The headland of Sebaste was low but solid in the dark night. The little boat rode the gentle swell. Ballista had commandeered the fishing smack from Soli. They had sailed down to Sebaste at last light and started their fishing. Ballista worked it with the old fisherman. They used a dragnet with floats here. The boat was square-rigged, nothing too different from the fishing boats of Ballista’s childhood.

Maximus, Calgacus and two marines huddled in the bottom of the boat. Sounds can carry a long way over water at night, so they did not complain.

Ballista had watched the Great Bear circle and pale. It had been a long night, but soon it would be over. He yawned, stretched and gazed up at the eastern sky. No sign of it lightening yet.

It was the old man who first saw the signal. Tapping Ballista’s arm, he pointed to the shore. There it was. A solitary beacon to the east of Sebaste, on the road from Soli. The first part of Ballista’s plan had worked. The land forces, even though only an inadequate thousand men, were in position.

Ballista unshuttered and hoisted the lantern. As the old man hurriedly pulled in his nets, Ballista scanned the dark sea to the south. Nothing. No sign that the second, crucial element of his plan was in place. He could not wait. There was no time.

With the old man at the steering oar, Ballista brought the sail round. It was far too early for the morning breeze from the sea, but the hint of the prevailing westerly should bring them in to the beach west of Sebaste.

As the low headland slid past to their right, the old man talked inaudibly to himself. Mastering an urge to look south, Ballista stared at the sky. Now there was a faint but definite pink tinge above the black outline of the town. Maximus started to get up. With a hand on his friend’s arm, Ballista indicated it was too soon.

Sudden and clear a trumpet rang out from the town. Before its echo had faded, it was answered by others. Torches flared along the wall. Some of them were moving. One or two shouts floated across the water. The Sassanids were aware of the Roman troops to the east. So far so good – providing the dark-painted ships of the fleet, their oars muffled, were gliding in out of sight behind the fishing boat. Ballista did not think what would happen if it were not so. In many ways, he did not care. Soon there would be more blood for the ghosts.

A word of warning from the old man, and he ran the boat up on to the beach.

Ballista swung himself over the side. He landed knee-deep in the water. Maximus passed him his sword belt. Ballista buckled it on. Then he pulled the floppy cap from his belt. Scooping his long hair under it, he crammed it over his brows.

Maximus was beside him, fiddling with his own eastern cap. Calgacus and the two marines jumped out of the boat. While they readied themselves, Ballista and Maximus pushed the boat off. The old man just waved as he unshipped the oars.

Ballista pulled Isangrim’s little blade on his right hip an inch or two out of its sheath, snapped it back, drew the big sword on his left a little, pushed it back, touched the healing stone tied to the scabbard. He was glad Calgacus had retrieved his sword from the body of Garshasp. At moments like this, Ballista was painfully aware that, much of the time, he was not thinking clearly.

Ballista checked the others.

‘Time to go.’

The sand crunched under their boots. The town wall was black off to the right. The west gate was hidden in shadow. It was, Ballista thought, a good job they had been here before and knew the layout. The noise from the town seemed to have faded.

A couple of trees grew in front of the gate. The land smelled hot away from the sea. The heavy doors were shut. Ballista looked back at the sea. Was there a line of white – not a wave – out there?

Ballista unsheathed his sword. With the pommel he beat loudly on the gate.

‘Open the gate,’ he called in Persian. ‘Open the gate. The country is alive with Romans.’

From inside came a babble of talk.

‘Open.’ Ballista beat on the gate again. ‘I am Vardan, son of Nashbad. I have an order from Shapur.’

A bonneted head popped up over the battlements.

‘Open the gate now,’ roared Ballista. ‘The man who delays the command of the King of Kings will suffer.’

The head disappeared.

A few moments later there was a scraping sound – the gate opened.

Ballista pushed past the first Persian. There were two more inside. He killed one with a thrust to the stomach, the second with a blow to the back of the neck. Maximus was sawing his blade into the throat of the first one. It had all taken about four seconds.

‘Calgacus, take the marines and get up on the wall walk. Maximus, you stay with me.’

Ballista took stock. He had hoped there might be something, say a cart or some barrels, anything really, to wedge the gate open. There was nothing obvious. Still, it should not be for long.

‘Maximus, help me drag the bodies to block the gates.’

No sooner had they finished than figures appeared in the street.

