X
Ballista thought it best to let the dust settle
after his meeting with the boule. Syrians were notorious for acting
and speaking on the spur of the moment and there was no point in
risking an exchange of harsh, ill-considered words. For the next
two days he remained in the military quarter, planning the defence
of the city with his high officers.
Acilius Glabrio was smarting from losing 120 of his
best legionaries to the new unit of artillerymen. And although they
were not present, doubtless he was not pleased to think of Iarhai,
Anamu and Ogelos, yet more barbarian upstarts in his view, being
catapulted into command in the Roman army. He retreated into a
patrician vagueness and studied unconcern. Yet the others worked
hard. Turpio was keen to please, Mamurra his usual steady
considered self and, as accensus, Demetrius seemed less
distracted. Gradually, from their deliberations a plan began to
form in Ballista’s mind - which sections of wall would be guarded
by which units, where they would be billeted, how their supplies
would reach them, where the few - so very few - reserves would be
stationed.
A lower level of military affairs also demanded his
attention. A court-martial was convened to try the auxiliary from
Cohors XX who had been accused of raping his landlord’s daughter.
His defence was not strong: ‘Her father was home, we went outside,
she was saying yes right up until her bare arse hit the mud.’ His
centurion, however, provided an excellent character statement. More
pertinently, two of the soldier’s contubernales swore that
the girl had previously willingly had sex with the soldier.
The panel was divided. Acilius Glabrio, the very
incarnation of Republican virtue, was for the death penalty.
Mamurra voted for leniency. Ultimately, the decision was
Ballista’s. In the eyes of the law, the soldier was guilty. Quite
probably his contubernales were lying for him. Ballista
guiltily acquitted the soldier: he knew he could not afford to lose
even one trained man, let alone alienate his colleagues.
Another legal case occupied him. Julius Antiochus,
soldier of the vexillatio of Legio IIII Scythica, of the
century of Alexander, and Aurelia Amimma, daughter of Abbouis,
resident of Arete, were getting divorced. No love was lost; money
was involved; the written documents were ambiguous; the witnesses
diametrically opposed. There was no obvious way to determine the
truth. Ballista found in favour of the soldier. Ballista knew his
decision was expedient rather than just. The imperium had
corrupted him; Justice had once more been banished to a prison
island.
On the third morning after his meeting with the
boule, Ballista considered that enough time had elapsed. The
councillors should have settled down by now. Volatile as all
Syrians were, it was possible they might even have come round to
Ballista’s way of thinking. Yes, he was destroying their homes,
desecrating their tombs and temples, dismantling their liberties,
but it was all in the cause of a higher freedom - the higher
freedom of being subject to the Roman emperor and not the Persian
king. Ballista smiled at the irony. Pliny the Younger had best
expressed the Roman concept of libertas: You command us to
be free, so we will be.
Ballista sent off messengers to Iarhai, Ogelos and
Anamu inviting them to dine that evening with him and his three
high officers. Bathshiba, of course, was invited too. Remembering
the Roman superstition against an even number at table, Ballista
sent off another messenger to invite Callinicus the Sophist as
well. The northerner asked Calgacus to tell the cook to produce
something special, preferably featuring smoked eels. The aged
Hibernian looked as if he had never in his very long life heard
such an outrageous request and it prompted a fresh stream of
muttering: ‘Oh, aye, what a great Roman you are... what next ...
fucking peacock brains and dormice rolled in honey.’
Calling Maximus and Demetrius to accompany him,
Ballista announced that they were going to the agora.
Ostensibly they were going to check that the edicts on food prices
were being obeyed but, in reality, the northerner just wanted to
get out of the palace, to get away from the scene of his dubious
legal decision-making. His judgements were preying on his mind.
There was much he admired about the Romans - their siege engines
and fortifications, their discipline and logistics, their
hypocausts and baths, their racehorses and women - but he found
their libertas illusory. He had had to ask imperial permission to
live where he did, to marry the woman he had married. In fact his
whole life since crossing into the empire seemed to him marked by
subservience and sordid compromise rather than distinguished by
freedom.
His sour, cynical mood began to lift as they walked
into the north-east corner of the agora. He had always liked
marketplaces: the noises, the smells - the badly concealed avarice.
Crowds of men circulated slowly. Half humanity seemed to be
represented. Most wore typically eastern dress, but there were also
Indians in turbans, Scythians in high, pointed hats, Armenians in
folded-down hats, Greeks in short tunics, the long, loose robes of
the tent-dwellers and, here and there, the occasional Roman toga or
the skins and furs of a tribesman from the Caucasus.
There seemed a surfeit of the necessities of life -
plenty of grain, mainly wheat, some barley; lots of wine and olive
oil for sale in skins or amphorae, and any number of glossy black
olives. At least in his presence, Ballista’s edicts on prices
appeared to be being observed. There was no sign they had driven
goods off the market. As the northerner and his two companions
moved along the northern side of the agora the striped
awnings became brighter, smarter, and the foods shaded by them
moved from Mediterranean essentials to life’s little luxuries -
fruit and vegetables, pine kernels and fish sauce and, most prized
of all, the spices: pepper and saffron.
