Up on the dais in the palace in Antioch, the chief men of the imperial entourage were in place. The two youthful emperors, Macrianus the Younger and Quietus, were enthroned. To their left, their father, Macrianus the Lame, sat on a curule chair nearly as high and nearly as elaborate as the thrones. There were no other chairs. Beyond the father was the spymaster Censorinus, backed by the imperial secretaries. To the right of the emperors stood Maeonius Astyanax, the senior Praetorian Prefect; Ragonius Clarus, the Prefect of Cavalry; and, on the end, as the other Praetorian Prefect, Ballista.
A gust of rain rattled against the windows of the great apse. Outside, it was a cold and grey midwinter morning in Antioch. I am getting soft, thought Ballista: back home in Germania this could pass for mild spring weather. Where Calgacus comes from, this is probably a balmy summer’s day.
The ab Admissionibus drew back the hangings at the far end of the big room. Blinking a little in the many lights, the governors who supported the Macriani entered: Piso of Syria Coele, Cornicula of Syria Phoenice, Pomponius Bassus of Cappadocia, Achaeus of Palestine, Virius Lupus of Arabia, Mussius Aemilianus of Egypt, Theodorus of Cyprus and Trebellianus of Cilicia. With them was Sampsigeramus, the client king of Emesa.
Nine powerful men, but it was interesting who was not there: no governors west of Cilicia – above all, not Maximillianus of Asia; and from the east, no Aurelius Dasius of Osrhoene nor, most crucial of all, Odenathus Lord of Palmyra. Certainly all except the Lion of the Sun had sent excuses: illness, bandits or barbarian raiders. It could mean a great deal, or nothing. Politics in the imperium, when the stakes were as high as this, never admitted an easy reading.
The next wave of the consilium was ushered in – some forty senators, headed by the ex-consul Fabius Labeo, the nobilis Astyrius and a relative of the Macriani called Cornelius Macer. It was impressive. Admittedly, long ago, more had fled east to join Mark Antony in his doomed campaign against Octavian. Yet the imperium was now divided three ways between Gallienus, Postumus and the sons of Macrianus. To assemble so far from Rome about one in twelve of all senators was impressive.
The final group was shown in – a huge throng of equestrians, almost all junior military officers: prefects, tribunes and the like. Among them, the bright-red hair of tall Rutilus stood out. Ballista also caught sight of the pointy face of Castricius. The latter winked. He had come a long way since being a slave in the mines.
At a sign from the ab Admissionibus, the members of the consilium performed proskynesis. As he got up, Ballista saw that Macrianus the Elder had merely leant a little forward and blown a kiss. The lesser form of adoration could be put down to his age and incapacity, but it could be interpreted as something very different.
When the comites were back on their feet, the senators looked around, trying not to give evidence of their surprise and displeasure at the lack of seats. Ballista could see what the regime was attempting: trying to mark the emperors out yet more from their most powerful subjects, to enhance even further their dignity. But it was a potentially dangerous ploy. All too easily it could smack of arrogance, or even oriental despotism. A real emperor could sit cross-legged on the ground eating porridge with his legionaries and not lose dignitas.
Laboriously, Macrianus the Elder hauled himself to his feet. Leaning on his walking stick, he pulled a fold of his toga over his head. In a firm voice, he prayed for all the immortal gods, all the natural gods of Rome, to guide their deliberations, hold their hands over the emperors and their consilium. The flame burned blue-green as he sprinkled a pinch of incense over the sacred fire.
Regaining his seat, Macrianus indicated that Maeonius Astyanax should hold the floor. The senior Praetorian Prefect cleared his throat. The air was thick with incense and perfume, although it did not quite cover the bitter reek of burning which still lingered from the Persian sack.
‘Most noble emperors, members of the consilium, I bring good news.’ Astyanax paused. The lights made deep shadows in the lines on his forehead and under his fleshy mouth. His face was inscrutable.
‘Only a short time now stands between the degenerate tyrant Gallienus and his death. He fritters away what little is left with prostitutes and pimps, barbarians and buffoons – dressed as a girl, submitting as a girl, mocking the dignitas of the throne and the maiestas of the Roman people.’