‘Shut the gate,’ a voice shouted.

‘We cannot – orders,’ Ballista replied in Persian.

The men walked up. There were four of them.

‘Shut the gate, now.’

Ballista waited until they were close then stabbed the leader in the guts. Maximus cut down another. The two remaining Sassanids went for their swords. Their yells were cut short before their blades were free of their scabbards.

‘They will be all over us now, like a cheap toga,’ Maximus grunted as he helped pull the fresh corpses to add to the obstruction in the gateway.

‘Not for long,’ said Ballista, searching through the dead for things of use. ‘You could have left with Demetrius.’

‘Yes, I could have.’

The two men equipped themselves with small Persian shields, bows and arrows. Maximus added a helmet. Ballista did not. Better no helmet than an ill-fitting one that might slip down over your eyes, impede your movement. There was no time to take any armour.

As Maximus ran up to the wall walk, his arms full of bows, quivers and shields for the others, Ballista studied the town. The sun was not up yet, but it was quite light. To the right was another gate leading to the peninsula. It was open. Through it could be seen a curved portico stretching along the south-west of the enclosed main harbour. Ahead the street ran straight, becoming the north-western dock of the harbour. Off to the left, the theatre rose above the exercise ground of the gymnasium.

The streets were deserted. Down by the empty docks a cat stalked a pigeon. A confused noise came from the east, beyond the far walls. Inside the town all was deathly quiet. Sebaste had fallen twice, first to the Sassanid force that had gone on to Selinus, now to these easterners who had escaped west from the battle of Soli. Those inhabitants who had not fled or been killed would be hiding. It was not surprising there were no civilians, but it was wonderful there were no Persians. Ballista’s plan had worked. Seeing just a meagre thousand Roman soldiers advancing from the east, the Persians must have issued out to confront them.

Maximus came back down the steps. He was blowing hard.

‘You are out of condition,’ Ballista muttered. ‘Your wind has gone.’

Before Maximus could answer, an arrow whipped between them. Hunched down, shields up, they stepped back into the shelter of the gateway. More arrows came from under the arch of the gate to the peninsula. They snicked off the stonework.

‘Fuck,’ said Maximus. ‘They did not all fall for it then. Fuck a vestal.’

‘Nicely put,’ Ballista replied. He peeked out from behind the gate then jerked his head back as three or four arrows sliced towards him. One missed his ear by an inch or so. ‘Fuck, indeed.’

‘Unless there are enough of them to rush us, we are safe enough here until the boys from the fleet come,’ Maximus said.

There was the sound of running feet.

‘Fuck,’ said Maximus.

Without a word, both men stepped out, drawing their bows. At least half a dozen Persians were coming. Ballista and Maximus released. They dropped the bows, drew their swords. Only one Persian had fallen. More were issuing from the peninsula.

They heard the twang of bows above their heads. The arrows of Calgacus and the marines dropped another easterner. Not enough. The charge did not falter.

The Sassanids were on them. At the last moment, Ballista sidestepped the first one. Too close to use his sword, he stuck his arm out. The straight-arm tackle caught the Persian under the chin. The man’s legs shot out from under him. He crashed on to his back, armour clattering on the roadway.

The next Sassanid thrust towards Ballista’s middle. The northerner blocked it with his blade, forcing his enemy’s weapon wide. He kicked the man’s kneecap. Howling, the Sassanid doubled up. Ballista jumped back.

For a moment, the men on the ground impeded the others. To Ballista’s left, out of his vision, steel was ringing. Maximus was not down yet.

Two Persians came for Ballista. They stepped carefully, swords ready. They knew what they were about. There were more behind them.

There was no berserk madness upon Ballista this morning, no battle calm. Instead, nothing but cold, sinking fear. His devotion to death had left him. This could only end one way.

The Sassanids struck. Ballista parried one blow, took the other on his shield. The light buckler splintered. One Sassanid aimed high, the other scythed his blade low at Ballista’s shins. Somehow the northerner ducked one blade, got the shield in the way of the second. A big chunk flew out of the light shield. It was useless. Ballista threw the thing into the face of the opponent to his left. He thrust at the easterner to his right. The man stepped back out of range.

The Sassanids pressed forward. Shieldless, Ballista relied on his years of training, the memory in his muscle. He acted without conscious thought. His blade weaved fast. Sparks flew. But he could not keep them out for long. Blow by blow, step by step, he was driven back.

