Chapter XXVIII

 

 

 

Turn loose the ageing horse, lest at the last he stumble. – Quintus Horatius Flaccus, Epistles

 

"She wanted for nothing," Duris says, as Malorix strokes the neck of his Arabian. “I take care with horses,” he adds unnecessarily, as he finishes adjusting the load on a nearby packhorse. From within the dusty confines of a bulging pack he produces Malorix’ corselet and knives. "You will be needing these?"

"Keep them for now," he points ruefully with his thumbs to his cuirass. "Silo’s armour is heavy enough."

The Romans ride out in a column threading the flanks of the mountain’s north face, aiming to put maximum distance between themselves and their prison before nightfall. Between what Polydius and Duris have assembled and the animals of the garrison there are just over thirty horses, one per man, and a few spares to carry supplies. Duris rides ahead. Within a few hours he returns and intercepts Malorix and Balera at the head of the column. "We must halt soon,” he says gravely, wiping dirt and sweat from his forehead as he drinks from a water skin. “Dust cloud to the northeast. Cavalry."

"Parthian?" Balera asks.

"I could not risk a closer look. From the size of their dust, they are many."

"No matter," Malorix says. "We have no friends in Parthia. If it is Vasiges we should give him time to move off. He will likely go south to Stravin. We can be well gone by the time he learns about the mine."

"There is another possibility," says Duris. "That it is not Vasiges. In that case Vasiges may be behind us and we are moving between two large forces of cavalry."

"According to Polydius, Vasiges can muster as many as three hundred horse. Was it as many as that?" Balera asks.

"Not so many, maybe a hundred. They could be raiders or hired troops, or another Parthian squadron."

"Either way, more than we can handle," Balera observes.

"We must move more slowly," Duris counsels, pointing to a veil in the sky marking their passage. "Even this wisp can be seen for miles."

Balera points toward the sun easing into west. "Helios will soon be with the Hesperides in his golden cup.”

Malorix offers Duris a bemused look. “Is this our optio, or has some poet infiltrated the company?”

“Ha ha,” says Balera. “We stop and let these ones pass out of range. In any case, the men need the rest."

"There is a water source. Not far," Duris informs them.

"Source?"

"An ancient village, long abandoned. These sometimes have cisterns below ground, if you know where to look.

Little more than foundations and rubble, the “village” lies in the lee of some high bluffs, punctuated by the remains of columns and crude, wind-weathered statuary. Duris locates a series of shallow impressions in the ground, the ancient cisterns. Three are dry and one brackish, but one contains enough drinkable water for their needs. The bluffs permit a cooking fire, which is soon burning cheerily. Lookouts are posted.

Men fall into various postures of relaxation or exhaustion. To Malorix their movements seem strangely awkward, given the novelty of free time, of not having to dig, strike a chisel, or fear the rods and whips of the guards. A few show almost child-like interest in small plants, others in the horses, as though seeing these things for the first time. Malorix feels he understands. They are a brotherhood now, the ones who have returned from Hades.

Seeking out the reassuring figure of Duris, he finds him stitching a hole in his saddlebag. "While you were imprisoned, I watched. I moved. I waited. This is how I have always lived." He permits himself a hint of a grin, exposing the multitude of cracks and lines in his weathered face. "These Parthians are mostly men of the city. They are even worse trackers than Romans. So I was content, though I despaired of rescuing you. Until the old man showed up." He points at Polydius with his needle. The Greek is curled in a ball napping in the demi-shade of a scruffy shrub, his head resting on a large bag of gold.

"How did he contact you?"

"He was up at dawn riding around the mountain with a flag of parlay. He looked so foolish I decided it was worth the risk." Duris smiles more broadly at the memory. "What of Gelanor?"

Malorix looks away "At the mine. It did not go well for him."

"You said that before."

The Armenian sits apart from the others, expression fraught. "Try to talk to him," Malorix says. "He blames me for all this."

Duris nods. "He will adapt." The Arab returns to his sewing, the issue apparently settled. He may be right. Duris rode with Gelanor long before Malorix came on the scene. Perhaps he knows his man. What he does not know, what he will never know, is what it was to be a prisoner in the Stravin mine. No indeed, it had not gone well for Gelanor.