Ballista knew that Astyanax, revelling in his orotundity, could keep this up for hours. Some of the usual phrases of invective floated through his thoughts – ‘more unnatural than Nero’, ‘crueller than Domitian’, ‘more perverse than Heliogabalus’; ‘incest and magic’; ‘the profligate’, ‘the coward’, ‘the enemy of men and gods’. Rain beat on the windows.
‘Now the forces of righteous retribution are ready to march.’ Astyanax’s words brought Ballista’s attention back. ‘The minor troubles of a few days ago are a thing of the past. It was nothing more than the almost commendable over-eagerness of a handful of troops from the west to free their contubernales and families from the perverted lusts of the tyrant.’
Which, Ballista thought, was a good way of describing a serious mutiny – one only defused by a large donative of cash to the mutineers and a complete capitulation to their demands: yes, the western troops could begin their march home as soon as it was spring, some even sooner.
‘Here in the east all is secure. The cities of Carrhae and Nisibis, recovered from the Sassanids by Odenathus, have been handed over to the governor of Osrhoene. Setting them in order, of course, accounts for the absence of Aurelius Dasius from this gathering today.’
It might, thought Ballista.
‘I have received a letter from Odenathus himself.’ Astyanax produced a piece of papyrus from his scabbard. It neatly reminded his listeners that he, with Ragonius Clarus and Ballista, was one of the three men allowed to go armed in the presence of the emperors.
‘The Lord of Palmyra will take the war to the Persians. He has the Sassanids on the defensive. The Lion of the Sun intends no less than to sack Shapur’s capital of Ctesiphon. He expresses his complete confidence that the gods will settle the rule of Rome on those they favour.’
Astyanax flourished the letter before returning it to his scabbard. Ballista saw no more than that there was writing on it. He would not have been surprised had it been blank.
‘In view of Odenathus’s signal loyalty to Rome, our noble emperors have sent him magnificent presents from among the property justly confiscated from the atheist Christians.’
A large bribe, thought Ballista, tortured out of the adherents of a supposedly peace-loving sect in response to a wonderfully ambiguous message. The northerner made sure his face was immobile.
With a grandiloquent gesture, Astyanax turned to the emperors. ‘Domini, the east is secure. Give the word and we will follow you to Rome to free the imperium from the cruel tyranny of Gallienus. Just give the word.’
In the murmur of approval, Ballista saw Macrianus nod to one of his sons.
Macrianus the Younger held up his sceptre for silence. ‘We thank the Vir Ementissimus Maeonius Astyanax. We hear the wishes of our comites. We hear the prayers of those oppressed in Europe and Africa. In the spring, as soon as the campaigning season opens, we will march to the west.’
Now he had all their attention.
‘I myself, accompanied by my father, the Prefect of Cavalry Ragonius Clarus and the Princeps Peregrinorum Calpurnius Censorinus, will lead a force of thirty thousand picked men. Those who will serve as legates we will announce later.’
There was an intensity of gaze among the members of the consilium. Whatever they really thought of the young emperors, all the comites knew that it was on expeditions like this that serious advancement could be secured, a glittering career made.
‘In advance of the main expedition, Gaius Calpurnius Piso Frugi, the governor of Syria Coele, will lead fifteen thousand men to secure first a crossing into Europe at Byzantium, then the provinces of Thrace and Achaea. Again, those who will serve as legates will be announced later.’
Macrianus the Younger looked up at the thick cedar beams supporting the high roof. ‘We bow to the will of the immortal gods, put our lives in their hands. They will not fail to support us. The tyrant Gallienus has rescinded the persecution of the Christians. The natural, powerful gods of Rome will not suffer those who deny them to go unpunished. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, all the gods, they will hold their hands over us.’
The young Augustus relapsed into the immobility and distant stare the Romans thought fitting in an emperor. Ballista wondered how much of it was well-schooled play-acting. Was he just mouthing the words, or did the younger Macrianus share his father’s terrible certainty about the divine?
Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista saw a movement. It was the walking stick of Macrianus the Elder. Its silver top, with its bust of Alexander the Great, nudged towards Quietus.