Before they reached the porticos of the western
side of the agora the luxuries had ceased to be edible. Here
were sweet-smelling stalls with sandal- and cedarwood. Too
expensive for building materials or firewood, these could be
considered exempt from Ballista’s edict on the requisitioning of
wood. Here men sold ivory, monkeys, parrots. Maximus paused to
examine some fancy leather-work. Ballista thought he saw a
camelskin being quietly hidden at the rear of the shop. He was
going to ask Demetrius to make a note but the boy was staring
intently over at the far end of the agora, once more
distracted. Many of the things that men and women most desired were
here: perfumes, gold, silver, opals, chalcedonies and, above all,
shimmering and unbelievably soft, the silk from the Seres at the
far edge of the world.
In the southern porticos, to Ballista’s distaste,
was the slave market. There, all manner of ‘tools with voices’ were
on display. There were slaves to farm your land, keep your
accounts, dress your wife’s hair, sing you songs, pour your drinks
and suck your dick. But Ballista studied the merchandise closely;
there was one type of slave he always looked to purchase. Having
inspected all that was on offer, the northerner returned to the
middle of the slave pens and called out a short simple question in
his native tongue.
‘Are there any Angles here?’
There was not a face that did not turn to gaze at
the huge barbarian warlord shouting unintelligibly in his
outlandish tongue but, to Ballista’s immense relief, no one
answered.
They moved past the livestock market to the eastern
portico, the cheap end of the agora where the rag-pickers,
low-denomination money lenders, magicians, wonder workers and
others who traded on human misery and weakness touted for trade.
Both Ballista’s companions were looking intently back over their
shoulders at the alley where the prostitutes stood. It was to be
expected of Maximus, but Demetrius was a surprise - Ballista had
always thought the young Greek’s interests lay elsewhere.
Allfather, but he could do with a woman himself. In
one sense it would be so good, so easy. But in another sense it
would be neither. There was Julia, his vows to her, the way he had
been brought up.
Ballista thought bitterly of the way some Romans,
like Tacitus in his Germania, held the marital fidelity of
the Germans up as a mirror to condemn the contemporary Roman lack
of morality. But traditional rustic fidelity was all very well when
you lived in a village; it was not designed for those hundreds of
miles, weeks of travel, away from their woman. Yet Ballista knew
that his aversion to infidelity stemmed from more than just his
love for Julia, more than the way he had been brought up. Just as
some men carried a lucky amulet into battle, so he carried his
fidelity to Julia. Somehow he had developed a superstitious dread
that, if he had another woman, his luck would desert him and the
next sword thrust or arrow would not wound but kill, not scrape
down his ribs but punch through them into his heart.
Thinking now of his companions, Ballista said, ‘For
the sake of thoroughness, perhaps we should check what is on sale
in the alley? Would you two like to do it?’
Demetrius’s refusal was immediate. He looked
indignant but also slightly shifty. Why was the boy acting so
strangely?
‘I think I am qualified to do it on my own,’ said
Maximus.
‘Oh yes, I believe you are. But, remember, you are
just looking at the goods, not sampling them.’ Ballista grinned.
‘We will be over there in the middle of the agora, learning
virtue from the statues set up to the good citizens of
Arete.’
The first statue Ballista and Demetrius came to
stood on a high plinth. ‘Agegos son of Anamu son of Agegos,’ read
Ballista. ‘It must be the father of our Anamu - a bit
better-looking.’ The statue was in eastern dress and, unlike Anamu,
he had a good head of hair. It stood up in tight curls all around
his head. He sported a full short beard like his son but also
boasted a luxurious moustache, teased out and waxed into points.
His face was round, slightly fleshy. ‘Yes, better-looking than his
son, although that is not hard.’
‘For his piety and love of the city’ - Ballista
read out the rest of the inscription - ‘for his complete virtue and
courage, always providing safety for the merchants and caravans,
for his generous expenditure to these ends from his own resources.
In that he saved the recently arrived caravan from the nomads and
from the great dangers that surrounded it, the same caravan set up
three statues, one in the agora of Arete, where he is
strategos, one in the city of Spasinou Charax, and one on
the island of Thilouana, where he is satrap (governor). Your
geography is better than mine’ - Ballista looked at his
accensus - ‘Spasinou Charax is where?’
‘At the head of the Persian Gulf,’ Demetrius
replied.
‘And the island of Thilouana is?’
‘In the Persian Gulf, off the coast of Arabia. In
Greek we call it Tylos.’
‘And they are ruled by?’
‘Shapur. Anamu’s father governed part of the
Persian empire. He was both a general here in Arete and a satrap of
the Sassanids.’
Ballista looked at Demetrius. ‘So which side are
the caravan protectors on?’
In the afternoon, about the time of the
meridiatio, the siesta, it started to rain. The man watched the
rain from his first-floor window while he waited for the ink to
dry. Although not torrential like the first rains of the year, it
was heavy. The street below was empty of people. Water ran down the
inner face of the city wall. The steps which ran up to the nearest
tower were slick with water, treacherous. A lone rook flew past
from left to right.
