not realised until yesterday just how distasteful it was to act as a persecutor.

'Vicarius, we need a word with you in private.' Corvus led them to the centre of the agora. The few people promenading there gave the Watch a wide berth. Corvus stopped under the equestrian statue of Claudius. Cast in bronze, the emperor looked nothing like the slobbering, twitching simpleton described by Suetonius.

'This is Aratos.' Corvus indicated the man in rags. 'He is a fisherman from out of town. Has his hut on Pigeon Island. It is in a bay not far south of here.' The eirenarch turned to the fisherman. 'Tell the vicarius what you saw.'

Ballista realized that the fisherman was on the verge of tears. 'I was out in the boat last night — a good catch, plenty of…' Corvus gestured without impatience for him to get to the point. 'Sorry, Kyrios. I was bringing the boat in at first light. I knew something was wrong. My wife…' He paused, fighting down the tears. 'My wife is always down by the water waiting. She worries. We live on our own on the island. She was not there. I saw them in time. Took the boat out again. Barbarians. Lots of fucking northern barbarians. My wife, my children…' Now he cried.

Ballista gently put his hand on the man's shoulder. 'How many boats?'

The fisherman mastered himself. 'Just one — a big longboat, about fifty rowing benches.'

'Does anyone else know they are there?'

The man wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic. 'Their boat was almost out of sight up under the trees. We keep to ourselves. I should not think so.' The fisherman dropped to his knees and clasped Ballista's legs, the classic pose of a suppliant. 'Kyrios, my wife, my children…'

'We will help.' Disengaging himself, Ballista indicated for Corvus to step out of earshot with him. 'Is he reliable?' Corvus shrugged. 'You are the local man,' Ballista continued. 'What do you think?'

'I have not spoken to him before. I think he is telling the truth.'

Ballista considered this for a moment. 'Are there any warships in harbour?'

'No.'

'How many troops are there in Ephesus?'

'Just a detatchment of about a hundred auxiliary spearmen and fifty bowmen.'

'How many Men of the Watch do you have under your command?'

'Fifty.'

'It will have to be tonight. If they are still there. We do not have much time. We need a plan.' The lantern at the top of the mast swung gently against the night sky. Ballista watched it from where he lay, next to Maximus, in the bottom of the small fishing boat. Both men were completely naked but it was a warm August night, and they had thought to bring blankets. Apart from the strong stench of fish, Ballista was quite comfortable.

Above them, Corvus, the old fisherman and an auxiliary soldier, all clad in rags, worked the boat. To give an air of normality, they talked quietly in Greek as they fished. The little boat edged south into the bay towards Pigeon Island. Corvus sat down on a bench next to Ballista's head. 'Not far now,' he said, 'about half an hour.'

The old fisherman had sketched a map of Pigeon Island. It was roughly oval, with two tiny bays to the south. All its coasts were rocky, except the eastern, where there was a narrow band of sand. The barbarians had beached their vessel at the extreme southern end of the sand, drawing it up the few yards to the tree line. Careful observation from the fishing boat had revealed a large campfire up on the highest point of the island and a smaller one halfway up the slope from the longboat.

The plan was straightforward. Ballista and Maximus were to swim ashore with short swords and combustibles in waterproof packs strapped to their backs, kill any sentries and fire the longboat. Once it was well ablaze, they would swim to safety on the southern headland of the bay. The mainland here was only a couple of hundred paces away to the south. With luck, as the barbarians rushed to fight the fire, they would be slow to notice the two large merchant galleys, crammed with one hundred and fifty soldiers, bearing down on the beach. The galleys were a worry. Coming down from the north, there was no headland close enough for them to hide behind. Now they were lying with no lights aboard about a mile off in the open water. To lessen the chance of a barbarian spotting them, Ballista had arranged for another half-dozen fishing boats with bright lanterns to ply their nets between the galleys and the island.

All depended on the barbarians being unsuspecting. Local pirates would have had contacts ashore who may have warned them of the preparations. It was unlikely anyone in Ephesus would want to aid the barbarians — although, to be on the safe side, Corvus' Men of the Watch had been stopping any unauthorized person leaving the city by land or sea since midday.