As the young emperor prepared to speak, Ballista studied him. Quietus had the features of his family. Since his accession, Macrianus the Younger had acquired a simulacrum of maturity, but Quietus had not. The pouchy eyes, receding chin, the long, straight nose … all still carried the look of a spoilt, petulant and vindictive youth.
‘Comites –’ Quietus began in too high a register. He coughed, looked annoyed and started again. ‘Comites, when our brother and father march, we will remain in Antioch, governing the east. The Praetorian Prefects, Maeonius Astyanax and Ballista, will advise us. As Piso Frugi heads the advance to the west, his province of Syria Coele will be governed by our most loyal subject Fabius Labeo.’
The boy paused for the elderly ex-consul to express his thanks.
‘As we have heard from Maeonius Astyanax,’ Quietus continued, ‘in general, the east stands secure. But the duties of a ruler never end. The governor of Palestine, Achaeus, informs us that his province, always an unruly one, is suffering a plague of bandits. These evil-doers must be eradicated. To this end, we order our Praetorian Prefect Ballista, even in the depths of winter, to descend on them with fire and sword. He will take a thousand men, infantry and cavalry, and he will put an end to these brigands. He will rout them out – and their sons too, that they may not grow up to follow the example of their fathers. Not one will be left alive.’ Quietus looked at Ballista. He seemed to be relishing in advance the suffering of innocents.
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,’ Ballista intoned. Allfather, he hated this.
A half-smile played across Quietus’s face. ‘To put at rest the mind of the Vir Ementissimus, given the unfortunate events when he was last away, we are happy to extend our protection to his family. Ballista’s wife and sons will reside with us, here in the palace.’
Ballista had no choice. As he expressed his thanks, he felt a deep foreboding. Allfather, let Julia and his boys be all right while he was away, let nothing bad happen to them.
Quietus could not prevent a high-pitched giggle.
One day, you little bastard, thought Ballista, maybe not soon, but one day.
Ballista had marched his men down from Antioch to Caesarea Maritima in the province of Syria Palestina. It had been fine. On their left, the mountains of Lebanon, in the bright mornings their cedars often shrouded in fine mists. To their right, red sandhills and, beyond them, the sea, flashing violet, blue, black in the winter sun. They had passed through the famous cities of ancient Phoenicia: Tripolis, Berytus, Sidon and Tyre. They had negotiated the outcrop known as the Ladder of Tyre, where the road overhung precipices of naked white rock. Once they had rounded Mount Carmel, the coast road had been covered in a drift of millions of shells. White, brown, purple, they cracked and rattled under the horses’ hooves and the boots of the men.
Throughout the journey, the noise of the sea was in their ears. The surf was magnificent, rolling in great billows, breaking then forming again. The weather had held fair, but it was obvious the shore was a cruel one. Ballista counted eight ships wrecked; some still almost intact, others little more than discoloured lines in the sand. Maximus, of course, counted fourteen. The new secretary Hippothous claimed to have seen no fewer than twenty.
Caesarea Maritima, the city built by King Herod, was a fine place. Ballista had been busy there: endless sessions with the governor Achaeus, his legates – including the stony-faced senator Astyrius – and other officers to plan operations to scour the land of bandits. It had soon become clear why Achaeus needed aid. Several districts were overrun: Samaria, Galilee, Judea itself. Detachments to the emperors’ field armies had cut the governor’s command to the bone. There were no more than two thousand men with the eagle of Legio X Fretensis at Aelia Capitolina, and just a thousand with that of Legio VI Ferrata at Caporcotani. The number of auxiliary units had been slashed. There were only two alae of cavalry and six cohorts of infantry: nominally four thousand men, but these likewise were under strength. They were spread thin throughout the province.
The troops of Ballista would act as a strike column in Galilee. It was a large area for their very limited force. The northerner had led down a vexillatio of five hundred drawn from Legio III Gallica commanded by an amiable centurion called Lerus, and a wing of Dalmatian cavalry of the same number under the big red-headed prefect Rutilus.
The mission was important. It was no fool’s errand. Yet Ballista was unhappy to have left Julia and his sons behind in the palace. He prayed they would be all right. He did not trust Quietus.