Ballista’s right heel felt the wall behind him. Nowhere to go. Time nearly up. He was half aware of other easterners jostling behind his opponents. If there was an afterlife – Valhalla, whatever – he would soon be with his boys.

The Persians closed for the kill. One jabbed at his face, one his groin. Ballista chopped down at the lower blade. Instinctively, eyes shut, he jerked his head to one side. Splinters of limestone cut his cheek. There was a sharp pain in his left thigh.

The momentum of the Sassanids had driven them against Ballista. He could smell their sweat, the spicy food on their breath.

The one to his left gasped. His body twisted, fell back. Without thought, Ballista rammed the fingers of his left hand into the other’s face, clawing at his eyes. The man swayed back, then reeled. Calgacus’s ugly face appeared. The Caledonian drove his blade into the Persian’s chest.

Pandemonium. The Sassanids were running back the way they had come. Ballista looked wildly around. There was Maximus. Allfather, Death-blinder, Deep Hood, they were alive. More figures were crowding into the gateway from outside.

Ballista caught his breath. The cut to his leg stung, but it looked superficial. All around, Romans were finishing off the Sassanids on the ground.

‘Thank you,’ Ballista said.

‘Hercules’ big hairy arse, I thought it was too late that time. I thought you were fucked.’ Calgacus smiled a horrible smile.

‘Me too.’ Ballista laughed. He had to pull himself together. The job was not yet half done.

‘You’ – Ballista pointed at an optio – ‘take the first thirty marines through the gate. Follow the Sassanids. Secure the gate to the citadel. If you can, work through and clear the peninsula.’

The optio shouted. The marines jostled and pushed. More were crowding in from outside.

Ballista stepped out from the gate to the more open space in the street. He had to take charge. This could easily degenerate into chaos.

‘Everyone but the detailed marines, stay where you are.’ Some of the confusion stilled.

‘Officers, to me,’ Ballista shouted. ‘Where the fuck is Rutilus?’

‘Here, Dominus.’ The tall redhead calmly stepped out of the throng.

Ragonius Clarus had insisted Ballista have Rutilus as his second-in-command. It was the emperors’ explicit wish. Ballista had not wanted him, but there was no denying he was a competent officer.

‘Rutilus, you know the plan. Take the main body of marines straight down this road past the docks. Seize the gate at the far end. Draw your men up in line outside – two deep, open order.’

With a minimum of fuss, Rutilus got on with it. The marines, nearly three hundred and fifty of them, began to rattle past.

The trierarch elevated to Ballista’s deputy for the next part of the plan appeared. What was his name? Ballista was about to ask Demetrius, then he remembered the boy had gone. He hoped he was all right.

‘Trierarch, are your men ready?’

The trierarch shrugged. ‘As ready as they will ever be.’

Ballista had armed around a thousand rowers with a mixture of captured Persian weapons and antique arms from the temples of Soli. The trierarch, like all his kind a long-service centurion, had little but contempt for his men’s fighting abilities. Unfortunately enough, Ballista thought he was probably right. Still, if it all worked, they might not actually have to fight.

The last of the marines passed.

‘Time to go,’ said Ballista. With Maximus, Calgacus and the trierarch flanking him and Gratius carrying his personal white draco behind, Ballista set off.

At first they followed the retreating backs of the marines. Then Ballista led them into a sideroad to the left. Now he quickened the pace to a jog.

It was hard going. The street twisted, twice turning back on itself. Past the theatre it began to climb steeply. Ballista’s wounded leg hurt. It was getting harder to get his breath.

About five hundred yards of this, and they reached the north-eastern gate out on to the main road to Soli. The whole way, they had not seen a single Persian.

Emerging from under the archway, Ballista realized the sun was up. Still low, it cast long shadows but illuminated the scene. The yellow-green slopes of the mountain rose to the left. The sparkling sea lay to the right. And between, about half a mile ahead, the battle.

Perfectly to plan, Castricius had arrayed his thousand infantry from the necropolis on the lower slopes to fill the four hundred or so yards down to the shore.

The Persians, their backs to Ballista, wheeled in front of Castricius’s position. Arrows flew, but the rough going and the innumerable tombs badly hindered their evolutions.

Away to Ballista’s right, Rutilus’s marines were already mainly in line.