Corvus had argued vehemently that it was madness for Ballista to swim ashore — let a couple of the auxiliaries do it. Overruling him, Ballista had pointed out that it might be necessary to lull the suspicions of barbarian sentries, and none of the soldiers spoke the language of Germania. But now, as he lay in the boat, he knew the real reason he had insisted on going himself: the excitement that for a time would free him from thinking about his unpleasant task as a persecutor.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Corvus spoke. 'Great Artemis, this is better than grubbing about at the beck and call of Flavius Damianus.'

'You do not like him?' Ballista's words were barely a question.

Corvus smiled in the gloom. 'I became eirenarch of Ephesus to chase savage bandits over wild hillsides, not to pursue Christians through slums.'

'I had the impression there was ill feeling between the two of you.'

Corvus smiled again. 'Oh, there is. Our beloved scribe to the Demos — how many times has he told you that he is the descendant of the famous sophist? — Flavius Damianus thinks I showed less than commendable zeal a few years ago during the persecution instituted by the emperor Decius.' Sensing Ballista's interest, he continued. 'Seven young men of respectable families were informed against. Of course, I arrested them. Put them in the prison off the civic agora, ordered them to have the best cell, by the door. They escaped. The jailor vanished. I assume they bribed him to disappear. The imperium is big enough. Anyway, Flavius Damianus considers I did not put enough manpower into searching for them.'

'Did you?'

'I detailed a couple of men to it. There were many things to do.'

Ballista thought for a moment. 'You do not approve of the persecution of Christians?'

'It was not why I became an eirenarch. Yes, I understand the logic of it. The open atheism of the Christians may well anger the gods. If the gods are angered they may well turn against us and, as everyone is now saying, the coming war with the Sassanids may end in disaster. But there is something inhuman about the persecution. Most of the Christians are merely foolish, like those young men. There is something disgusting about tearing families apart, torturing and killing the weak and misguided. Anyway, I incline to an Epicurean view — the gods are far away and take no notice of mere mortals.'

Ballista was surprised at the man's candour. 'I have imperial mandata to persecute the Christians. Should you be talking to me like this?'

Corvus opened a wineflask and drank. 'You will not inform on me. Your face in court yesterday was a picture. You hate it as much as I do or, if not yet, you soon will.'

'My feelings do not come into it.' Ballista took a deep breath. 'I have my mandata. I will do my duty.'

Corvus just smiled and passed down the wineflask. 'There is a ludicrous rumour that the young men who escaped went into one of the caves outside the city, lay down and went to sleep. The Christians say the sleepers will wake when the emperor is a Christian.'

Ballista grinned. 'They might have a long sleep.'

'And would the world be a better place when they woke up?' Corvus took the wineflask back. 'You two had better get ready. We are almost in position.'

The old fisherman brought the boat broadside to the island. He used the spritsail to shield the far side of the boat. Ballista and Maximus rose to their feet. They were blackened from head to toe with a dye they were assured would not wash off in the sea. Ballista had tied his long fair hair in a strip of black material. Maximus had daubed an extra dollup of the tarry mixture on to the white scar where the end of his nose was missing. Corvus and the soldier helped them strap the packs on their backs. Ballista clasped hands with Corvus and, as quietly as he could, lowered himself over the side.

The water was shockingly cold. Ballista bit his lip to stop himself gasping. But once you were in the water, it felt fine. With just his fingertips on the gunwale of the boat, Ballstsa looked round to find his bearings. On the mainland, in the far south-east of the bay, he could see one or two chinks of light from the village of Phygela. From there, the dark line of the hills ran round to the west. They ended in a large independent hill like an upturned bowl. He knew it was directly south of the island.

Maximus joined him in the water with a sharp intake of breath. The fisherman angled the spritsail to catch the faint offshore breeze, the boat pulled away and, there, to the west, was their target. Pigeon Island was a dark outline in the moonlight. It was steep, heavily wooded. It reminded Ballista of the boss of a shield or one of those fancy cakes the Greeks offer to the gods. Near the summit, the large campfire blazed. The smaller one flickered about halfway down. The island was about two hundred and fifty paces away. Aiming to the left of the fires, Ballista started to swim.