His worries aside, the stay at Caesarea would have been pleasant – certainly the palace on the headland by the sea was more than comfortable, and Ballista usually enjoyed throwing himself into military planning – but for the personality of the governor. Not only was Achaeus a close amicus of Macrianus the Elder, he was also a bore and a bigot. A Praetorian Prefect Ballista may be, but the rules of society demanded that he frequently accept the governor’s hospitality and, at least outwardly, give some small sign of enjoyment. And then he had to campaign with him. Ballista had reclined through meal after meal as Achaeus dilated on his favourite topic: the iniquities of the Jews he ruled.
‘I tell you, they are far more pernicious even than the disgusting Christians. Those superstitious fools, when they are not shouting “I am a Christian and I want to die,” they at least keep repeating, like the cawing of so many trained crows, “Thou shalt not kill; Thou shalt not kill.” If the god of the Jews had mentioned the latter to them, the circumcised ones were not listening. Three massive uprisings under the emperors Nero, Trajan and Hadrian. Continuous trouble the rest of the time. A nightmare to govern, like living with a stepmother. The Jews hate mankind. As the saying goes, they would not show a non-Jew the way or give him a drink of water. More likely, they would cut his throat. They’re always fighting. When they’re not persecuting good citizens who worship the natural gods or attacking the Christians and the Samaritans, they turn on each other. Do you know, I asked the emperor Valerian why we did not deal with them once and for all? Do you know what he said? “They may be mad, but unlike the Christians, their madness is ancestral.” Addled old fool, thank the gods he has gone. When I mentioned it to the father of the noble emperors set over us now, may the gods preserve them, I got far more sense. “One enemy at a time,” Macrianus said. “The Christians first, then the Jews.”’
Every evening, when the eating was done, when Ballista could have been enjoying his wine while listening to the roar of the surf on the harbour walls, the boom of more distant breakers, Achaeus told stories that only a child or a Greek geographer could believe: ‘Everyone knows what they used to do before the divine Titus destroyed their temple. They would catch a Greek, hold him prisoner, fatten him up, then kill and eat him. They are probably still at it, up in the hills of Galilee under their so-called patriarchs.’
Red-faced, Achaeus would warm to his topic: ‘Do you know why they will not eat pigs? No, I will tell you. Because they worship them! Do you know they will not eat hares either? Why? Because hares look like miniature donkeys, and they worship donkeys too!’ On and on the calumnies rolled, by turns vile and ludicrous, drowning out the clean roar of the sea.
After fifteen days, Ballista had been glad to get away from the odious governor. But he wished the weather had not finally broken. It had been merely overcast when they set out from Caesarea three days earlier. The first night had been spent in the echoing near-emptiness of the legionary fortress of Legio VI at Caporcotani, the second in the town of Sepphoris. They had waited there a day. At dusk the force had divided and marched out as the rain began to fall. Their target was a village called Arbela which was overrun with bandits. It was to be a pincer attack at first light. The legionaries from III Gallica under Lerus were to march to the Sea of Tiberias and approach the village from the east. Ballista and Rutilus, with the Dalmatian troopers, were to come in from the west. Ballista suspected that Lerus and his men had drawn the better lot. It was as well the cavalrymen had left their mounts at Sepphoris: Ballista was glad Pale Horse was safe in a stable. The hill path was hard going for men on foot. And it was cold, very cold.
Winter had come with a vengeance. In the dark, the wind tore down the rocky Galilean hills. It tugged at the olive trees and dwarf oaks. It gusted rain. The weather would choose tonight to turn, Ballista thought sourly.
The wind had veered straight into their faces. The men marched hunched over, heads down and turned away, trying to find some shelter from the blasts.
Not long after midnight, the rain had stopped. Soon after, the first watch fires glittered on the hills. The bandits of Arbela knew they were coming. Ballista was unsurprised. As far as he had gathered, the Jews had no love of the Roman occupiers. Caesarea had a large Jewish population, and Sepphoris was a Jewish town. It was no wonder the brigands had been forewarned. One man’s bandit was another’s freedom fighter. Ballista set his shoulders. There was nothing to be done but press on.