Judging that the ink was dry, the man lit a lamp
from the brazier. He leant out of the window to pull the shutters
closed. He secured them and lit another lamp. Although he had
locked the door when he entered the room, he now looked around to
check that he was alone. Reassured, he picked up the inflated pig’s
bladder from where he had hidden it and started to read.
The artillery magazine has been burnt. All
stocks of ballistae bolts are destroyed. The northern barbarian
is gathering stocks of food for the siege. When he has gathered
enough, fires will be set against them. There is enough naptha for
one more spectacular attack. He has announced that the necropolis
will be flattened, many temples and houses destroyed, his troops
billeted in those that remain. He is freeing the slaves and
enslaving the free. His men strip and rape women at will. The
townsmen mutter against him. He has conscripted townsmen into army
units to be commanded by the caravan protectors. Truly the fool has
been made blind. He will deliver himself bound hand and foot into
the hands of the King of Kings.
His moving finger stopped. His lips ceased
inaudibly shaping the words. It would do. The rhetoric was pitched
a bit high, but it was not part of his plan to discourage the
Persians.
He picked up two oil flasks, one full and one
empty, and placed them on the table. He untied the open end of the
pig’s bladder and squeezed the air out. As it deflated, his writing
became illegible. Taking the stopper out of the empty flask, he
pushed the bladder inside, leaving its opening protruding. Putting
his lips to the bladder and silently giving thanks that he was not
Jewish, he reinflated it. Then he folded the protruding swine’s
intestine back over the spout of the flask and bound it in place
with string. When he had trimmed away the excess with a sharp
knife, the bladder was completely concealed within the flask, one
container hidden within another. Carefully he poured oil from the
full flask into the bladder in the other. As he replaced the
stopper in both, again he looked round to check he was still
alone.
He looked at the oil flask in his hands. They had
stepped up the searches at the gates. Sometimes they slit open the
seams of men’s tunics and the stitching of their sandals; sometimes
they stripped the veils from respectable Greek women. For a moment
he felt dizzy, light-headed with the risk he was running. Then he
steadied himself. He accepted that he might well not survive his
mission. That was of no consequence. His people would reap the
benefits. His reward would be in the next world.
In the queue at the gate, the courier would know
nothing. The flask would arouse no suspicion.
The man took out his stylus and started to write
the most innocuous of letters.
My dear brother, the rains have returned
...
From the colonnade at the front of his house Anamu
regarded the rain with disfavour. The streets were again ankle-deep
in mud: the rains had put him to the expense of hiring a litter and
four bearers to take him to dinner at the palace of the Dux Ripae.
Anamu did not care to be put to unnecessary expense, and now the
litter-bearers were late. He tried to smooth down his irritation by
summoning up a half-remembered line from one of the old Stoic
masters: ‘These four walls do not a prison make.’ Anamu was not
sure he had it word perfect. ‘These stone walls do not a prison
make.’ Who had said it? Musonius Rufus, the Roman Socrates? No,
more likely the ex-slave Epictetus. Perhaps it wasn’t a Stoic at
all - perhaps he had written it himself?
Warmed by this secret fantasy of other men quoting
his words, men completely unknown to him drawing comfort and
strength from his wisdom in their time of troubles, Anamu looked
out at the rainswept scene. The stone walls of the city were
darkened by the water running down them. The battlements were
empty; the guards must be sheltering in the nearby tower. An ideal
moment for a surprise attack, except that the rains would have
turned the land outside the town into a quagmire.
The litter-bearers having eventually arrived, Anamu
was handed in and they set off. Anamu knew the identity of the
other guests due at the palace. Little happened in the town of
Arete that Anamu did not quickly hear about. He paid good money - a
lot of good money - to make sure it was that way. It promised to be
an interesting evening. The Dux had invited all three of the
caravan protectors, all of whom had complaints about the
barbarian’s treatment of the town. Iarhai’s daughter would be there
too. If ever a girl had a fire burning in her altar, it was her.
More than one paid informer had reported that both the barbarian
Dux and the supercilious young Acilius Glabrio wanted her.
And the sophist Callinicus of Petra had been invited. He was making
a name for himself- he’d add culture to the mix of tension and sex.
With the latter in mind Anamu got out the scrap of papyrus on which
earlier, in privacy, he had written a little crib for himself from
Athenaeus’s Deipnosophistae, The Wise Men at Dinner. Anamu
was widely known to be very fond of mushrooms and it was most
probable that, as an act of respect, the Dux would have instructed
his chef to include them in the menu. To be prepared, Anamu had
lifted some suitably esoteric quotes from the classics about
them.
‘Ah, here you are,’ said Ballista. ‘As they say,
“Seven makes a dinner, nine makes a brawl.”’ Since his rather
impressive rhetorical display at the gates, Ballista had gone down
and down in Anamu’s estimation. The northerner’s bluff welcome did
nothing to restore the position. ‘Let us go to the table.’