The Romans are well provisioned from the garrison store. With careful management they can remain in the field for several weeks. Water is a more urgent problem. "There is sufficient water for the men," Duris says. "We are watering the horses now from the cistern, so tomorrow they will have a fresh start. Then we have the water we carried from the mine. We can use that later. After that, another day in this heat without a new watering source and the horses will begin to die."

Malorix watches the men eat from a communal pot. Though many are weak in body, he can already detect signs of their rising spirits. Given time, they will be strong again. But they have no time and he will have to push them. Taking some of the bread and beans, he signals Balera and Quirinus to join them.

"Our supply of water is limited. We will need to find a well or a spring."

"When we came we passed by a station with a well," Quirinus says quietly.

"How far?" asked Duris.

"Maybe four days."

Duris shakes his head. "If we were to walk, and at night, we might make it. Even then some of these horses will surely drop."

"We will ration the water," Malorix says. "We can forage along the way for plants that the horses can eat to get moisture. If horses die, we double up. What about weapons?"

"Mixed lot," Duris says doubtfully. "The soldiers chose things with which they were familiar. Mostly swords and throwing spears.

"At least we can die with weapons in our hands," says Quirinus.

"Such weapons will mostly just weigh us down," Malorix observes.

Quirinus narrows his eyes. "My men may look like a rabble, but there is life in them yet. You saw at the mine."

"Ahead lies desert and open country," Duris says.

"So?"

"This is the kingdom of the horse archer. The bow rules here. In this land the issue is settled long before the enemy can be brought to battle at close quarters." Duris finishes his meal and gestures to Malorix. "Let’s take a closer look at these horses."

They walk toward a nearby gelding. "Look Malorix!" Duris holds up a foreleg hoof for him to examine.

"I don’t see anything."

"There is nothing to see. You well know that most of these prison horses are cast-offs. The horses we brought from Smyrna are far superior."

"I know it."

"In that case, know this also — if the Parthians catch us in the open their horses will outlast these prison nags." He points to the others with his eyes. "Should that come to pass these men are the walking dead, as we will be if we remain in their company."

 

* * * * *

 

The men awaken early and eat quickly, with little talk as they prepare their horses for the journey. Malorix is adjusting Athroula’s bridle when Duris approaches him from behind. "My lord," he says softly, "we have visitors."

"What do you mean?"

"Don’t look up," the Arab warns. "On the high bluff overlooking our camp. Turn your eyes west."

"How many?"

"Equal our numbers. Still they come."

Malorix squints at the skyline. "Pass the message to the others. Tell them to act as though they see nothing and to ride hard to the east when they see me mount."

A line of horsemen has indeed appeared on the hillcrest above them, growing in length as new riders join from behind. Forty and counting. The dappled light of morning obscures their identity, but flashes of sunlight reflect on armour and silhouettes of bow and quiver are clearly visible. Horse archers.

Malorix places a hand on the lip of his saddle and holds the reins tightly in the other. For what seems a maddeningly long time Duris circulates from man to man with his message, and then starts toward his horse. When he reaches it, they will move. Five paces to go. Malorix looks east. The way clear. Two paces. His fingers grip the rim of his saddle, attentive now to physical things. Muscles in his neck and shoulders coiling in preparation, his coursing blood … breathing. One.

In a smooth motion he is mounted and within seconds horses and riders surge around him. As a single mass they reach a gallop heading away from the camp. Looking over his shoulder Malorix can see the bluff crowned with its line of shadow figures, now disappearing one by one. Their movement makes a strong impression on him. Lack of urgency, almost nonchalance. They act as men who hold the upper hand and know it.

The Romans ride at speed, ten abreast across the desolate plain. Then, having established a gap ahead of their pursuers they reduce pace. Malorix again turns in the saddle. A mass of horses and riders to the rear, still not yet in rapid pursuit. He seeks out Duris. "They follow, but slowly," he shouts over the din of wind and hooves. "How many?"

"Not more than one hundred."

"What do you make of them?"

"Why should they run?" The Arab falls briefly silent, then says, "Do you know the sea?"

"The sea?"