Ballista trudged behind the native guides. The strap of the shield slung over his back dug painfully into his left shoulder. The sword belt over his right was only a little less painful. He did nothing to shift the weights. Any movement would expose part of him to the wind. Allfather, it was cold.
‘Dominus.’ Maximus’s voice broke into Ballista’s discomfort. ‘I cannot see Calgacus. The old bastard must have dropped back.’
Reluctantly, Ballista looked around. It was a dark night. He could not see far, but Maximus was right. Raising his voice over the keening wind, Ballista told Rutilus to take command and keep going; the standard bearer Gratius and secretary Hippothous were to carry on with the troops.
Ballista and Maximus stepped off the path. Slowly the soldiers passed, like mourners in a procession, only quieter.
Calgacus was near the rear of the column. He was staggering slightly. Ballista and Maximus fell in on either side. The Caledonian did not appear to notice.
‘Calgacus,’ Ballista called.
The old man did not respond. Swaying slightly, he carried on walking.
Calgacus stumbled, almost fell. They caught his arms.
‘I’m fine. Leave me alone.’ Calgacus’s speech was slurred.
‘Halt – that is an order.’
Calgacus stopped. He started to fall. Maximus grabbed him.
‘Halt the column,’ Ballista shouted to the nearest trooper. ‘Pass the order up the line.’
The backs of the nearest troops stopped moving. They stood bent over like beasts of burden.
Ballista and Maximus manoeuvred Calgacus to the side of the track, lowered him to lean against the trunk of a tree.
‘I am fine. Get the fuck off me.’ Calgacus’s words were thick, like those of a drunk. He shut his eyes and groaned. Now they had stopped, Ballista could feel the muscles in his own legs twitching, trying to cramp.
‘Dominus.’ It was a Dalmatian trooper. ‘Dominus, the rest of them, they have gone.’
Ballista peered into the night. His eyes streamed from the wind. The soldier was right. Six troopers and an empty path. Fuck. Someone had not heard the command over the noise of the marching and the wind. Or someone had been too far sunk in cold misery to understand what had been said. Fuck.
Ballista stood, wondering what to do. The wind plucked at his cloak. There were four watch fires visible on higher ground around them. Nine men left behind, one of them incapacitated. They were cut off, surrounded.
Ballista crouched down, gazed into Calgacus’s face. It was very pale in the darkness. The old man was shivering violently. That was good – he was not yet in the last stages of dying from exposure.
‘How goes it, old man?’
Calgacus smiled. ‘Fine.’ Drowsily, he shut his eyes.
Ballista slapped his face. ‘Wake up, you old bastard.’
Calgacus opened his eyes. They were not properly focused.
Ballista hugged the old man close. He spoke fiercely into his ear. ‘Go to sleep and you will die. And you are not going to die on me.’
Calgacus nodded.
Ballista got to his feet. The nearest fire was not far. There was no other way.
‘You four’ – Ballista pointed – ‘huddle round him, give him your body warmth. You two, keep watch each way down the track, keep moving, try and keep warm. Maximus and I will get fire.’
They got ready. At Maximus’s suggestion, they left their shields. A brigand may have a shield, but not a big circular army one. Now their silhouettes would not give them away.
‘You remember Pigeon Island?’ Maximus asked. It was getting on for two years ago, but to Ballista it seemed half a lifetime ago. On a little island south of Ephesus, the two of them had carried out a similar raid to snatch fire from a Borani watch camp in order to burn the barbarians’ longboat. ‘Sure, but this will be fun too.’
‘You are a very strange man,’ said Ballista.
They set off up the hill. Initially, Ballista led them away from the nearest fire. They needed to come up on it from downwind. There was no necessity for extreme caution. The howling wind should cover the noise of their approach, but they moved carefully anyway, a few steps apart, as if patrolling. The concentration needed took their minds off the cold.
Time largely loses meaning when you are climbing a dark, windswept hill with part of your mind on what will happen at the end of the climb. The wind sighed through the trees, branches creaked, stones turned under foot and mud tugged at their boots. It started raining again.
