ChapterII

Whomthe gods would destroy, they first make mad.

– cited byPlutarch of Chaeronea

TheDanube Frontier 162 AD

The road was lined on either side by forested bluffs. On a cliff highabove, a dark shape was concealed in the light and shadow of minglingleaves. An angry gust ripped through the forest canopy, and for aninstant the figure coalesced, and then dissolved again into thefoliage. The next draught of air revealed it to be a hooded mancrouched at the edge of the precipice, gazing downward in raptconcentration. Poised on his haunches, he peered over his barelyraised thumb, holding his arm as if it were an instrument and makingsmall adjustments as he traversed it slowly from right to left.

His calculations complete, Decimus Malorix pulled back his hood to feelthe warmth of the morning sun on his face. Before his eyes it burnedaway the layers of mist that had concealed the rugged hills onlymoments before. The daylight confirmed the suitability of theirchoice of location and a signal from Vadomar showed that all was inreadiness. "Eight," he said quietly. He would have justeight seconds from the time their quarry emerged from the trees untilit moved around the cliff face beyond his line of sight.

The Greek and his escort likely judged that they could chance thissegment of the journey—making better time here than by keeping tothe more discreet but difficult terrain of the trails to the north.This was an isolated road, even by frontier standards, and the Greekdoubtless did not expect to encounter any Roman patrols. It was amistake, and within the hour he would regret his decision. ForClaudius Maximus had sent word that it was time to make an end of it.That’s why Malorix was here. Malorix was the end.

He pulled a pair of arrows from his quiver and stuck one of them headdown in the ground. The other he notched to his bowstring and drewback three times, testing the tension. This was not a Roman bow. Thebody was carved from richly cured heartwood, the curved tips werelaminated layers of sheep’s horn and rawhide. It was decorated withanimal images, more beautiful to Malorix than all the statuary thathad surrounded him in his youth, growing up in the imperial court.The recurve bow was the most deadly in the world, and the pride ofthe Sarmatian horsemen who ruled the eastern steppes. It was theweapon of the tribe of the Jazyges, his ancestors, who two centuriesearlier made the long migration from their Sarmatian homeland to thebanks of the Danube.

"Breathe," he said aloud. He felt the quickening in his blood. The rush beforethe kill had led more than one archer to shoot wide of the mark. Thecurse of Artemis, some called it. The old ones just called it "thefever." Scant months ago Malorix would have said it nevertouched him. Until the dreams came. That’s when everything changed.

The breeze cooled the sweat on his brow, the telltale sign that gavevoice to what his mind refused to acknowledge. He inhaled deeplythrough his nose and released the air slowly through his mouth. Inhis mind he recited the measured cadence of the formulas he hadlearned from his Sarmatian father, who had learned them from hisfather, and his father’s father. "Aboveall prepare your mind … the world is nothing … the arrow's flightis all." Theywere handed from father to son, down the line from the time oflegends. Now they belonged to Malorix, the Emperor’s assassin.

"Breathe."

His head snapped involuntarily at the sound of a sharp exhalation. Thelaboured breathing of a horse was getting closer, louder. The roadwas steep, and the animal was struggling. Taking the flight of hisarrow between thumb and forefinger, he gently slid the bowstring tothe notch, as he knelt and listened. Hold. When it comes you’llknow ...

A hoof sent a stone hurtling into a tree with a resounding crack thatechoed deep into the forest. On the road below him the leavesshimmered like the water of a pool disturbed by a pebble. A warriorholding a long curved falx cradled in his arms entered his line ofsight. The Greek followed, his legs dangling listlessly at thehorse’s side. The third rider sat casually in his saddle with itshigh seat distinctive of the Roxolani, the dominant Sarmatian tribeof the eastern steppes. A circular shield was slung over his back andhe held a long sword across the base of his horse’s neck. Of thetwo escorts, he looked the most alert to danger.

Malorix raised the bow slowly, stretching one arm to its full extension anddrawing the bowstring to his ear with the other. Any sudden movementnow and he would be seen. Instinct told him to go for the lead rider,to have more time for the second shot. Experience taught himdifferently. The fleche of the arrow brushed his cheek as he drew inanother draught of air and then gently exhaled.

"Easy…"

His  fingers held the strain and then he let them lose their purchase likea slow seduction. There was no need to look—mechanically his handreached down for the second arrow. He felt cold, outside himself, ashis fingers notched the shaft. He swung the bow upward, and drew thebowstring taut once again.

The Roxolani warrior took the first shot full in the chest and flewbackward, his arms stretched to either side as though imploring anexplanation from the heavens. As the others half turned, their mountsreared at the unexpected motion behind them. Recognition of theambush came as the forelegs of the horses struck the rough flagstonesof the road, and horses and men uncoiled in unison to make the dashto safety. As Malorix felt the string slipping from his fingers asecond time, he was counting.