"The desert, the steppe-lands, they are like a great sea, and this is like a battle of ships. We can run, but their ships are faster and have the greater endurance. More than this, they know we have no port to run to for safety. All they have to do is be patient, and we will wear down. They will close when we are weakest."

"Parthian?"

"Perhaps, although they have the look of Scythians. Maybe hired auxiliaries, or raiders." The Arab does not speak again for some time, then pulls out his water skin and drinks. "We cannot out-run them or fight them in the open. They have many bowmen, and we have few. Our best choice would be close combat, but they are not likely to oblige." He wipes water from his lips with the back of his hand. "They will pick us off as our horses give out, one by one."

“It's their ocean,” Malorix says. The landscape is dotted with clusters of hills, eroded by wind and weather, mountains, still far off. They would have to make a stand before one of these rocky islands. “We must find a port."

Through the first hour of morning their pursuers match their pace. Malorix’ thoughts of tactics are interrupted as Polydius pull his horse alongside. "This is your idea of returning to Rome?" Polydius shouts, swaying precariously in the saddle. “Rome lies behind us,” he says, pointing in the direction from which they have come.

"What would you have me do?" Malorix snarls. "Tell you what, stop and tell our pursuers that we have important business in Rome, and would they kindly piss off. While you’re at it you can join them." He reaches back and unlashes Silo’s helmet from his saddle. Jamming it on his head, he digs in his heels and distances himself from Polydius. For some time he’s had his eye on a jumble of rugged rock and high ground to the northeast. An island like all the others, it could be a death trap. Nonetheless, it looks to offer gullies and outcrops. Protection from archers. He signals to the men and kicks Athroula toward it.

At the base of the rock formation the Romans dismount quickly, moving horses and men seamlessly into such positions of advantage as the terrain affords. Malorix and Duris remain mounted, side by side in the open, facing their pursuers. "Duris," Malorix says as they observe the approaching horsemen, "hand me an aureus from your cache." He tucks the coin under the rim of his saddle. Gelanor and Quirinus pull alongside to await the parlay. "Where is Balera?" he asks.

"Organizing our defences," says Quirinus. “Such as they are.”

Deployed in line abreast the horsemen halt abruptly one hundred paces distant.

"I swear," Malorix says, "they have the appearance of my father’s people."

"Not Parthians," Duris says, as though settling an argument with himself.

The rider’s tunics are richly ornamented with needlework and woven designs on colourful homespun cloth or leather, adorned with metal plate, scales, or bone lamellar that shimmer as the sun approaches its apex. All are garbed in breeches to the ankle. A handful carry lances ten or twelve feet in length. Long swords or metal plated clubs are slung from saddles on which lassos are prominently displayed. Every horseman carries a quiver grafted to the right side of his saddle, each containing a full complement of arrows. All but the lancers hold a reflex bow lightly across the pommel with an arrow notched to the cord.

A single cataphract carries a standard in the shape of a crimson dragon. Some wear helmets while others bear only leather caps or headbands. Their appearance is made more remarkable by the unusual height of their headgear, which exaggerates their stature. Many are blond or red-haired. Some, like Malorix, keep their hair in long plaits. Unlike his single plait, however, most favour multiple strands decorated with pieces of shell and precious stones.

From the centre of their line a warrior advances his horse to within ten paces and stops facing Malorix. Slight of build, he sits his saddle straight as a lance. His most striking feature is a helmet with two stylised cheek guards that close to create a mask in the image of a lion. The guards can be worn open or closed, but tied below the chin as they now are only the eyes are visible. The eyes of a lion. A gilded border around the peak and rim of the helmet show the status and wealth of its bearer. This man is a noble. The leader.

Malorix feels a surge of confidence. For years he has lived among northern tribesmen. Perhaps not like these exactly, but not far different. He knows Germans, Celts, Sarmatians, and Dacians. Their languages and their beliefs might differ, but they are all driven by the same needs. They seek food, land and security for their families, and as much gold and plunder as they can carry. The search for ever greater glory through hunting, horsemanship, and combat is their overriding need. The hard life of the nomad. Valiant death a goal to be prized, aspired to. An idea begins to form.

Malorix chooses to speak first, an obvious concession to the superior strength of this war party. "My name is Beucan," he shouts in Greek, loud enough to be heard throughout their ranks.