When they grew close, they slowed. About thirty paces away, they stopped behind a dwarf oak. Wiping the rain out of their eyes, they peered around the gnarled, slick trunk. Now the cold returned. Maximus passed Ballista some air-dried meat. He chewed it without thinking; it prevented his teeth chattering.
They could see two guards. They threw elongated, shifting shadows as they paced about, stamping their feet. There were other, indistinct, shapes huddled in blankets by the fire.
Ballista would have liked to observe longer, but there was no time. He touched Maximus’s shoulder. They clasped hands.
Stepping out from behind the oak, they walked forward. No point in running, risking a fall, until they were seen.
The man Ballista was after was unobservant. The northerner ran the last few paces anyway. His sword swung. The man started to turn. The blade caught him on the jawline. He screamed wordlessly. Retrieving the weapon, Ballista finished him with a powerful blow to the back of the neck.
Another man was rising from his blanket. Three quick steps, two chopping blows, and he sank down again. Ballista moved on. The next one had risen to his feet and was struggling to free his weapon. Ballista drove the steel into his stomach.
Turning, scanning for threats, all Ballista saw was Maximus finishing off a man on the ground. Seven dead. All over in a matter of moments.
A branch cracked up the hill. Dark shapes were moving through the trees; five, six, maybe more. Fuck. Surprise was on their side. Ballista and Maximus moved a little apart.
The first one tore downhill at Ballista, sword out in front. At the last moment, Ballista brought his blade down and across, driving his opponent’s weapon out to the right. Ballista dropped his left shoulder, braced himself. The man crashed into him. Using the impact, Ballista shrugged him off to the right.
Straightening, Ballista parried the next one’s sword to the left. He brought his elbow hard up into the man’s nose. As the man staggered back, Ballista cracked the pommel of his sword down into his face. He fell back, howling.
A quick step to the right, and Ballista arced his blade down at the first opponent, now scrambling to his feet. It bit into something. No time to check. Ballista spun round. A third bandit lunged. Ballista leapt backwards, arms up, arching his body. Sparks flashed as the blade scraped along the mail covering Ballista’s chest. He and his opponent were wedged together, face to face.
They struggled, feet slipping, too close to use their weapons. Ballista was aware of the second attacker getting up from the ground. The man Ballista was grappling with tried to bite his nose. Ballista twisted away. The teeth tore at his cheek. The blood felt hot. The fingers of the man’s left hand were clawing for Ballista’s eyes. The northerner slammed the heel of his right boot down on the man’s instep. His grip slackened. Ballista broke free, with his left hand drew the dagger from his right hip, stabbed it hard into the man’s crotch.
The last attacker on his feet began to back away. Ballista moved carefully towards him. The man turned and ran. Ballista was after him. The man lost his footing in the mud. He sprawled forward. Ballista was on him, driving the point of his blade down into his back.
Ballista got up quickly. No sound of steel on steel. No fighting. Some low sobbing and a high-pitched wailing. A few paces off, a dark figure moved, a bit shorter than Ballista. The blur of its sword glinted in the firelight as it chopped down again and again. Of course Maximus was fine.
Ballista walked back to his two injured opponents down on the ground. Bracing his boots in the mud, he killed both of them. There was no point in keeping them alive. He did not speak their language, could not interrogate them. He was not in the mood to try.
Ballista retrieved his dagger from the dead man’s crotch. He wiped its blade and that of his sword, sheathed them.
‘Sure, but you cannot say that was not fun.’ Maximus was beaming.
‘You really are a heartless, violent bastard.’ But Ballista could feel the post-battle euphoria seeping through him. He was alive, unhurt. He had done well, not let himself down, nor anyone else. Yes, in a horrible way, Maximus was right: Ballista had enjoyed it.
‘Do you think there will be any more of them along?’ asked Maximus.
‘No idea. But it would be a bugger trying to light a fire down on that track on a night like this. Go and get the troopers to carry the miserable old bastard up here.’
Maximus turned to go.
‘And hoot like an owl when you come back, to make sure I do not kill you.’
‘As if you could.’
‘As if I could,’ said Ballista.