The dining room was arranged in the classical
triclinium, three couches, each for three people, arranged
in a U-shape around the tables. Approaching, it became clear that
at least the Dux had had the good sense to abandon the
traditional seating plan. The northerner took the summus in
summo, the highest place, at the extreme left. He placed
Bathshiba on his right, then her father; on the next couch were
Callinicus the Sophist, then Anamu and Acilius Glabrio; and on the
final one reclined Ogelos, Mamurra and then, in the lowest place,
imus in imo, Turpio. Traditionally, Ballista would have been where
Ogelos now was. The problem would have lain in who would have
reclined on the northerner’s left, imus in medio, the
traditional place for the guest of honour. As it was, the caravan
protectors were each on different couches and none of them was
either next to the host or in the place of honour. Anamu grudgingly
admitted to himself that this was cleverly done.
The first course was brought in: two warm dishes -
hard-boiled eggs and smoked eel in pine resin sauce and leeks in
white sauce; and two cold - black olives and sliced beetroot. The
accompanying wine was a light Tyrian, best mixed two to three with
water.
‘Eels. The ancients have much to say about eels.’
The voice of a sophist was trained to dominate theatres, public
assemblies, thronged festivals so Callinicus had no problem in
commanding the attention of those gathered. ‘In his poetry
Archestratus tells us that eels are good at Rhegium in Italy, and
in Greece from Lake Copais in Boeotia and from the River Strymon in
Macedonia.’ Anamu felt a surge of pleasure to be part of such a
cultured evening. This was the right setting for one such as
himself, one of the pepaideumenoi, the highly cultured. Yet
at the same time he experienced a pang of envy: he had not been
able to join in - so far, there were no mushrooms.
‘On the River Strymon Aristotle concurs. There the
best fishing is at the season of the rising of the Pleiades, when
the waters are rough and muddy.’
Allfather, it was a terrible mistake to invite this
pompous bastard, thought Ballista. He can probably keep this stuff
up for hours.
‘The leeks are good.’ A caravan protector’s voice
might not be as melodious as that of a sophist but it was
accustomed to making itself heard. It broke the flow of
Callinicus’s literary anecdotes. Nodding at the green vegetables,
larhai asked Ballista which chariot team he supported in the
Circus.
‘The Whites.’
‘By god, you must be an optimist.’ Iarhai’s
battered face creased into a grin.
‘Not really. I find continual disappointment on the
racetrack philosophically good for my soul - toughens it up, gets
me used to the disappointments of life.’
As he settled to talk racehorses with her father,
Ballista noticed Bathshiba smile a small, mischievous smile.
Allfather, but she looked good. She was more demurely clothed than
in her father’s house, but her dress still broadly hinted at the
generous body beneath. Ballista knew that racing was not a subject
which was likely to interest her. He wanted to make her laugh, to
impress her. Yet he knew he was not good at such small talk.
Allfather, he wanted her. It made things worse, made it still
harder to think of light, witty things to say. He envied that smug
little bastard Acilius Glabrio, who even now seemed to be managing
a wordless flirtation across the tables.
The main course arrived: a Trojan pig, stuffed with
sausage, botulus, and black pudding; two pike, their flesh rendered
into a pate and returned to the skins; then two simple roast
chickens. Vegetable dishes also appeared: cooked beet leaves in a
mustard sauce, a salad of lettuce, mint and rocket, a relish of
basil in oil, and garum, fish sauce.
The chefflourished his sharp knife, approached the
Trojan pig and slit open its stomach. It surprised no one when the
entrails slid out.
‘How novel,’ said Acilius Glabrio. ‘And a
good-looking porcus. Definitely some porcus for me.’
His pantomime leer left no doubt that when he repeated the word he
was using it as slang for cunt. Looking at Bathshiba, he said, ‘And
plenty of botutus for those who like it.’
Iarhai started to rise from his couch and speak.
Quickly Ballista cut him off.
‘Tribune, watch your tongue. There is a lady
present.’
‘Oh, I am sorry, so very sorry, utterly mortified.’
His looks belied his words. ‘I meant to cause no embarrassment, no
offence.’ He pointed at the porcus. ‘I think that this dish
led me astray. It always puts me in mind of Trimalchio’s feast in
the Satyricon — you know, the terrible obscene jokes.’ He
gestured to the pike. ‘Just as porcus always leads me astray, this
dish always makes me homesick.’ He spread his hands wide to
encompass the three couches. ‘Do we not all miss a pike from Rome
caught as they say “between the two bridges”, above Tiber island
and below the influx of the cloaca maxima, the main sewer?’
He looked around his fellow diners. ‘Oh, I have been tactless again
- being Roman means so many different things these days.’
Ignoring the last comment, Ogelos jumped in. ‘It
would be hard for anyone to catch a pike or anything else here in
the Euphrates now.’ Talking fast and earnestly, he addressed
himself to Ballista. ‘My men tell me that the fishing boats I own
have all been taken by the troops. The soldiers call it
requisitioning; I call it theft.’ His carefully forked beard
quivered with righteous indignation.
Before Ballista could reply, Anamu spoke. ‘These
ridiculous searches at the gates - my couriers are kept waiting for
hours, my possessions are ripped apart, ruined, my private
documents displayed to all and sundry, Roman citizens are subjected
to the grossest indignities ... Out of respect for your position,
we did not speak out at the council meeting, but now we are in
privacy we will - unless that freedom is to be denied us as
well?’