A long silence follows broken only by the rise and fall of the wind. Malorix knows the rules of the game. He will not speak again until he receives a reply.

"And I," says the leader, "have never heard of you!" Laughter throughout the enemy line as they savour the insult. The reply shocks Malorix to the core. Not in Greek, and yet he understands. Enough to know he is being insulted. He turns to Gelanor in astonishment. “This language is Sarmatian, or very like!" The Armenian nods.

"What was said?" Quirinus asks.

"An insult."

"But did you listen to the voice?" Gelanor says.

"What do you mean?"

"Keep talking."

Malorix addresses the leader again, still in Greek. "Do you have a name?"

"I have a name," he says, and after a prolonged pause adds, "Not given to those who are bought and sold."

More laughter.

"Do you not hear it?" Gelanor says excitedly. "It’s a woman’s voice! I have heard stories and legends of such things. The Greeks have a name for them. They call them Amazon!"

"Amazon?"

"A tribe of warrior women. In the Scythian tongue they are Oiorpata, it means man killer. It is said they eat the flesh of men!"

Malorix can’t help but make a face. Among his own people there were many women warriors, and he has heard similar nonsense from Greeks and Romans alike. As Malorix has learned to understand this thinking, if it isn’t Greek or Roman, assume utmost savagery.

Though unexpected, the presence of a woman warrior, especially as a leader, is helpful. In his experience women are less prone to bluster and take no pleasure in violence for its own sake. Engage her. With tribes, you keep them talking. As long as they are talking, they are not killing.

"Amazon!" he shouts.

The leader makes a clicking sound with her tongue and her horse advances until their animals stand nose to nose. She stares directly into his eyes for a long time. Familiar with the tactic, Malorix stares back. He cannot see the face behind the cheek guards, but the eyes are clear enough. Intense blue, as though water has become fire. He keeps his face composed and relaxed. Rather than hold her penetrating gaze he allows himself to blink slowly, and to look away, as though bored by the confrontation.

"You use Greek words, but you dress like a Roman." She speaks haltingly in Greek, as she points to Silo’s cuirass and helmet.

"Amazon?" he says again, more quietly.

"Alans. Only Greeks call us Amazon. Are you a Greek?" Her tone is disdain itself.

"I am Beucan, of the Roxolani Sarmatians," he shifts to his native tongue, and watches her reaction. That, she hadn’t expected.

"You claim it."

"We share a common tongue."

"What of it? We do not need to speak to our enemies. Sarmatians die as readily as Greeks. Or Romans."

"The Sarmatians are not your enemies, they are your brothers."

"My brothers are of my tribe."

"What is your tribe?" he asks, his tone insouciant. "Have I heard of it?"

Through the exquisitely moulded facemask Malorix tries to make out her appearance, but it is almost completely obscured. She is experienced though. He follows her eyes as they size up the deployment of his men.

"We are the Spali, and we rule the mountains from the great sea to the great plain."

The name means nothing to Malorix. "I have heard of the Spali," he lies for all to hear. "They are known among the Sarmatians, even far to the west. They are called great warriors," he says with exaggerated conviction. "Are you their king?"

More mirth from the Alan line. The leader abruptly raises her hand cutting off the laughter.

"I am Alanis," she says, "warrior, priest, and daughter of Kuluk, son of Kuluk, Lord of the Spali. If you submit to my forces your lives will be spared, and you will be sold. We do not burden ourselves with slaves. If you do not submit, you will be killed and your bodies left on this plain for the vultures and the dogs."

"You ride in the lands of the King of Kings. Parthia rules here."

"There are those who fear Parthia," she says menacingly. "Parthia fears the Spali."

"I congratulate you,” Malorix says rather enjoying the novelty of his native tongue. “Your situation is advantageous, for your numbers are great. Your bowmen are no doubt skilled. Yet for our part we are men of courage and resource. We have fought greater enemies and faced odds worse than this many times over. We always prevail. We will prevail again," he says, aping the exaggerated nomad style. "We will not surrender to you. If you choose to fight, many Spali will meet Targitai and Ma this day."

"All of you will die."