Ballista roared orders, waved and gesticulated. The ragtag mob of armed rowers started off to link with the marines.

The Persians had seen the threat to their rear. Officers, bright figures in silk flashing steel, rode here and there, regrouping the horsemen. They knew they were in a trap. It remained to be seen if they would realize how weak one side of the trap was.

Ballista looked at his men. Rutilus’s marines, in reasonable order, filled about half the space. In the other half the rowers, although clumped up, were in some approximation of a line.

‘Signal the advance. Slow walk. Keep together.’

The line shuffled forward. From the start, some of the rowers were hanging back. Their part of the line bowed.

Ahead, Sassanid banners waved, trumpets called. The Persians – there must still be nearly three thousand of them, formed into a deep phalanx.

Allfather, Grey Beard, Fulfiller of Desire. The Persians were facing Castricius’s men. The deep boom of a Sassanid war drum sounded. The horsemen accelerated away from Ballista. They charged Castricius’s line.

Through the fresh dust, Ballista could not see clearly what was happening. A roar like a thousand trees being felled at once echoed back from the mountain slopes.

Most of the Sassanids had come to a halt. But in one place they still moved forward. From the flanks, others began to funnel after them.

All the horsemen stopped. The gap that had opened in Castricius’s line must have clogged with men and horses. It would not have taken much – maybe just one horse going down in the rough terrain.

Panic gripped the Sassanids. Like animals before a forest fire, individuals darted this way and that, seeking an unattainable safety. Some must have broken through. But for those left, there was no way out. What remained was not fighting but slaughter.

Ballista sat with his back to the tomb. He was in the shade and facing the mountains, away from the killing field. The Sassanid custom of carrying much of their wealth on their person probably put an edge on the Romans despoiling the enemy corpses, but they would have done it anyway.

The battle won, Ballista had ordered Rutilus to keep a couple of hundred marines in hand to secure the town and Castricius to hold back about the same number of legionaries on the road. That the Sassanids who had escaped would rally and launch a surprise attack was highly unlikely. The liburnian galleys had tracked them up the coast. About three miles to the north-east, the Sassanids had turned off inland. But better safe than sorry.

Ballista shifted his position. The blank wall of well-dressed stone soared above him to a cloudless blue sky. A lot of money had gone into these tombs, which were built like affluent houses. The citizen of Sebaste who could afford one of them would have a townhouse and a residence in the country. Every time they rode from one to the other, they would pass this third house, the one in which they would spend eternity. Ballista wondered what they would feel. A warm glow of reassurance? Their social standing would transcend death. Did they fondly imagine they would gaze out from their final resting place and watch their sons ride past?

It was hard to say. Certainly Greeks and Romans, at least some of them, believed in ghosts. But their afterlife, except for a lucky few who made it to the Isles of the Blessed, consisted of flitting and shrieking like bats in the dark halls of Tartarus. Perhaps they would hope to return, their shades more substantial, when blood offerings were made.

Inexorably, Ballista’s thoughts turned back to where he did not want them to go, to the fight at the gate. He had not wanted to die, he had wanted to live. So much for his being devotus. True, his thoughts had not been worked out. There had been no understanding of why. But something had changed. He had desperately wanted to live.

Perhaps, too late for his family, the curse had been lifted. He had sworn to return to the throne of Shapur. In the sacked camp outside Soli, he had returned. No, this was shallow sophistry of the worst sort. When he took that terrible oath, it had been in the thoughts of neither gods nor man that he should return bloodied, to defile the sacred fire, kill his defenceless servants and take Shapur’s favourite concubine over the ornate throne of the house of Sasan.

He had been maddened then. Now he felt sanity returning. Now, almost against his conscious wishes, he wanted to live. Was this disloyalty to Julia and his darling boys? He would harrow hell to bring them back. But that could not happen. Should he persist as devotus – take what revenge he could then, falling, join them?

But would they be reunited? Julia’s Epicureanism precluded an afterlife – all returned to quiet and sleep. And what of Isangrim and Dernhelm? What did eternity hold for innocent children? He had always half entertained the hope that, in the natural way, dying before them, the Allfather would accept him into gold-bright Valhalla. There, having proved his courage day on day in the fight in the courtyard, having shown his good companionship night on night in the feasting in the hall, he would intercede with the Hooded One. His boys would be allowed to pass through the western door and join him under the roof of shields. Woden’s power and longevity aside, the Allfather was a northern chieftain. He understood love and grief. He had lost his son Balder. At the end of time, at Ragnarok, the Hooded One himself would die, torn by the jaws of Fenrir the wolf.

