Nick Brown - The Black Stone

One of the other competitors — a cocky Egyptian named Eclectis — was removing the remains of his lunch with a toothpick. Two others — both local men — stood close to the front, peering over the doors. Outside, the organiser of the event, Taenaris, was warming up the crowd. The two locals exchanged a few barbed comments about him then shared a drink from a jug of wine.

Indavara walked forward and checked the first few rows of benches for Sanari, the maid from next door. She had promised she would come. Corbulo had said the same but Indavara doubted he would be there, especially without Simo around to remind him. Though they shared a roof, Corbulo rarely needed his services these days and was usually busy with work or his social life.

Belatedly realising that examining the sea of faces was only making him feel worse, Indavara turned away and tried to control his breathing.

‘Nervous, big man?’ asked Eclectis. The Egyptian had been calling him that since the quarter-finals. Every one of the competitors was by necessity broad chested and strong, but most were leaner than Indavara. They were mainly ex-auxiliaries. Eclectis, however, was still serving and always brought along dozens of his fellow soldiers.

‘Just want to get out there,’ said Indavara.

‘My advice — enjoy yourself now. This is as good as your afternoon’s going to get.’

Eclectis had won the competition for the last three years and it seemed a good proportion of his winnings went on clothes. He was wearing a pale blue tunic decorated with two vertical bands of silver thread. The bands were not solid but composed of a series of miniature arrows arranged nose to tail. His belt buckle was, of course, in the shape of a bow.

Taenaris had almost finished the preamble. His two assistants came over, their sandaled feet visible under the swinging doors. Eclectis and the local men lined up beside Indavara.

‘People of Bostra, please welcome … the competitors!’

The assistants pulled the doors apart. Eclectis was out first and soon bowing theatrically to the crowd gathered to their left. The surge of clapping and shouting was almost too much for Indavara, who hung back behind the others. He looked forward at the range.

The four targets had been set up on the crowd’s side of the ‘spine’ — the high, stone structure that formed the centre of the chariot course. Precisely one hundred yards away was the rope from where the competitors would fire their arrows. Taenaris stood there, beaming.

Indavara glanced at the crowd and noticed a few city sergeants on the front row of benches, clubs laid out on the sand in front of them — ready for any trouble. Lads carrying trays were trotting around, selling palm leaves stuffed with sweet and savoury snacks. There were bookmakers on the move too; each trailed by a clerk clutching a handful of papers or a writing tablet.

Indavara was glad to be farthest from the crowd. Each competitor had been given a circular table for his equipment. The two others were between Indavara and Eclectis, who was still enjoying the attention too much to worry about actually getting ready. His cronies were already on their feet and shouting his name.

Indavara checked his gear. His leather case was propped up against the table, on top of which lay his arrows and the bow he had purchased the previous year in Syria. The string was a few weeks old — fresh enough to maintain elasticity but worn in enough to be consistent. The other archers had laughed when they saw he would be taking his arrows from the table. As seasoned auxiliaries they plucked theirs from a quiver on their back or hanging from their belt. Indavara owned one but wasn’t used to it yet; he preferred his own method for now.

He ran through a few stretches and started to feel better. As he swung his arms to loosen up, Taenaris came over. The Greek was short — barely five feet — and remarkably hirsute, with black hair sprouting above his tunic collar. ‘When they’ve quietened down I’ll introduce you by name. Where are you from again?’

‘Er … Antioch.’

‘And a bodyguard, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘No family name.’

‘No.’

Indavara continued his exercises.

Taenaris turned to face the crowd. ‘Welcome once more! Welcome all, to the twenty-second annual Bostran archery contest. And a fine one it’s been this year, with competitors from six different provinces, all vying to win the much-coveted Silver Archer, not to mention ten — yes, ten — golden aurei.’

One of Taenaris’s men held the figurine up to the crowd, then the bag of coins.

‘Eclectis has spent half of it already!’ yelled someone. The Egyptian chuckled along with the crowd and Taenaris waited once again for the noise to fade before continuing. ‘First, making his debut this year: the man who set a record-equalling score in the semi-finals — twenty-six points from ten arrows. Hailing from Antioch and currently employed as a bodyguard — I wish I could afford him! — Indavara!’

Muted applause; mostly from a small group of girls sitting close to the front. Indavara had a quick look but couldn’t see Sanari. The girls were soon shouted down by the auxiliaries with cries of ‘Get back to work!’, ‘Stick to cleaning!’ and a few more vulgar insults.

‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ cried Taenaris. ‘Everyone is welcome here.’

He went on to introduce the two locals, one of whom was a previous winner. Eclectis listened proudly to every word of his introduction, which was so lengthy and flattering that Indavara reckoned he’d probably helped write it. By the time Taenaris eventually called out his name, the auxiliaries were joined on their feet by much of the rest of the crowd.

One of the Greek’s men ran off to station himself by the targets, while the other inspected the competitors’ equipment. Sitting at another table close by was a clerk of the Bostran court; a respectable-looking man in charge of scoring. Assisting him was a lad standing next to a large wooden frame facing the crowd. He had written the names of the competitors on paper sheets and now slotted them into openings on the left side of the frame. Next to each name was a row of holes. Once the contest started, coloured pegs would be placed in the holes to allow the onlookers to keep track of the score.

‘Is Bostra ready?’ asked Taenaris.

Indavara tapped his fingers against his belt; this tiresome routine had preceded the start of every round.

‘I ask once!’

‘Yes!’ bawled the crowd.

‘Twice!’

‘Yes! Yes!’

‘Thrice!’

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

‘Let’s loose those arrows!’

A final roar, amplified by stamping boots.

‘Gentlemen, ready yourselves,’ said Taenaris, taking a small hourglass from the clerk’s table.

Indavara selected an arrow and stepped up to the rope. He took a long breath and a long moment to gaze at the target, then turned side-on and nocked the arrow.

‘Usual rules for the first round,’ announced Taenaris. ‘Our competitors have five minutes to fire ten arrows. At the end we will count up the scores. The competitor with the lowest score drops out and we move in to round two. As ever, an arrow stuck in the white scores one, an arrow in Hades’ Eye scores three. Are the competitors ready?’

Indavara nodded, facing away from the crowd and the other men.

‘Five minutes, then,’ said Taenaris. ‘I am turning the hourglass … now.’

Eclectis always got a shot in quickly to intimidate the others and — judging by the shouts — he’d struck red.

Indavara knew he had plenty of time and little to fear from the other two but he could feel his fingers shaking as he drew back the string. He stopped at three-quarters of a full extension: all he needed for a shot of three hundred feet.