There was just the gentle offshore breeze and a faint swell; otherwise, it was a flat calm with a clear, moonlit sky above. Ballista and Maximus swam with slow, even strokes, not wanting to stir up phosphorescence in the very still waters. Pumped up with anticipation, in no time Ballista sensed the seabed shelving up. Hardly swimming now at all, just the occasional slow stroke, he drifted until there was sand beneath him. Maximus came to a halt a few paces to his left.

They lay full length, just their heads out, the water lapping up to their noses. The beach here was about twenty paces wide. At first Ballista could see nothing but the black tree line beyond. Then he made out the shape of the longboat, just off to the right, its stern sticking out from the trees. He lay motionless, searching for sentries.

Now and then, voices floated down from higher up the island. Ballista did not look up towards the campfires; he did not want to ruin his night vision. He scanned the trees around the longship until his sight blurred and his eyes ached. Nothing. When he had almost decided the ship was unguarded, he heard a voice, much nearer, to the right of the boat.

At night the trick is not to look directly at something. Look to the side or above it. After a time, Ballista made out the shapes of two men to the right of the longship. They were sitting with their backs to a tree.

Gently bringing his hand out of the water, Ballista indicated to Maximus that they should go up by the left side of the boat. Quietly pulling himself up, Ballista set off. The sand was very white in the moonlight, horribly exposed. Crouched over, Ballista moved up the beach. At every step he expected a shout from the sentries. None came. He reached the lee of the boat. Maximus dropped down next to him. The Hibernian was grinning. Thy shrugged off their packs and drew their swords.

Ballista touched Maximus on the shoulder and indicated that they should go up the left side of the boat and work their way round through the trees and come up to the guards from behind. Maximus gestured that he understood. Leaving the packs behind, they set off.

The trees gave good cover, the slope not too steep. They had sighted the guards and were creeping down on them, when one of the men stood up. Ballista froze. The sentry was about thirty paces away. He walked some distance into the trees. He stumbled slightly. Maybe he had been drinking. He stopped in front of a tree and began to fumble with his trousers. Ballista moved to get between him and the other man.

Ballista came up silently behind him. The man was swaying slightly, one hand braced against the tree as he urinated. Ballista's left hand covered his mouth and, in a flash, the sword in his right found the man's throat. There was a spray of blood, black in the moonlight. The man's body shook violently as Ballista held him close. There was an unpleasant stench as the dying man's bowels opened.

Ballista lowered the corpse to the ground and looked about him. Maximus was crouched in the shade of a tree. There was no sound from below. Working quickly but quietly, Ballista stripped the cloak from his victim. It was fouled. Ballista turned it inside out and drapped it round his own shoulders.

Walking with no attempt at concealment, deliberately finding the odd twig to step on, Ballista went down to the tree line.

'Feeling better?' The south German accent startled Ballista. The speaker was one of the Borani, the tribe who had a bloodfeud with Ballista. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you.

'Much better,' Ballista mumbled. The man looked up as Ballista walked round the trunk of the tree. His eyes widened, but he had no time to scream as the sword cut into his face. A horrible gurgling sound came from his smashed mouth and jaw. He doubled forward, hands to his face. Ballista chopped the edge of his blade into the back of the Borani warrior's neck. The man did not move any more.

Shrugging off the cloak, Ballista ran to where they had left the packs. He swung up into the longboat, searching about. He found the furled sail, dragged it out and turned it over so the side unexposed to the dew was uppermost. Maximus passed up the first of the packs. Ballista drew out the containers of naptha, unstoppered them and sloshed the contents over the sail. Maximus passed up the other pack.

As Ballista removed the kindling, his heart sank. It was sodden. The pack had leaked. Nevertheless, he heaped it up over the naptha-soaked sail. Taking the flints, he struck them against each other.

Sparks showered down. Nothing. The kindling was too wet to catch. Cursing inwardly, he worked the stones feverishly. Nothing. A vicious stab of pain as he skinned his thumb. He worked on. Still nothing. This was not going to work.

Ballista jumped out of the longboat. He leant close to Maximus. 'We are going to have to fetch a brand from the small campfire up above.' Maximus just nodded.