Again Ogelos took up the running. ‘What sort of
freedom are we defending if ten people, ten citizens, cannot meet
together? Can no one get married? Are we not to celebrate the rites
of our gods?’
‘Nothing is more sacred than private property,’
Anamu interrupted. ‘How dare anyone take our slaves? What next -
our wives, our children?’
The complaints continued, the two caravan
protectors raising their voices, talking over each other, each
drawing to the same conclusion: how could it be worse under the
Sassanids, what more could Shapur do to us?
After a time, both men stopped, as if at a signal.
Together they turned to larhai. ‘Why do you say nothing? You are as
much affected as us. Our people look to you as well. How can you
stay silent?’
larhai shrugged. ‘It will be as God wills.’ He said
nothing more.
larhai gave an odd intonation to theos, the Greek
word for god. Ballista was as surprised as the other two caravan
protectors by his passive fatalism. He noticed that Bathshiba
glanced sharply at her father.
‘Gentlemen, I hear your complaints, and I
understand them.’ Ballista looked each in the eye in turn. ‘It
pains me to do what must be done but there is no other way. You all
remember what was done here to the Sassanid garrison, what you and
your fellow townsmen did to the Persian garrison, to their wives,
to their children.’ He paused. ‘If the Persians breach the walls of
Arete, all that horror will look like child’s play. Let no one be
in any doubt: if the Persians take this town there will be no one
left to ransom the enslaved, no one left to mourn the dead. If
Shapur takes this town it will return to the desert. The wild ass
will graze in your agora and the wolf will howl in your
temples.’
Everyone in the room was staring silently at
Ballista. He tried to smile. ‘Come, let us try to think of better
things. There is a comoedus, an actor, waiting outside. Why
don’t we call him in and have a reading?’
The comoedus read well, his voice true and
clear. It was a beautiful passage from Herodotus, a story from long
ago, from the days of Greek freedom, long before the Romans. It was
a story of ultimate courage, of the night before Thermopylae, when
the incredulous Persian spy reported to Xerxes, the King of Kings,
what he had seen of the Greek camp. The three hundred Spartans were
stripped to exercise; they combed each other’s hair, taking not the
least notice of the spy. It was a beautiful passage, but an
unfortunate one given the circumstances. The Spartans were
preparing to die.
Reaching out to pick up the carcass of one of the
chickens, Turpio spoke for the first time that evening. ‘Don’t the
Greeks call this bird a Persian Awakener?’ he asked of no one in
particular. ‘Then we will treat the Sassanid Persians as I treat
this.’ And he pulled the carcass apart.
There was a smattering of applause, some murmurs of
approval.
Unable to bear another, let alone a rough
ex-centurion, getting even such muted praise, Callinicus cleared
his throat. ‘Of course I am no expert in Latin literature,’ he
simpered, ‘but do not some of your writers on farming refer to a
valiant breed of fighting cock as the Medica, that is to say the
bird of the Medes, who are the Persians? Let us hope that we
do not meet one of those.’ This ill-timed scholarship was met with
a stony silence. The sophist’s self-satisfied chuckle faltered and
died away.
The desert that now appeared consisted mainly of
the usual things - fresh apples and pears, dried dates and figs,
smoked cheeses and honey, and walnuts and almonds. Only the
placenta in the centre was unusual: everyone agreed they had never
seen a larger or finer cheesecake. The wine was changed to the sort
of forceful Chalybonian said to be favoured by the kings of
Persia.
Watching the Persian boy Bagoas anointing Mamurra
with balsam and cinnamon and placing a wreath of flowers on his
head, a gleam of malevolence shone in Acilius Glabrio’s eyes. The
young patrician turned to Ballista, a half-smile playing on his
face.
‘You are to be congratulated, Dux Ripae, on
the close way in which you follow the example of the great Scipio
Africanus.’
‘I was not aware that I followed directly any
illustrious example of the great conqueror of Hannibal.’ Ballista
spoke lightly, with just a trace of reserve. ‘Unfortunately I am
not favoured with nocturnal visits from the god Neptune, but at
least I have not been put on trial for corruption.’ Some polite
laughter greeted this display of historical knowledge. At times it
was too easy for people to forget the northerner had been educated
in the imperial court.
‘No, I was thinking of your Persian boy here.’
Without looking, Acilius Glabrio waved a hand in his
direction.
There was a pause. Not even the sophist Callinicus
said anything. At length, Ballista, suspicion in his voice, asked
the patrician to enlighten them.
‘Well... your Persian boy ...’ The young nobleman
was taking his time, enjoying this. ‘Doubtless some with filthy
minds will provide a disgusting explanation for his presence in
your familia’ — now he hurried on - ‘but I am not one of
those. I put it down to supreme confidence. Scipio, before the
battle of Zama which crushed Carthage, caught one of Hannibal’s
spies creeping round the Roman camp. Rather than kill him, as is
normally the way, Scipio ordered that he be shown the camp, taken
to see the men drilling, the engines of war, the magazine.’ Acilius
Glabrio left time for this last to register. ‘And then Scipio set
the spy free, sent him back to report to Hannibal, maybe gave him a
horse to speed him on his way.’
‘Appian.’ Callinicus could not contain himself. ‘In
the version of the story told by the historian Appian, there are
three spies.’ Everyone ignored the sophist’s intervention.
