Harry Sidebottom - King of Kings

Turpio leaned on his elbow and surveyed the courtyard; there were a few soldiers, but mainly locals. Four respectable women were at a nearby table. One of them looked back. Her eyes smiled above her veil. He turned to the other men. 'It is an odd thing,' he said. 'According to the laws of the Edessenes, not only is an adulterous wife killed, but even one suspected of adultery. And then, once a year, there is the Maiuma.' He raised his eyebrows.

'Not that strange at all, amicus,' said Maximus. 'There is no end to the strangeness of people. The other night, I was talking to a most philosophical local — huge beard he had, you should have seen it, a most impressive thing — and he was telling me that, away to the east, among the Seres, there is not a fornicator to be found. Now, among the Indians, while your Brahmans will not be indulging in the pleasures of the flesh — no, not even if Venus were in conjunction with Mars at the moment of their birth — the rest are at it like knives. Whereas, among the Bactrians, who are called Kushanians, the women dress like men and consider it the height of hospitality to fuck any stranger who comes to their country.' He paused for a drink. 'And, brothers, you are wondering what is the moral of this story?'

'Actually, no, I am not,' said Ballista.

Maximus ignored him. 'The moral is an important one for any man. It would be a sad thing to be born a Brahman or a Seres, but the height of good fortune is to be on the road to Bactria.'

A horrible wheezing sound rattled around the table. Calgacus stopped laughing long enough to say, 'Your philosophy for life — wherever you are, pretend to be a stranger in Bactria. You should write your memoirs: A Stranger in Bactria. A great title, far better than Marcus Aurelius' To Himself.'

Over the laughter, Ballista asked, 'Did it not cross your mind that this bearded local might have been less than serious?'

Maximus held up his hand. 'Not for a moment. I have never heard a man in greater earnestness.' A sly look came across his face. 'And let me tell you, he knew a thing or two. For example, did you know that, among the peoples of Germania, among whom I believe your own people, the Angles, stand very high, the men will be taking the handsome boys for wives, with a proper wedding feast and no shame at all?'

'Bugger,' said Ballista. 'I thought we had managed to keep that quiet.'

Maximus stretched. 'Anyway, all this talk of physical passion is, as Demetrius might say, threatening to undermine the rational part of my soul.' He got up, only a little unsteadily, and went off to strike a deal with a serving girl.

'I am for my bed. I cannot take the drink any more,' Ballista said. After they had stood to bid him goodbye, Turpio and Calgacus exchanged a look.

'It is a fetish that has grown on him the last few years,' said Calgacus. 'The idea that, the next time he is in combat, he will die if he fucks another woman.'

'Well, that woman of his is a likely-looking piece.' At Calgacus' sharp glance, Turpio went on, 'Oh, do not come on like Maximus. I am only talking. Drink talking.' As Calgacus' thin mouth twisted into what was probably intended as a smile, Turpio got up. 'It is the Maiuma. If you do not mind holding the table, I hear the irrational part of my soul calling too. Do not worry — as many women have told me, I do not take long at all.' Afterwards, Turpio rearranged his clothing. He slapped the girl on the arse and gave her a small tip. The actual fee had been paid downstairs, to the owner. Leaving the narrow room, Turpio stood for a moment or two leaning on the rail of the first-floor gallery. Below, he could see Maximus gesticulating as he explained something to Calgacus.

The Hibernian was still talking when Turpio reached the table. 'Clitoris like a slingshot, I tell you.'

'That is me done. I am going back.' After saying goodnight to the other men, Turpio left.

Outside in the alley, it was quieter than before. It was getting late. Strange, he thought, how not only Ballista but his two slaves had become close friends. Still, they had all been through a lot together. A turn of the stars, and who knew what you would be. 'A Stranger in Bactria.' He smiled and realized he was quite drunk.

Turpio had no trouble in retracing his steps. Crossing the Scirtos, he saw that most of the lights on the banks had gone out. After passing the fish ponds, he gathered his strength for the steep climb up the northern face of the citadel to their quarters in the Winter Palace of the old Kings of Osrhoene.

When he reached the entrance to the courtyard, he stopped to get his breath back. Immediately he knew something was wrong. The waning moon lit the empty space. There was no sentry at the foot of the stairs. Turpio looked around. Nothing. There was no sound. Suddenly, he felt very sober.

The sentry might have just gone to relieve himself. Turpio half thought he had heard footsteps as he approached. He wondered whether to draw his sword. He would look foolish if the sentry wandered back. Turpio drew his sword anyway. It came free with a rasp that sounded loud to him in the quiet building. As silently as he could, he crossed the cobbles to the stairs that ran up the inner wall of the courtyard. He stopped to look and listen. Nothing at all out of the ordinary. Along the first-floor veranda, bars of golden light gleamed out from behind the shuttered windows where the night lamps burned in the outer rooms of their sleeping quarters.

Placing his feet quietly, carefully keeping the blade away from the stonework, Turpio went up the stairs. At the top he stopped again. Still nothing. Immobile, he probed the night with all his senses. He half thought he caught an unusual smell, but it was too faint. He could not tell. He waited, fully alert.

There! An extra chink of light. One of the doors was a tiny bit ajar — the door to Ballista's quarters. Without thought or hesitation, Turpio glided along the veranda. At the window, he ducked down and peered between the slats of the shutter. The outer room appeared to be empty.

Straightening up quickly, Turpio moved to the door. Sword ready, he pushed it open. The outer room was empty. There was a strong smell of waxed canvas. The door to the bedroom was half open. In three steps, Turpio was there. He kicked it open and dropped into a fighting crouch.

The big man in the hooded cloak dominated the small room. He was standing over the still figure on the bed. The blade in his hand shone in the lamplight.

Yelling incoherently, Turpio lunged. The hooded man whirled around. Sparks flew as he drove Turpio's blade wide. Instinctively, Turpio ducked, and the riposte whistled just over his head.

The combatants drew back for a second. Turpio could not see the man's face under the high hood. On the bed, still Ballista did not move.

The hooded man feinted low then thrust high. Jerking his head out of the way, Turpio neatly stepped forwards and to the right. Holding the hilt with two hands, he rammed the point of his sword at his opponent's stomach. The man's own momentum did the rest. Impaled on the steel, face to face with Turpio, the man shook and gasped out his life. The room was filled with the slaughter-house smell of violent death.

Bracing his right hand against the dead man's chest, Turpio used his left to withdraw his blade. It came free with a horrible sucking sound and a rush of blood. The body crumpled, and Turpio pushed it away. As the corpse hit the floor, its hood fell back, revealing a swarthy face.

Turpio looked at his friend. Ballista was alive. Unmoving, the northerner stared wide-eyed at the corpse.

'You all right?'

Ballista swallowed. He tried to speak. No sound came out.

'He tried to kill you, but it is all right now. He is dead.'

Still Ballista could not speak. Eventually he nodded.