It rained on and off all night, but no more brigands appeared out of the darkness. Ballista and his men built up the fire. Sheltering him with their cloaks, they changed Calgacus out of his wet things, massaged him with some oil they had heated, put him in the driest clothes that could be found in the soldiers’ packs. They gave him something hot to drink and drank some themselves. The old Caledonian complained a lot – an impressive range of obscenities in a variety of languages. He would be all right.
The morning came up fine; there were just the retreating, tattered remnants of the storm clouds. They went back down to the track and followed it without incident up to Arbela. The village was spectacularly sited on the edge of a cliff. Both units of troops were waiting.
Rutilus made his report. There had been a half-hearted attack just before his column had reached the village. Two troopers had been wounded, neither seriously. Only one dead bandit had been left behind. They had stormed into Arbela at first light. It was deserted. Miraculously, after a lengthy night march, Lerus’s legionaries had arrived within half an hour.
‘The mission was compromised from the start,’ said Ballista. ‘No wonder they had all disappeared.’
Rutilus smiled. ‘Some of them have not gone very far.’
The tall prefect led Ballista to the edge of the cliff. The view was incredible. Down to the right, the northern end of Lake Tiberias was spread out, shining blue under the winter sun. Straight ahead, far away in the distance, was the snow-capped summit of Mount Hermon. It must have been fifty miles or more away.
On top of the cliff, the wind buffeted them. Ballista looked down. There was a sheer drop of two, three hundred feet of jagged grey rock. Below that, a gentler incline of about the same height. The lower slope had some green cover. A few pale-grey paths graded up it to the foot of the rockface. The tiny figures of Roman soldiers moved down at the bottom of it.
‘There are caves in the cliff,’ said Rutilus. ‘Some of the brigands have taken refuge in them. We cannot get at them from below. The paths are too steep and narrow. A child could tip stones down and sweep our men off.’
Ballista looked at the cliff, the slope, the valley below, and the opposite cliffs. The latter were too far away – nothing of use there. He turned and regarded the clifftop: the few bent trees, the village of well-built houses, a synagogue at one end.
‘We could starve them out,’ suggested Rutilus. ‘Although,’ he added, ‘we do not know how well they are provisioned.’
‘No,’ said Ballista. ‘Sitting here doing nothing seems weak. If we show weakness, every bandit in Galilee will be on us.’
They stood, gazing down at the pitted rocks, the dry bits of vegetation that offered no safe handholds. Suddenly Ballista laughed. Rutilus looked inquiringly at him.
‘The village – tear it down, have the men collect all the timber, anything of a decent length. Have you sent for the horses? Good. When they come, send men down to the town of Tiberias on the lake. It is a port of sorts. There must be ropes and chains there. Collect all of them. And gearing oil and pitch, get a lot of pitch. Also send men back to Caporcotani. Collect bows from the arsenal in the legionary fortress. Not many, about forty or fifty. And a mobile forge – Legio VI should have more than one.’
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
‘We are going to build two or three cranes up here on the top of the cliff. We will lower bowmen down in cages. They will burn the brigands out with fire arrows.’
Now Rutilus laughed. ‘Dominus, that is brilliant.’
‘Yes, it is. Unfortunately, it is not my idea. A client king of Rome had trouble with bandits – it must have been here or nearby. Josephus in his History of the Jewish War tells us what he did. You see, a man who reads history is often prepared.’
It took eight days for the preparations to be complete. In the end, available materials dictated that only one crane was built. None of the soldiers was in a hurry to volunteer – it was amazing how few of them admitted any skill with a bow – until Ballista announced that the men in the cage would get a cash incentive comparable to that given to those in a storming party at a siege.
Ballista had never suffered from a fear of heights. That was just as well. The cage rocked horribly as it was swung out over the void. The rockwall looked sharp and unforgiving. The valley was a long way down.
Not a sound came from the well-oiled winches, but inevitably the timber creaked and the ropes seemed to hum with tension as the cage began its jerky descent. Once, a gust of wind threatened to smash the flimsy wooden cage against the cliff face. Ballista clung grimly to the bars. The five soldiers with him cursed or prayed as the mood took them.
Ballista glanced down at the vertiginous drop. Ant-like figures were scurrying up the paths. With luck, the brigands in the caves would be too distracted by the soldiers arriving from above like a deus ex machina to interfere with the ones below.