‘No one should mistake such confidence for
overconfidence, let alone for arrogance and stupidity.’ Acilius
Glabrio leant back and smiled.
‘I have no reason to mistrust any of my
familia.’ Ballista had a face like thunder. ‘I have no
reason to mistrust Bagoas.’
‘Oh no, I am sure that you are right.’ The young
officer turned his blandest face to the plate in front of him and
delicately picked up a walnut.
The morning after the ill-starred dinner given by
the Dux Ripae, the Persian boy walked the battlements of
Arete. In his head he was indulging in an orgy of revenge. He
completely slid over such details as how he would gain his freedom
or find the tent-dwellers who had enslaved him, let alone how he
would get them in his power. They stood already unarmed before him
- or rather, one at a time they grovelled on their knees, held out
their hands in supplication. They tore their clothes, tipped dust
on their heads, they wept and begged. It did them no good. Knife in
hand, sword still on hip, he advanced. They offered him their
wives, their children, begged him to enslave them. But he was
remorseless. Again and again his left hand shot out, his fingers
closed in the rough beard and he pulled the terrified face close to
his own, explaining what he was going to do and why. He ignored
their sobs, their last pleas. In most cases he pulled up the beard
to expose the throat. The knife flashed and the blood sprayed red
on to the dusty desert. But not for those three. For the three who
had done the things they had done to him, that was not enough,
nowhere near enough. The hand yanked up the robes, seized the
genitals. The knife flashed and the blood sprayed red on to the
dusty desert.
He had reached the tower at the north-east angle of
the city walls. He had walked the northern battlements from near
the temple of Azzanathcona, now the headquarters of the
part-mounted and part-infantry Cohors XX Palmyrenorum, current
effective strength 180 cavalry, 642 infantry. Repetition helped in
memorizing the details. It was a stretch of about three hundred
paces and not a single tower. (Silently he repeated ‘about 300
paces and no towers’). He climbed down the steps from the wall walk
before the sentry at the tower had time to challenge or question
him.
The dinner last night had been dangerous. That
odious tribune Acilius Glabrio had been right. Yes, he was a spy.
Yes, he would do them all the harm he could. He would learn
everything in the heart of the familia of the Dux Ripae,
unravel their secrets, find where their weaknesses lay. Then he
would escape to the advancing all-conquering Sassanid army. Shapur,
King of Kings, King of Aryans and Non-Aryans, beloved of Mazda,
would raise him from the dirt, kiss his eyes, welcome him home. The
past would be wiped clean. He would be free to start his life as a
man again.
It was not that he had been treated in any way
badly by Ballista or any of his familia. With the exception
of the Greek boy, Demetrius, they had almost welcomed him. It was
simply that they were the enemy. Here in Arete the Dux Ripae
was the leader of the unrighteous. The unrighteous denied Mazda.
They denied the bahram fires. Causing pain to the righteous, they
chanted services to the demons, calling on them by name. False in
speech, unrighteous in action, justly were they margazan,
accursed.
He was now approaching the military granaries. All
eight were the same. The loading platforms were at one end, the
doors the other, both closely guarded. At the sides there were
louvres, but set high up under the eaves, too high to gain access.
There were, however, ventilation panels below waist level - a
slight man might be able to squeeze through; any man could pour
inflammable materials through. The granaries were brick with stone
roofs but the floors, walls and beams inside would be made of wood,
and food stuffs, especially oil and grain, burnt well. One
incendiary device would, at best, burn only two granaries, and only
then if the wind was in the right direction or the fire fierce
enough to jump the narrow eavesdrip between the target and its
immediate neighbour. But then simultaneous attacks would cause more
confusion, and lead to greater loss.
Bagoas had been unable to discover the quantities
of supplies currently held in the granaries. He was hoping to get
some idea by looking through the doors now.
Moving between the first two pairs of granaries, he
saw that all the doors to his left were shut, but that the first
two to his right were open. As he passed he tried to see inside.
There were two legionaries on guard up by the door, four more off
duty lounging at the foot of the steps. They were staring at him.
Hurriedly, he looked away.
‘Hey, bum boy, come over here. We’ll teach you a
thing or two.’ The Persian boy tried to walk past normally, as if
unconcerned. Then the comments stopped. Out of the corner of his
eye he could see one of the legionaries talking low and earnestly
to his friends. He was pointing. Now they were all looking more
intently at him; then they started to follow him.
He did not want to run, but he did not want to
dawdle; he wanted to walk normally. He felt himself quicken his
pace. He could sense that they quickened theirs as well.
Perhaps they just happened to be going the same
way; perhaps they were not following him at all. If he turned down
one of the alleys separating the pairs of granaries, maybe they
would just walk on by. He turned into the alley on the left. A
moment later they turned into the alley too. He ran.
Sandals slipping on the dust, kicking up odd pieces
of rubbish, Bagoas sprinted as fast as he could. Behind him he
heard running feet. If he turned right at the end of the alley and
past the loading bays, he had only to turn that final corner and he
would be in sight of the northern door of the palace of the Dux
Ripae.
