Harry Sidebottom - King of Kings

Outside, they remained on foot. The path Aurelian pointed out was precipitous. In single file they set off, leading their horses. To begin with, the walls of the town were close on their left, the ravine of the Phyrminus River at a similar distance on their right. Then both curved away, and the path climbed up through stands of trees, mainly firs, with some ash and wild olive. Progress was slow, the path steep. All except the servants used the boar spears Aurelian had given them as walking sticks. The horses laboured.

Over his own breathing, Ballista listened to the wind moving the trees above their heads, the sibilant sound of the leaves, the creak of the branches, a magical sound that reminded him of the sacred groves of his distant homeland. He noticed that the light of the servants' torches was turning a pale yellow. The rain had ceased some time earlier. The sky had gone from black to deep blue to a delicate azure. Scattered black clouds raced low over their heads and away to the south-east, tattered remnants of the night's storm. It was nearly dawn.

Suddenly they came out into the open on the crest of Mount Silpius. They halted, men and horses getting their breath back, stretching out from the hunched postures of climbing. Aurelian said that they should wait there for the huntsman and the hounds.

The great disc of the sun appeared on the horizon, and a pale gold light splashed over them. Aurelian handed his reins to Antistius and prostrated himself on the soaking ground. The others put their fingertips to their lips and, bowing slightly, blew a kiss to the risen god Sol Invictus. Ballista stood quietly, remaining upright, his hands not moving. The sun was not an invincible god in the pantheon of his youth. Indeed, at the end of time, Skoll, the wolf that chased the sun, would catch her in the Iron Wood and devour her, bringing darkness to Asgard, home of the gods, and to Middle Earth, home of mortal men.

Aurelian got up, brushing the leaves and mud from his clothes. He smiled almost apologetically at Ballista. 'My mother was the priestess of the Sun in my home village. Burgaraca was a dump. I enlisted when I was sixteen. But I miss her. And I think she was right. I am still alive. Sol Invictus has held his hands over me.'

They waited in the sunshine, both the men and their horses steaming slightly. Ballista looked back the way they had come. He watched the shadows retreat towards him as the sun rose behind his back over Mount Silpius. The clear sunlight revealed first the wide, flat plain of the Orontes, the little peasant huts small as toys, the smoke from their dung fires plucked away by the wind, then the suburbs of the city and the campus martius across the river and, finally, Antioch the Great herself, the half-built fortress-palace on the island, the broad line of the main street, the glint of the river running through her. Ballista looked all around, at the path they had followed from the west, at the citadel further along the crest off to the north-east, at the land to the east to which they had come to hunt, and then the realization struck him. He had not seen it before. In the week he had spent in Antioch the previous year, he had not found time to climb to the crest of Mount Silpius. The climb from the city had been steep, hard going for the horses. It would have been a Herculean labour of winches, pulleys and ratchets to move any siege equipment up from the city to the crest. But to the east, outside the defences, the land fell away gently, in a landscape of broad upland meadows and open woods. At one point near the citadel a saddle of rock almost overtopped the walls. The northerner filed the revelation away for future use. Despite the river, the walls, the fortress-palace, Antioch-on-Orontes, the Roman capital of Syria, the heart of the power of the imperium in the east, was almost indefensible.

'About bloody time,' roared Aurelian. A huntsman came into view, thick coat, stout boots, and six hounds on leads surging around his legs. They were gaze hounds, hunters by sight not scent, Celtic by the look of them. Aurelian might not have much money, but he loved his hunting. The huntsman led the party down to where the beaters were in position. It was a good spot; a wide, undulating field of grass with some dense cover uphill. Aurelian explained again the particular northern style of hunting they were to follow. No, they were not going to use nets and stakes. No, the hounds would not hunt as a pack. As each hare broke cover, a pair of hounds would be slipped, so the hunters could bet on the result. The huntsman shrugged — the Danubian was paying, the northerners could do what they liked, but they need not expect him to feign approval — and called the beaters into action. The hunting party tethered their horses. Aurelian and Tacitus each had a hound on a slip lead. They agreed a wager. Sandario and Mucapor placed a side bet. Although far from adverse to gambling, Ballista kept quiet.

They all waited, hounds and men keyed up, expectant. Now and then there was a flash of the red-and-white feathers of a scarer as the beaters moved through the cover. A hare appeared. After a few hops it sat up, looking around impudently. Then it saw the hunting party. As it raced away, Aurelian and Tacitus slipped their hounds. As always, Ballista's heart thrilled with the beauty of the dogs' acceleration, the grace of their running. Aurelian's big, black dog forged ahead, its strides half as long again as those of Tacitus' brindle bitch. The black dog closed on the hare, jaws open for the kill. At the last possible second, the hare jinked. The big dog tried to turn to pursue it but his own speed and size were against him. He lost his footing and went tumbling and rolling, grass and mud flying about him. The neat little bitch was on the heels of the hare. She turned it once, twice, three times, and killed it cleanly. She trotted back, wagging her tail. The big dog cavorted around her, though he kept a discreet distance after receiving a warning growl.

The huntsman took the prey from her jaws, and made much of the bitch. Tacitus took the money from Aurelian but, for a man who, like his host, was renowned for his love of the chase, he seemed strangely subdued. Having settled their wager, Sandario and Mucapor led up their hounds.

Almost straight away, there was much hallooing and crashing from within the cover. The hounds quivered with excitement. A huge stag leapt from the trees. He stood, his magnificent, wide-spread antlers accentuating the motion as he looked this way and that. Seeing the hunters, he turned and began to run diagonally across the field. Although the stag appeared unhurried, he was speeding away, each bound covering more ground than seemed possible.

Among the hunting party there was pandemonium. All the hounds were slipped. Aurelian and the two young Danubian officers untethered their horses, hurled themselves into the saddle and dashed after the stag. Ballista and Tacitus took a little more time. The two servants would take for ever packing up all the gear. The huntsman and the beaters would have to follow on foot, as they had no mounts.

Ballista cantered beside Tacitus. Across the field, down a steeper slope, and along a track, all in silence. The hounds and the other three hunters had pulled ahead, out of sight. The servants would be an age behind.

The two silent riders came to the top of a rise and reined in. They caught a glimpse of the hounds, already far below in the valley. Not far behind, they saw the flash of a bright hunting cloak. Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista saw another horseman, higher up the mountainside and moving parallel to them. In a moment he was gone, lost in the trees.

As they rode on, Ballista broke the silence. 'Forgive me, my dear Tacitus, but you seem strangely preoccupied, almost out of sorts.'

'I am sorry I am not better company. I have had some strange news from my half-brother, Marcus Annius Florianus.' Tacitus stopped talking. Clearly, he was debating whether to tell Ballista the news or not. They rode further. In the midst of the completely wild landscape, Ballista's eye was caught by a man-made terrace off to the right, a thin line of smoke rising from it; someone was burning charcoal.