Perhaps I am still mad, thought Ballista. Perhaps my grief and the terrible things I have done for revenge have corroded, deformed my soul. And he had done terrible things. He thought of the teaching of Aesop. Man is born with two wallets tied round his neck. The one at his front contains the sins and crimes of other people – easy to take out and examine. The one on your back, open to everyone except yourself, holds your own – hard to see, painful to think about.

The approach of Maximus broke into Ballista’s thoughts. With the Hibernian was a tall, thin young man wearing a goatskin cloak. It was one of Trebellianus’s dagger-boys, Palfuerius or Lydius – Ballista had no idea which.

‘Ave, Prefect.’ The youth did not wait for permission to speak. ‘I have good news from the governor of Cilicia.’ His pronunciation of Greek was atrocious. ‘Those Persians who evaded you’ – the stress sounded deliberately offensive – ‘have been captured by Gaius Terentius Trebellianus. The Vir Egregius suggests that you might like to see how we deal with poisonous reptiles here in Cilicia Tracheia.’

‘Where?’

‘They are at the town of Kanytelis – for the moment.’

The young Cilician gestured for Ballista to accompany him right away.

Ballista did not move. ‘You can guide us, when we are ready.’

Calgacus jerked his thumb and, after holding Ballista’s gaze a moment too long, Trebellianus’s man moved out of earshot.

Good job for you, goat-boy, that something of my self-control has returned, thought Ballista. If you had turned up a few days ago, things might have been rather different, even if your patronus is Trebellianus. Now there is a dangerous man; not sitting quiet in Korakesion but roaming the hills miles to the east.

‘It might be a trap,’ said Maximus.

‘Trebellianus may be a brigand in a toga, but he is unlikely to have deserted to the Sassanids.’

‘But he is a brigand,’ Maximus persisted. ‘We should at least arm ourselves.’ He pointed to the pile of their equipment, which, far too late, had been brought up from the triremes.

‘You are right,’ Ballista conceded. ‘And get Castricius to find about twenty legionaries who can ride. There are plenty of Persian horses about. We might do with the company.’

The road meandered up the coast. To the left were the bare, banded rocks of the foothills; a thickish scatter of scrub and little patches of cultivatable soil, terraces cut with heartbreaking labour. To the right was the lovely blue of the sea.

Seeing the small party of horsemen, one of the liburnians rowed close to the shore. Three more were further out. Recognizing Ballista’s white draco standard and the big figure in the distinctive horned helmet under it, the little galley sheered away.

As they turned inland, the road became worse. Bare and dusty, it zigzagged wildly as it took on the climb. On either side of the narrow track were jagged, piled rocks and sharp thorns. Nothing apart from a goat could move there, certainly not a man on horseback. The true Cilicia Tracheia began the moment you left the coast road.

Soon Ballista ordered the men to dismount and lead the horses. Loose stones scrunched under boots and hooves. The sun was near its zenith. It was incredibly hot. Occasionally the path would dip, only to resume its strength-sapping climb. All around was a wilderness of rocks. The crests in the distance were hazed with heat.

A long black snake slithered across the road in front of them. They waited for it to pass. Beside him, Ballista heard Maximus muttering – prayers or threats. Pity the poor Persians who had come this way: an early-morning alarm, no breakfast for man nor horse, a desperate battle, the enemy at their rear, cutting a way clear, then this hellish climb – forcing their spent mounts forward, fear riding hard at their backs. At the end of this they would have surrendered to anyone, let alone a gang of Trebellianus’s murderous highlanders.

At last they were there. Mounting up, they rode through another city of the dead. This necropolis was far less elaborate than the ones at Sebaste, fewer expensive house or temple tombs, mainly undecorated sarcophagi. The three miles or so they had covered from the sea made all the difference to the wealth of a community.

The noise came to them as they entered the city of the living, the ugliest noise in the world – a mob baying for blood. The mob was at the foot of a tall tower. On horseback Ballista could see over their heads. Surrounded, huddled and cowed were a few hundred Sassanids on foot. Amidst them, one or two still stood proud. Ballista recognized a slim figure in a lilac tunic: a Persian noble – Demetrius could have told him the man’s name.