He skidded round the first corner and almost ran
straight into an ox cart. Sidestepping the lumbering vehicle, he
put his head down and sprinted once more. Behind him he heard a
commotion; shouting, cursing. He was pulling clear. There were just
a few paces, just one corner to go.
As he cleared the corner of the granary he knew
there was no escape. Two legionaries were pounding towards him. The
lane was narrow, no wider than ten paces. There was no way he could
dodge and twist past both of them. He stopped, looking round. There
was the northern door to the palace, only some thirty or forty
paces away - but it was the other side of the legionaries. To his
left was the blank wall of the palace, to his right the unscalable
side of a granary. Despite his speed, despite the ox cart, the
other two would be on him in a moment.
Something hit him hard in the back, sending him
sprawling forward into the dirt. His legs were seized. He was
dragged backwards. Face down, his arms were being skinned on the
surface of the lane.
He kicked out with his right leg. There was a grunt
of pain. He jerked half to his feet, yelling for help. He saw the
two equites singulares on guard duty at the palace door look
uninterestedly at him. Before he could call again a heavy blow
struck his right ear. His world swam around him. His face hit dirt
again.
‘Traitor! You dirty little traitor.’ He was
manhandled into the narrow eavesdrip that ran between the nearest
two granaries, hauled to his feet, pushed into one of the bays
formed by the buttresses projecting from each storehouse. He was
slammed back against a wall.
‘Think you can walk around as you like, do you?
Walk right past us as you spy on us?’ One of the legionaries got
the boy’s neck in a painful grip, brought his face inches from the
boy’s. ‘Our dominus told us what you are - fucking spy, fucking bum
boy. Well, your barbarian isn’t around to save you now.’ He punched
Bagoas hard in the stomach.
Two legionaries pulled the boy upright and held on
to him as the other two hit him repeatedly in the face and
stomach.
‘We’re going to have some fun with you, boy. Then
we’re going to put a stop to your games for ever.’ There was a
flurry of blows, then they let him go. He fell to the ground. Now
they took it in turns to kick him.
Bagoas curled into a ball. The kicking continued.
He could smell the leather of their military boots, taste the sharp
iron tang of his own blood. No, Mazda, no ... don’t let this be
like the tent-dwellers, no. For no reason that he could follow, a
fragment of poetry came into his mind.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled.
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled.
The kicking paused.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’
Through his bruised, half closed eyes, the Persian
boy saw Calgacus outlined at the end of the eavesdrip.
‘Oh, aye, you are hard men - the four of you on one
boy. Maybe you think you could take on one old man as well.’
To the Persian boy’s eyes, Calgacus looked younger
and bigger than ever before. But it could end only one way. The
youth wanted to shout, wanted to tell the old Caledonian to run,
tell him that it would do no good him being beaten, maybe killed,
as well, but no words came.
‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you, you old fucker.’ The
legionaries were all facing Calgacus.
There was an exclamation of surprise and pain. One
of the legionaries shot forward, tripping over the Persian boy’s
outstretched legs. The other three looked stupidly down at their
friend. As they started to turn the youth saw Maximus’s fist smash
into the face of the legionary on the left. The man wore an almost
comical look of shock as he slumped back against the wall, his nose
seemingly spread right across his face, fountaining blood.
The legionary that Maximus had knocked forward had
landed on his hands and knees. Calgacus stepped forward and kicked
him sharply in the face. His head snapped back and he collapsed
motionless, moaning quietly.
The two legionaries still on their feet glanced at
each other, unsure what to do.
‘Pick up these pieces of shit and get the fuck out
of here,’ said Maximus.
The soldiers hesitated, then did as they were told.
They supported their contubernales down the eavesdrip. When
they reached the road, the one with the badly broken nose called
back that it was not over, they would get all three of them.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ muttered Maximus as he bent over
Bagoas. ‘Give a hand, Calgacus, let’s get this little bastard
home.’
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled.
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled.
The fragment was running through the Persian boy’s
thoughts just before he passed out.
At a gesture from Ballista the soldier again
knocked on the door. So far it had been a very trying day. Ballista
had set out at the second hour of daylight accompanied by
Demetrius, two scribes, three messengers, Romulus, who today did
not have to carry the heavy standard, and two equites
singulares. As the ten men had walked to the southern end of
Wall Street, some legionaries in the distance, far enough away not
to be recognizable, had howled like wolves.
Ballista and his party were inspecting all the
properties near the western desert wall that would soon be
destroyed, encased in rubble and mud. The complaints voiced at
dinner the previous night by the caravan protectors were on the
lips of all the residents. This morning they seemed to have added
meaning. They were being voiced by the priests whose temples would
be torn down, whose gods would be evicted. They were being voiced
by the men whose houses would be razed, whose families would be
made homeless. Some of these were defiant; others fought back
tears, their wives and children peeping round the doors from the
women’s rooms. Whether they saw him as an irresponsible imperial
favourite, a power-drunk army officer or just a typically stupid
barbarian, none of them saw Ballista’s actions as anything but a
cruel and thoughtless whim.
With some irritation, Ballista again gestured for
the soldier to knock on the door of the house. They did not have
all day, and they were only at the end of the third block out of
eight. This time, as soon as the soldier finished hammering, the
door opened.
