As the sun went down it turned the river to molten metal, edged the shoulders and head of the man in front with fire. Maximus had assumed they would stop when darkness fell. They did not. Ballista worked his way down the boat, talking low to each man. Keep going, just a little longer. The Tervingi would expect them to stop. The Goths would make one final effort to overhaul them. Just keep going a little longer.
Maximus kept paddling. It was just another example of life being a bastard. Reach, stroke, pause and twist the blade free; over and over, without cease, like some eternal punishment.
Ballista reached the front, hunched there with the guide. Heads close together, they whispered. Sounds carry a long way on the water.
The moon rose. It changed the river into the silvered fur of some nocturnal beast. There was a slow swell, like the breathing of an old wolf. Dead trees stood stark on the bank, like dead men rising from the ground. Their blind eyes and thin, fleshless arms reached towards the moon. They were the dead men the river had taken. It was a ghastly corporal resurrection, the hideous final day longed for by insane sects, prayed for in locked, darkened rooms by outcast priests.
Ballista was talking to the man on the bench in front. The man put down his paddle, slumped over. Ballista was talking to Maximus. Take us in to the islands. Maximus did not break stroke. Ballista was behind him, muttering instructions to the helmsman, the boat heeling on to a new heading.
Dark-blue water, a black tree line, a steel-blue sky, the moon dragging its tail from the depths. They nosed through reeds and overhanging branches. Ballista reaching out to tie a mooring rope around the trunk of a half-submerged tree. The other boats bumping against them. Maximus dropped the paddle, bundled his cloak as a pillow and curled up on the bench. He heard men groan, felt the boat shift and was enveloped in a more profound darkness.
A light touch behind his ear and Maximus was awake. Ballista smiled down at him. For a moment Maximus was fine, then the pain came. Every muscle was locked. A white agony in his shoulders and arms. His palms had been skinned. The tiniest movement brought more pain. Gingerly, he unfolded himself from the hard bench, dragged himself upright, took the flask Ballista held out, and drank. The unwatered wine was harsh in his throat, sour in his stomach. He managed not to be sick. Panting with discomfort, he ate the flatbread he was handed. Ballista moved on. Maximus dug out some dried beef from his wallet, forced himself to chew. It was hard to swallow, but he would need the sustenance.
The sky was lightening. Around them the trees were emerging from the dark, taking on more definite shape. They must cast off soon. His breathing harsh as a torn cloth, his limbs clumsy, Maximus hauled up his mailshirt and tunic, dropped his trousers and got his arse over the side. The tension, then the relief. The foul stench of shit, soon lost in the pervasive smell of mud, dead leaves and decay.
Out on the water it smelt better, cleaner. Once he had worked through the pain and his muscles were warm, Maximus slipped back into the rhythm as if he had never known anything else: reach, stroke, pause and twist the blade free.
The sky was layered with purple and gold. As the sun came up behind a distant hill it threw a long, raking light through the trees out on to the river. The blaze faded, and the clouds showed high and white. It was going to be a fine spring day.
They had rowed for perhaps two hours when a long vista revealed the pursuit. The Tervingi boats were dark specks, a good deal further behind than the day before, but still there, hateful in their remorselessness.
The river narrowed. Its flow increased. Leaves and small branches slid by fast. The paddling became harder. The previous day had sapped the stamina of the men at the benches. The boats laboured upstream.
Ballista had gone to sit with the guide. They squatted in the prow like a pair of demented ferrymen leading damned souls to the underworld. A coin would not pay the fare; this crew must work their passage, get a taste of the punishments to come.
The river narrowed further. It was less than a bowshot wide. The Borysthenes was surging against them, as if set on sweeping them back to their fate. Every advance was hard won. The banks inched past. The men were sweating, gasping with the effort. And Ballista and the guide sat and talked. As they talked, they gestured upriver, waving their hands here and there. Maximus found it hard not to hate them.
‘Not far now.’ Ballista was standing. He raised his voice to reach the other three boats strung out behind. ‘Another mile and you can rest. We will be safe.’
There was no telling how long it took to win through the narrows. Suddenly, the shores receded and there was open water all around. Ballista laughed with the guide, then waved for the other boats to follow them over to the right-hand bank.
Away from the main stream, the water was very still. It was bliss no longer to have to fight the river. The boats glided in towards a huge raft of timber moored by a lumber camp. If there were loggers there, they hid themselves from those approaching. The boats ground to a halt against the floating logs.
Maximus was unsure how this represented safety.
Ballista stepped on to the raft. He and the guide had worked out a plan. The gods had been kind. He told them the plan. Certain, it was very simple. It might even work. If not, Ballista said, each boat should make for whichever bank seemed good. The final Olbian settlement was not far upriver on an island in the river just below the rapids. They should scatter and try to get there overland, each man for himself.
Maximus half expected Zeno to object. What of the mission? What of the diplomatic gifts, the gold? But the imperial envoy sat motionless in the stern of the second boat, seemingly overwhelmed beyond speech.
The logging camp was well sited. A slight ebb flow helped the four small boats tow the massive expanse of floating timber away from the side, then an eddy pulled it out towards the middle of the river. The main stream took it. Keeping upstream, there was no more to do than use the towing ropes to guide its progress.
As they came to the entrance to the narrows, they pulled up against the raft. Four men from each boat climbed out. Only two had axes; the others would have to use their swords.
The logs were trimmed, with three or four tied together and then lashed to the next group. They dipped alarmingly as Maximus trod on them. He moved with great caution. If your foot slipped between the logs, most likely you would lose your leg.
In the mouth of the narrows the man-made island began to pick up speed. There were sixteen men widely spaced along its leading edge. The Tervingi were not yet in view, hidden by a bend. Ballista gave the signal.
The rope securing the first three logs did not part at Maximus’s initial blow, nor at the second or third. His fourth missed, bit into a log. The bobbing footing made it difficult. He wrenched his sword free. This was going to do it no good at all. He struck again. The rope parted. With the flat of his blade, he pushed the detached logs away. He moved back behind the next float.
Maximus worked without pause. He had untethered five or six lots when he heard the scream. One of the Romans from the boat of Diocles had slipped. His leg was trapped between two logs. As the raft moved, the logs ground against his thigh. He sobbed for help. Ballista called for two men from his own boat to try to free the man. Everyone else continued to work.
Maximus went on cutting ropes: seven lots free, eight. After a time the screaming stopped.
‘Here come the fuckers.’
The Tervingi were in sight. They had rounded the bend. It was much nearer now, not above five hundred yards.
‘Keep working,’ Ballista shouted. ‘Just a few more.’
Ignoring the pain in his back, ignoring everything but the labour in hand, Maximus swung his notched sword.