The mouth of the first cave was a rough black oval in the pink-grey rocks. It was too dark to see far inside. Ballista half-saw movement. He ordered his men to shoot. Moving cautiously, they handed round the one guttering torch and lit the pitch-soaked rags tied around their arrowheads. A word of command and the missiles streaked away. Before the thin, oily trails of smoke had dissipated, there were screams from the cave.
‘Surrender,’ Ballista yelled in Greek. ‘Any old men, women, children will be spared.’
There was no answer. Ballista tried again in Latin. Still no answer. He indicated for another volley. He glanced down. The ascending troops still had a very long way to climb. Looking back, he noticed a faint glow in the cave. Something in there must be alight.
A figure emerged from the depths of the cave. Ballista indicated to his archers not to shoot. The man – in middle age, smartly dressed – looked contemptuously across at the soldiers. He had a drawn sword in his hand.
‘Lay down your weapon,’ Ballista shouted in Greek. ‘Give yourselves up. Women, children, the elderly – all will be spared.’
The man actually laughed. ‘Is nowhere safe from you Romans – not even the humblest village, the most remote cave?’ He spoke in educated Greek. ‘Even your own writers admit that you create a desert and call it peace.’
The incongruity of it struck Ballista – he was dangling halfway down a cliff and a Jewish brigand was quoting Tacitus to him in perfect Attic Greek.
‘Show yourself a man,’ Ballista called. ‘Give yourself up and save your loved ones.’
‘I will show you I am a man.’ He turned and shouted back into the cave in a language Ballista did not know – presumably Hebrew or Aramaic.
A woman came out, leading a boy, no more than ten. The man took the boy’s hand. The woman fell to her knees, alternately clutching at the boy and the man’s knees. Sobbing, she implored him in the language he had used.
The man spoke brusquely to her, waved her away. Reluctantly, she shuffled backwards.
The man ruffled the boy’s hair. He talked tenderly to him. Then he seized the boy’s chin, yanked it back. The sword flashed. It is not easy to cut someone’s throat. The boy tried to wrench free. The man had to saw the blade across his neck repeatedly. Blood soaked the child, the man’s arm. The boy writhed and then slumped. The man pitched the pathetic corpse out into the abyss. It fell, thumping into the cruel rocks.
Ballista and the soldiers stared in silent horror. This Jew was like no bandit they had ever encountered.
Once more the man shouted into the cave. He was answered by wailing. He shouted again, angrily.
The fire in the cave must have spread. This time, as the woman led out another, younger child, they were backlit by a hellish orange glow.
Ballista whispered to the soldier next to him: ‘Shoot him.’
The man tried to force his wife away. She clung on. He tore her hands from the child. Still gripping her wrists, he swung her around, her sandals off the ground. One push and she was gone. The scream was cut off when she first hit the cliff.
Next to Ballista, the archer waited to get a clear shot.
The little boy – too young to understand – wobbled on immature legs. Allfather, he could only be two – the same age as Dernhelm. The father reached for him.
Intent on his murderous defiance, the man did not see the arrow coming. As he straightened up, it hit him square in the chest. He was pitched backwards, hands clutching at the fletching protruding from his body.
Ballista yelled up to the crew of the crane, some fifty foot above his head. ‘Take us in!’
For long moments nothing happened. The child teetered, terribly near the drop. The fire burned in the cave. The cage jerked as the pulleys bit. It swung towards the cave mouth.
Ballista climbed up on the rail. He waited, judging the moment. He did not look down. A couple of paces away, he jumped.
The wind was knocked out of Ballista as his stomach hit the lip of the cave. His weight, that of his armour, began to pull him backwards. His fingers tore at the rocky ground, feet scrabbling a shower of stones. The child shied away from him – the little feet inches from oblivion.
Ballista hauled himself up, lunged across the cave mouth, grabbed the boy around the waist.
The wooden cage bumped against the rockface. The soldiers leapt out. Drawing their swords, they went into the cave.
‘Only the men,’ Ballista shouted. ‘Only the men.’ He hugged the wailing child.