In the gloom of the vestibule stood a short man
dressed as a philosopher: rough cloak and tunic, barefoot, wild
long hair and beard. In one hand he held a staff, the other
fingered a wallet hanging from his belt.
‘I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, Dux-’
‘I know,’ the man rudely interrupted. It was hard
to see clearly, as Ballista was looking from the bright sunlight
into the relative darkness, yet the man seemed very agitated. His
left hand moved from his wallet and began to fidget with his belt
buckle, which was shaped like a fish.
Allfather, here we go again, thought Ballista.
Let’s try and deflect this before he starts ranting.
‘Which school of philosophy do you follow?’
‘What?’ The man looked blankly at Ballista as if
the words meant nothing to him.
‘You are dressed like a Cynic, or possibly a
hardline Stoic. Although, of course, the symbols are appropriate
for almost all the schools.’
‘No ... no, I am no philosopher ... certainly not,
nothing of the sort.’ He looked both offended and frightened.
‘Are you the owner of this house?’ Ballista pressed
on. He had wasted enough time.
‘No.’
‘Will you fetch him?’
‘I do not know ... he is busy.’ The man looked
wildly at Ballista and the soldiers. ‘I will get him. Follow me.’
Suddenly he turned and led the way through the vestibule into a
small, paved central atrium. ‘Inspect what you will,’ he said then,
without warning, vanished up some steps to the first floor.
Ballista and Demetrius looked at each other.
‘Well, one cannot say that philosophy has brought
him inner peace,’ said the Greek.
‘Only the wise man is happy,’ quoted Ballista,
although in all honesty he was not certain where the quote came
from. ‘Let’s have a look around.’
There was an open portico off to their left.
Straight ahead they entered a long room which ran almost the length
of the house. It was painted plain white and furnished only with
benches. It looked like a schoolroom. There was an almost
overwhelming smell of incense. Re-entering the atrium, they looked
into another room, opposite the portico. Empty but for a few
storage jars in one of the far corners. Again the room was painted
white. Again the almost choking smell of incense masked every
other.
There was one final room on the ground floor,
separated from the vestibule by the stairs up which the man had
vanished. Entering, Ballista stopped in surprise. Although, like
the rest of the house, almost empty of furniture, this room was a
riot of colour. At one end was a columned archway, painted to
resemble marble. The ceiling was sky-blue and speckled with silver
stars. Under the arch was a bath, big enough for one and, behind
it, a picture of a man carrying a sheep.
Ballista gazed about him. Wherever he looked there
were pictures. He found himself staring at a crude painting of
three men. A man on the left was carrying a bed towards a man on
the right, who was lying on another bed. Above them a third man
stood, holding his hand out above the reclining figure.
‘Fucking odd,’ said one of the soldiers.
Just to the right of this picture, a man dressed as
a peasant was hovering over the sea. Some sailors looked at him in
amazement from a well-rigged ship.
‘Greetings, Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Egregius,
Dux Ripae.’ The speaker had entered quietly behind them.
Turning, Ballista saw a tall man dressed in a plain blue tunic with
white trousers and simple sandals. He was balding, hair cropped
close at the sides. He sported a full beard and an open smile. He
looked very familiar.
‘I am Theodotus son of Theodotus, Councillor of the
City of Arete, and priest to the Christian community of the town.’
He smiled pleasantly.
Annoyed with himself for not recognizing the
Christian priest, Ballista grinned apologetically and thrust out
his hand.
‘I hope that you will forgive any rudeness in
welcoming you on the part of my brother Josephus. You understand
that, since the persecution launched by the emperor Decius a few
years ago, we Christians get nervous when Roman soldiers knock on
our doors.’ He shook Ballista’s hand and laughed heartily. ‘Of
course things are much better now, under the wise rule of Valerian
and Gallienus, and we pray that they live long, but still old
habits die hard. We find it best to remain discreet.’
‘No, if anything I was unintentionally rude. I
mistook your brother for a pagan philosopher.’ Although Theodotus
seemed amiably enough disposed, Ballista thought it best to
forestall any trouble if he could. ‘I am very sorry, so very sorry
that it is necessary to destroy your place of worship. I assure you
that it would not happen were it not absolutely necessary. I will
try my utmost to get you paid compensation - if the city does not
fall, obviously.’
Rather than the storm of protest and complaint that
Ballista was expecting, Theodotus spread his hands wide and smiled
a beatific smile.
‘It will all fall out as God wills,’ said the
priest. ‘He moves in mysterious ways.’
Ballista was going to say something else, but a
waft of incense caught the back of his throat and set off a fit of
coughing.
‘We burn a lot of incense for the glory of the
lord,’ said Theodotus, patting the northerner on the back. ‘As I
came in I saw you looking at the paintings. Would you like me to
explain the stories behind them?’
Still unable to speak, Ballista nodded to indicate
he would. Mercifully, today he was not attended by the
Christian-hating trooper.
Theodotus had only just begun when a soldier burst
through the door. ‘Dominus.’ A quick-sketched salute and the
legionary rushed through the army greeting. ‘Dominus. We
have found Gaius Scribonius Mucianus.’