Free Fire in the East by Harry Sidebottom

be said.
    In Latin, with an accent from the Danube, the man said, ‘I will see you again at Aquileia.’
    Gathering his courage, as he had many times before, Ballista said, ‘I will see you then.’
    The man turned and left and, after a long, long time, Ballista fell asleep.
     
    Ballista woke to the rocking motion and the mingled smells of wood, tallow and pitch: he was safe in his small, snug cabin aboard the Concordia, about to embark on the final day of crossing the open sea to the trireme’s ultimate destination, the port of Seleuceia in Pieria. Without conscious thought he knew that the wind was westerly, on the beam of the Concordia as she sailed north up coast of Syria. Surfacing a little from sleep, he wondered if Priscus was keeping the ship far enough out to sea, giving her enough leeway to clear the promontory of Mount Cassios.
    Suddenly all comfort left him. The vague disquiets at the back of his mind coalesced into an awful memory. Fuck. Ithought I had seen the last of him. The sheet under him felt damp, clammy with sweat. He began to pray: ‘Allfather, One-Eyed, Worker of Evil, Terrible One, Hooded One, Fulfiller of Desire, Spear-Shaker, Wanderer.’ He doubted that it would do much good.
    After a while he got up. Still naked, he opened the door, stepped over the sleeping Calgacus, went up on deck, and pissed over the rail. The early morning air was cool on his skin. When he returned to the cabin Calgacus was putting out his breakfast, and Maximus was eating most of it.
    There was no point in asking, but he had to. ‘Calgacus?’ The Caledonian turned. ‘Did you see or hear anything last night?’ The ill-favoured old man shook his head.
    ‘Maximus?’
    The bodyguard, his mouth full of bread and cheese, also shook his head. After washing the food down with a swig of Ballista’s watered wine, he said, ‘You look terrible. It is not the big fellow back again, is it?’
    Ballista nodded. ‘Neither of you mention this to anyone. Anyone at all. The staff are jumpy enough ever since that bastard sneezed when we were setting off. Think how they would feel if they knew that their commander, their barbarian commander, came complete with his own personal evil daemon?’
    The other two nodded solemnly.
    ‘It could be that the staff are jumpy because they know where we are going,’ suggested Maximus with a smile. ‘You know, the very high probability that we are all going to die.’
    ‘I am unfit,’ said Ballista. ‘Maximus, get our kit out. We need to practise.’
    ‘Wooden practice swords?’
    ‘No, naked steel.’
     
    Everything was ready. It was the fifth hour of the day, just under an hour from noon. Although it was late October, it was hot. Ballista had chosen late morning for the practice fight with various things in mind. It allowed him to show politeness to the acting trierarch by asking his permission to practise on the deck of his warship. The delay let the crew eat breakfast and carry out any essential tasks. Above all, it gave a chance for expectation to grow, maybe even for some bets to be placed.
    Ballista laced up his helmet and looked around. All the marines, deckhands and Ballista’s own staff, as well as those rowers who could get permission, sat lining the rails of the ship. The audience would be well-informed. Only the marines were trained swordsmen but all aboard were military personnel. Where there were soldiers there were gladiators, and where there were gladiators there were people who thought they knew about sword fighting. Ballista stepped forward into the cleared area. The light seemed much brighter here, the space around him wider, and the deck, which until now had seemed to tilt or move hardly at all, heeled and shifted alarmingly. The sun beat down, and he squinted as he looked around at the circle of expectant faces. A low murmur ran through the crowd.
    Ballista carried out his usual ritual, gripping the dagger, the scabbard of his sword and the healing stone tied to it in