"We are already dead." He pauses to add dramatic weight to this mysterious missive. "The dead do not fear death."

Her eyes flicker. He has touched her. "You look live enough to me."

"What appears may also lie. I will be frank with you. We are on a quest. To this end we are prepared to die. We are, in effect, already dead."

"You speak like a Greek," she says with apparent disgust. "Do you also fight like one?"

An opportunity. "I am a match for any of yours."

"Really?" Her horse rears as though laughing on her behalf. "You?"

"Choose your champion," Malorix says recklessly.

"Why should I?"

He ignores the question. "If I win, you will pledge to help us on our quest."

"Why should I?" she repeats.

His turn to laugh. "For the gold."

Gold. The word that touches every barbarian heart. The conversation has shifted to ground of his choosing. Her responses will now be tempered by her greed, and this he can use.

Alanis of the tribe of Spali removes her helmet. Beneath its lion mask image its twin is dyed onto her face in tones of sepia and henna. Beginning at her forehead, it curls around her eye and descends along the cheekbone. Her nose serves as the boundary between two images, one light, the other a predator in shadow, all framed by hair the colour of autumn fire grass. Malorix follows her lead and removes Silo’s helmet.

"What gold?" she says.

Malorix withdraws the golden aureus from beneath the rim of his saddle, walks Athroula forward two paces and hands it to her. "Roman gold," she says, leaning back in her saddle as she studies the coin.”

"Where I get my gold is my business," he replies. "The point is you can have more of it, if we come to terms."

"You sound like an Armenian." She nods dismissively in Gelanor’s direction. "If you have gold, I can just take it."

"If you could find it. We ride to where the gold is buried. You will be paid."

"How much?"

"Fifty more like this one."

"Hmm." She raises her head and clicks her tongue in the Sarmatian manner, stating with nomad eloquence that the amount is insufficient. Malorix is unconcerned. A low bid. Let her set the high end.

"What is this quest of which you speak?"

"We seek a grave."

"Graves? You rob tombs for kurgan gold," she says with disgust.

"No. We seek the grave of a fallen comrade. It lies not far from here."

"You would rob your dead comrades? What manner of men are you?"

"This comrade was a Roman, such as you see here. He holds the gold for our return."

Her features soften a little. "Your men are Romans?"

"Yes."

"The dead one. How came he to be dead?"

"Parthians."

She extends her open hand with the coin.

"Keep it," he says.

She thrusts her helmet on her head, wheeling her mount in the same motion. As she gallops away through the Alan line, her tribe turn and follow.

"That went well," Gelanor says expressionlessly as they rode off. "Shall I tell the men to prepare to die?"

"No," Duris says, watching as the Alans halt in the distance. "She is interested."

"These nomads are such show-offs," Gelanor retorts, "and I can smell her greed from here."

"They must not learn that we are carrying the gold with us," Duris says.

"I hope to conceal that fact until we get to Silo."

"And then?”

"I’m making this up as I go."

The Alans remain huddled in a knot of horses and riders. An occasional shout bridges the distance between them as riders gallop off and then wheel to rejoin the conclave. Some gesticulate wildly.

“A council is in progress,” says Duris.

At length, Alanis emerges from the melee and thunders toward them reigning in hard in front of Malorix.

"The Spali say the gods decide. Prove yourself to the gods, and we agree to your terms. But we take all of the gold."

"Half."

"All."

"No."

"I have but to raise my hand and your men meet their ancestors."

"My men must have means to survive."

She looks at him intently. "I take four for every one you keep! Take it or die!"

He takes it.

"You must defeat Goar."

"I accept your terms. What are the weapons?"

"No weapons, Beucan the Sarmatian. By the lasso."

"If I lose?"

She laughs. "When you lose, you will be dead. Your men will lead us to the gold."

"My men are to be spared."

She appears to think this over. "Agreed. But in that case, we take the gold. Every piece." She turns her horse away, then stops to look back at him. "Understand. If there is no gold, you will all die." He nods his assent as she withdraws to rejoin her warband.

"What does she mean, by the lasso?" It is the first time Malorix has seen Duris looking puzzled. He dismounts and passes over his reins. "Help me get out of this armour, and you will see."