‘Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista, I am honoured you could come.’ The mob quietened as Trebellianus called out. He stood on the battlements of the tower – lord of all he surveyed.

Now the Persians had seen Ballista in his ram-horned helmet. A murmur ran through the prisoners: ‘Nasu, Nasu.’ They seemed no more frightened; if anything, more resigned.

‘Come close,’ Trebellianus urged. ‘See the men of Cilicia Tracheia take their revenge.’

At a sign from their governor, a group of armed toughs dragged ten Persians out of the mass. Prodding them with the points of javelins, they forced them beyond the tower. Two of the Persians fell to their knees, arms behind their backs in supplication. One was kicked and jabbed back on to his feet. The other threw himself full length in the dirt and was finished where he lay. His companions were made to lift the corpse.

Ballista and his group moved after them. Then they saw what awaited the eastern prisoners.

The earth disappeared. There was a huge hole. Roughly oval, it had to be sixty, seventy paces across, fifty deep. Its sides were raw pinkish-white rock. There were vertical streaks of white, stalactites at the bottom where it caverned out. And now there were darker streaks and splashes.

‘Behold,’ called Trebellianus, ‘the place of blood.’

The Sassanids were forced over the edge. Their screams were cut short as they smashed into the side wall, went tumbling, broken, to the floor.

‘You have to stop this.’ Maximus was speaking in his native Celtic tongue. Apart from Ballista, only Calgacus could understand.

Another ten were being herded forward.

Ballista looked over the edge. At the bottom, in the pile, one or two of the bodies were faintly moving. He could see an arm or a leg shifting in agony.

The next batch was forced over the edge. Some way down the rock, Ballista saw a relief sculpture, a family group in Greek dress, the father and mother seated, the grown children standing. All held a hand to their chin in uniform thoughtfulness as the shrieking men fell past.

‘Trebellianus,’ called Ballista, ‘that Persian there.’ He pointed. ‘I need to question him.’

Up on the tower, Trebellianus nodded.

The Sassanid was hauled before Ballista. There were tigers or some other big cats embroidered on his torn tunic. Ballista had seen him before, more than once. Demetrius undoubtedly could have named him straightaway.

‘We were promised our lives if we surrendered.’ Behind the dust-stained beard, the young man addressed Ballista in Persian, his face angry and desperate.

‘You were fools to trust these Cilicians,’ Ballista replied in Persian. ‘You have killed and raped their kin.’

The Sassanid made a gesture of contempt. ‘You are no better than them. The superstitious among my men think you are Nasu. But you are no daemon of death. I know you – from Arete, from your surrender outside Edessa. I saw you swear an oath in Carrhae. You are Ballista – the oath-breaker.’

‘I swore to return to the throne of Shapur. At Soli, I did.’

‘Just twisted words – you Romans lie and cheat as soon as you can crawl.’

‘And everyone knows Persians never lie. It is against your religion. Yet your priests flay men alive, pour boiling oil in their eyes.’

The Sassanid spat. ‘And your men here are far less cruel.’

‘I know you now,’ said Ballista. ‘You are Valash, son of the King of Kings, the joy of Shapur.’

The Sassanid sneered. ‘And like your kind, you see a way of making a profit. You think my father will pay a ransom for me.’

‘I am sure he would. But I am not going to ask him for one. Although you killed my friend Turpio, left his severed head on a pike, I am going to return you to your father for nothing. Pick six of your men. They can go with you.’

The Persian looked horrified. ‘How can I make such a choice?’

‘War is a harsh teacher. Make the choice, or they will all die.’

Once it was explained to him, Trebellianus acceded to this turn of events with outward good grace, but the throng of Cilicians were not so politic. They were clearly unhappy.

As the selected Persians were bundled towards them, Maximus again spoke softly in his native language. ‘This is wrong. You cannot leave the other fuckers to this mob. I thought you were back to your old self.’

‘Maybe I am.’ Ballista’s face was set, impassive. ‘But, as I told the Persian, war is a harsh teacher. These Cilicians outnumber us – twenty to one or more. They will follow Trebellianus, not me.’

Maximus looked round then nodded reluctantly.

‘Anyway, even if we could save all the Persians, we do not have troops to guard them all. And there are another three thousand of the bastards still to fight to the west at Corycus.’