thought of his own slave, Polybius. Had he run back in Panticapaeum, or had something worse happened? If the latter, the killer had been with them from the beginning.
‘It is just a eunuch,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘Easy to replace.’
‘He was a brave …’ Somehow, Ballista could not say ‘man’. ‘He did not lack courage. Last year, when our ship was being chased by pirates on the Euxine, he stepped up to fight. He did not deserve to die like this. No one does.’
‘You do not like them any more than anyone else,’ Maximus said. ‘The other year in Cilicia, when we captured the Sassanid king’s harem, you killed two of Shapur’s eunuchs out of hand, just because they were crying and it annoyed you. What was it you said? Something like,
We
never cared for their sort in the north
.’
Ballista suppressed a flash of anger. He had been out of his mind then, maddened with grief. He had been convinced his wife and sons were dead. But he was not going to voice that excuse; did not want to be reminded of that time at all. Fuck Maximus for bringing it up.
‘Look at the eunuch’s head; the killer cleaned his blade on his hair,’ the
gudja
said in heavily accented Greek.
It was true. There was much blood from the wound at Mastabates’ throat and the various mutilations, but none of it seemed to account for the clotted hair. From his youth at the imperial court, half-remembered lines of poetry came into Ballista’s mind. He recited hesitantly; losing the metre, missing words altogether.
Think … is it likely the dead in the tomb will take these honours well, who mercilessly slew him … armpitted him, and for ablution wiped off the bloodstains on his head …
‘What is that?’ Maximus asked.
‘Lines from Sophocles’
Electra
. Clytemnestra tried to avoid the blood guilt of killing her husband, Agamemnon, by wiping the murder weapon in his hair. On his own head be it. It was his fault for sacrificing their daughter, Iphigenia. Mastabates mentioned the lines when we were looking at the body of Castricius’s slave. Now, Mastabates is the dead one.’
Ballista paused, thinking.
No one else spoke.
‘Mastabates said he was sure there was something more about mutilation, not in tragedy but in epic.’ Ballista looked at Castricius and Hippothous.
Neither the enthusiast for epic poetry nor the self-styled man of Hellenic high culture reacted.
Suddenly, the weight of the earth above was very heavy on Ballista. He was tired, hung over, oppressed. He had to get out of this tomb. Abruptly, he turned to Hordeonius. ‘Organize the burial,’ he said.
As he neared the surface, Ballista could hear the wailing of the other eunuch, Amantius.
The tunnel was almost pitch dark. Men were screaming. The sounds of fighting were coming nearer. The flickering of distant torches gave it the look of Hell.
Mamurra was down, wounded. He was shouting something. Ballista could not hear. He felt the crushing weight of the earth above them. It was hard to breathe. He was choking. Far away behind him was the faint light of the outside world, the light of safety.
Mamurra shouted again. His hand reached out to Ballista. The Persians were getting closer. Earth drifted down on to Ballista’s head, like flour on a sacrificial animal. He felt as much as heard the
thunk
,
thunk
of axes biting into the pit props. He had to get out. He took a last look at Mamurra. His friend’s eyes were wild. Ballista turned and ran.
He stumbled out into the light …
The dream scrambled and retreated.
Ballista lay in the darkness. Poor old Mamurra. Poor square-headed old bastard. A man you could trust. A man who had trusted him.
Ballista had not been in the tunnel at Arete. But he had given the order. What in Hell else could he have done? Spare one and let the others die? He had given the order, and left his friend entombed in the dark for ever.
The Steppe was like nothing Calgacus had ever seen. It was another world. The ox-wagons had
‘It is just a eunuch,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘Easy to replace.’
‘He was a brave …’ Somehow, Ballista could not say ‘man’. ‘He did not lack courage. Last year, when our ship was being chased by pirates on the Euxine, he stepped up to fight. He did not deserve to die like this. No one does.’
‘You do not like them any more than anyone else,’ Maximus said. ‘The other year in Cilicia, when we captured the Sassanid king’s harem, you killed two of Shapur’s eunuchs out of hand, just because they were crying and it annoyed you. What was it you said? Something like,
We
never cared for their sort in the north
.’
Ballista suppressed a flash of anger. He had been out of his mind then, maddened with grief. He had been convinced his wife and sons were dead. But he was not going to voice that excuse; did not want to be reminded of that time at all. Fuck Maximus for bringing it up.
‘Look at the eunuch’s head; the killer cleaned his blade on his hair,’ the
gudja
said in heavily accented Greek.
It was true. There was much blood from the wound at Mastabates’ throat and the various mutilations, but none of it seemed to account for the clotted hair. From his youth at the imperial court, half-remembered lines of poetry came into Ballista’s mind. He recited hesitantly; losing the metre, missing words altogether.
Think … is it likely the dead in the tomb will take these honours well, who mercilessly slew him … armpitted him, and for ablution wiped off the bloodstains on his head …
‘What is that?’ Maximus asked.
‘Lines from Sophocles’
Electra
. Clytemnestra tried to avoid the blood guilt of killing her husband, Agamemnon, by wiping the murder weapon in his hair. On his own head be it. It was his fault for sacrificing their daughter, Iphigenia. Mastabates mentioned the lines when we were looking at the body of Castricius’s slave. Now, Mastabates is the dead one.’
Ballista paused, thinking.
No one else spoke.
‘Mastabates said he was sure there was something more about mutilation, not in tragedy but in epic.’ Ballista looked at Castricius and Hippothous.
Neither the enthusiast for epic poetry nor the self-styled man of Hellenic high culture reacted.
Suddenly, the weight of the earth above was very heavy on Ballista. He was tired, hung over, oppressed. He had to get out of this tomb. Abruptly, he turned to Hordeonius. ‘Organize the burial,’ he said.
As he neared the surface, Ballista could hear the wailing of the other eunuch, Amantius.
The tunnel was almost pitch dark. Men were screaming. The sounds of fighting were coming nearer. The flickering of distant torches gave it the look of Hell.
Mamurra was down, wounded. He was shouting something. Ballista could not hear. He felt the crushing weight of the earth above them. It was hard to breathe. He was choking. Far away behind him was the faint light of the outside world, the light of safety.
Mamurra shouted again. His hand reached out to Ballista. The Persians were getting closer. Earth drifted down on to Ballista’s head, like flour on a sacrificial animal. He felt as much as heard the
thunk
,
thunk
of axes biting into the pit props. He had to get out. He took a last look at Mamurra. His friend’s eyes were wild. Ballista turned and ran.
He stumbled out into the light …
The dream scrambled and retreated.
Ballista lay in the darkness. Poor old Mamurra. Poor square-headed old bastard. A man you could trust. A man who had trusted him.
Ballista had not been in the tunnel at Arete. But he had given the order. What in Hell else could he have done? Spare one and let the others die? He had given the order, and left his friend entombed in the dark for ever.
The Steppe was like nothing Calgacus had ever seen. It was another world. The ox-wagons had
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