Ignoring the path that zigzagged up the island, Ballista led them straight up through the trees. The slope became steeper. Sometimes they were moving on their hands and knees. When he needed to look at the small campfire to get his bearings, Ballista closed one eye, again wanting to keep his night vision as much as possible.

They came out on the edge of the path, just above the little campfire. There were half a dozen Borani around it. Huddled in blankets, they were asleep. Ballista and Maximus lay watching them, getting their breath back. Although the fire was low, the crackle and hiss of burning wood was loud in the silent night. Now and then, a voice could be heard from above. Some of the warriors up there were still awake.

There was no point in waiting. 'Grab a brand, and straight down,' Ballista whispered. They got to their feet. Drawing a deep breath, Ballista counted to three and set off down the path.

The warriors stirred as the two naked black figures burst into the clearing. Ballista selected a good-looking brand. He turned to go. A Borani was getting to his feet, blinking the sleep from his eyes, reaching for his weapon, blocking the way. As Ballista swerved past, he arced his sword down into the man's shoulder. The blade stuck. Ballista had to stop and use his foot to push the injured man off the blade.

Ballista and Maximus launched themselves down the hillside; behind them, a confused, angry babble of voices — then the unmistakable sounds of pursuit. The hillside here was steep. Stumbling. Sliding. Every step threatened a fall. A branch whipped Ballista's face, bringing tears to his eyes. He felt hot blood on his cheek. The crashing pursuit was close behind.

'I will draw them off,' Maximus shouted, and turned to the right. There was no time to answer. Ballista plunged on down the hill.

It was bright on the beach after the trees. His chest burning, Ballista ran to the longboat. Dropping his sword, he used his right hand to swing himself up level with the gunwales. He brought his left hand over and dropped the burning brand on to the naptha-saturated sail.

Ballista landed back on the sand. He scooped up his sword. He turned to face his pursuers. There were just two of them. Ballista stepped forward, carving figure of eights with his sword. The steel hummed through the air. The Borani skidded to a halt.

Time's arrow seemed to have stopped as the three armed men faced each other on the moonwashed beach. The Borani started to spread out, to come at him from two sides. Ballista stepped to his right. The Borani stopped. Behind him, Ballista heard a fizz as the naptha caught. Slowly, slowly, he moved backwards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blue flame lick over the side of the ship. The Borani both exclaimed. Ballista did not catch the words.

With a loud yell Ballista feinted forward. Automatically, the warriors facing him gave ground. Again Ballista backed away. Now there were big streamers of fire lifting up from the boat. Ballista turned and ran.

When he reached the water, Ballista swung round, braced for an attack. There was none. One of the Borani was climbing the side of the ship, the other racing back to bring help. The stern of the longship was burning fiercely. Only the gods could save it now.

Ballista waded out. When the water reached his middle, he gripped the sword in his teeth and struck out from the shore. After a time he took the sword in his left hand and swam one-handed, slowly moving west, parallel to the southern shore of the island.

The moon shone on the water. In front of him, Ballista could see the promontory which jutted out, making the end of the bay. At its extremity was a humped rock. The outline reminded him of the silhouette of a whale. He floated on his back. To his right, Pigeon Island was in uproar. The longship was burning bright. Men were rushing down the path towards it. Ballista wondered if the Borani chasing Maximus had given up. He could not see any torches moving west. What had happened to that sodding Hibernian? Without further thought, Ballista swam back towards the island.

It was rocky where he came ashore. Again gripping the sword in his teeth, he hauled himself over great slabs of stone, then clambered through a belt of rough grass and shrubs, feeling sharp thorns scratching his exposed flesh. When he reached the wooded slopes, he stopped a little way in and calmed himself. The trees here were quite widely spaced — palms, firs, wild olives — with little undergrowth. Bars of moonlight shone between the black trunks. There was a great deal of shouting from out of sight at the eastern end of the island; near at hand, nothing but the breeze moving quietly through the foliage.

Walking on the balls of his feet, feeling for twigs and dry leaves as his weight came down, he moved up towards the big campfire on the summit. Every few paces, he stopped and listened and sniffed the air. Moving silently through a forest at night was second nature to him. Following the custom of Germania, as a youth he had gone to learn his warcraft with his uncle's tribe. His mother's brother was one of the leading warriors of the Harii. Their fame as nightfighters spread even into the imperium of the Romans.

Ballista had not gone far when he smelled something: a faint odour of fish and tar. He waited, immobile. Soon enough, a ghostly, dark figure appeared, slipping from the shade of one tree to another. Ballista let the apparition pass him, then called softly, 'Muirtagh of the Long Road, you are out late.'

Maximus whirled in a fighting crouch. His blade glittered in the moonlight. 'Ballista, is that you?'

'And who else on this island knows your original name and speaks your native tongue?' Grinning, Ballista stepped out and hugged his friend.

As they crept upwards, almost at the summit, a new series of sounds came to their ears from below: the ring of steel, the disjointed shouts of men in combat. The galleys had arrived. Men were fighting and dying down on the beach.

The big campfire was not quite deserted. In one corner of the firelight, a woman was sobbing. In her arms, she held her daughter. Her young son crouched behind her. When the two naked, blackened men stepped out into the light, all three shrank away and began to wail. Ballista put his finger to his lips in the universal gesture for silence. They continued to wail, a thin, keening sound. Ballista walked over. The girl's clothes were torn. There was blood on her thighs. He spoke to the mother in Greek. 'There is nothing to fear from us, Mother, we have come to kill them.' The girl continued to cry. The others stopped. The boy was about ten. Ballista hoped that nothing very bad had happened to him. Ballista spoke to the boy. 'You must know the woods of your island well. Take your mother and sister to your best place to hide. It will be over soon. When you hear men talking Greek or Latin, come out.' The boy nodded seriously. With that, Ballista and Maximus turned and went towards the sound of the fighting.

From the tree line, the scene down on the beach was spread out as if at a theatre. The burning longship illuminated it as if it were day. Ballista and Maximus could see every detail. At the bottom of the bare, rocky slope, the Borani stood in a ragged shieldwall of about thirty men. Facing them across twenty paces of beach was a line of about double that number of Roman auxiliaries. More were wading to join them from the two beached galleys. A score or more bodies lay on the sand. Borani or Roman, it was hard to tell. One corpse can look much like another on a battlefield.

Ballista gestured for Maximus to follow, and they jogged back towards the summit. When they reached the big campfire, the family had gone. There was a sudden noise. Both men spun round. Corvus, the fisherman and the auxiliary from the boat stepped out into the light.

'Corvus, you bastard. You nearly made us die of fright.' Ballista laughed. 'What on earth are you doing here?'

'The old fisherman could not stand the waiting. Needs to know what has happened to his family. We anchored the boat just off to the north. Swam ashore. Thought we would see what was going on.'

Ballista turned to the fisherman. 'Your son has taken your wife and daughter to his favourite hiding place.'

'I know where he will have gone. Thank the gods they are alive. Are they…'

Before he could put his fears in words, Ballista told him to go. When he had left, Ballista told the others to each take a burning brand from the fire and follow him.

Alone, Ballista stepped clear of the trees. Down the slope, the Borani were about thirty paces below him. They had their backs to him. The Romans facing him saw him first. Soldiers pointed. Then one or two of the Borani looked over their shoulders and saw the unearthly figure up on the rocks. Then more and more looked up at the naked, blackened man with a torch in one hand and a blade in the other. Shouts of consternation came up from the barbarians. The shieldwall began to waver. Ballista gestured with his torch and, at well-spaced intervals, Maximus, Corvus and the soldier stepped out of cover. Ballista called a command over his shoulder: 'Troops halt!'

The Borani shieldwall was in confusion. Warriors pushed and jostled. None knew which way to face. Ballista called over their heads to the Roman auxiliaries on the water's edge. 'Are you ready for war?'

A full-throated roar came back. 'Ready!'

Three times the question. At the third answer they surged forward. Ballista turned and yelled, 'Charge!' to his imaginary troops in the trees. Screaming at the top of their voices, he and the other three set off down the rocks.

The one thing all troops fear above all else is to be surrounded. The Borani broke. Throwing away weapons, shields, anything that might hinder their flight, they streamed away up and down the beach. The battle was over. Now all that remained was a night of the wildest hunting of all — the hunting of men.

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