Blood and Steel

Chapter 41

The East

Carrhae,

Six Days after the Ides of March, AD238

Priscus kept a lamp lit in the bed chamber. Just the one, a soft light to enhance beauty, not betray its flaws. It was a hot night. The slave slept with the covers thrown back. Raised on one elbow, Priscus traced the graceful hollow of the back, the swell of a hip, firm line of a young thigh. He preferred the grapes when they were green.

The slave was fast asleep. The sleep of the innocent, of those without guilt or worries. Priscus lay back. He had not slept like that for years, if ever.

The Sassanids were still camped outside the city. Two days had passed since they had been thrown back from the walls. They had not made another assault. Priscus doubted if Ardashir could persuade them to try again. So why did the King of Kings linger? The forage must be near all eaten. The horses would soon lose condition, get thin. Perhaps Ardashir was reluctant to accept the finality of the verdict. Once he broke camp, and retreated, the defeat was acknowledged. Rumour would fly ahead of him — through Media, Persis and Sistan, to distant Sogdia and Bactria, through all those eastern territories so ancient and exotic sounding to a Roman ear — and the great noble families would begin to whisper, and then the revolts would flare.

When Ardashir had left, the messenger chained in the cellar would remain, and Priscus would have no reason for further procrastination. He closed his eyes, and numbered the allegiances of Rome’s governors in the East, as if a recount would alter the simple arithmetic or reveal some previously overlooked figures.

Priscus himself held Mesopotamia. One to him. His brother-in-law governed Syria Palestina. A weak man, but Severinus was closely bound to the family. When Priscus’ sister had been ill, and likely to die, Philip had wed the sister of Severianus. The new union had produced a son. Philip always was dutiful. Two links by marriage and one by blood should ensure the adherence of the legions stationed in the old homeland of the Jews. Two provinces in the amicitia of Priscus.

The Prefect of Egypt, an equestrian called Lucretius Annianus, was accounted loyal to Maximinus. Certainly, his initial act on taking up office had been to kill his predecessor, who had been appointed by Alexander. That was one to the hostile factio. Pomponius Julianus, the governor of Syria Phoenice, was a close friend of Flavius Vopiscus, and the latter had been one of the three Senators who had put Maximinus on the throne. Two to the enemy. Worse still, Cappadocia now was under the rule of Catius Celer, and he himself was one of the Triumvirate behind the elevation of the Thracian. Three in the wrong camp.

Aradius of Syria Coele and Domitius Valerianus of Arabia had been given their posts recently by Maximinus, but were not seen as his adherents. Rather, most had interpreted their appointments as the regime attempting to conciliate moderate senatorial feeling. Both men had pursued successful careers of unusual probity for the times, and were uncontaminated by partisanship or denunciations. They were two in the laager of the uncommitted.

If Priscus could win over Aradius and Domitius Valerianus the count would stand at four to three in his favour. If only one came over, but he somehow eliminated one of the followers of Maximinus, three to two. He thought about factors of time and distance, the merits of poison and steel. He pushed aside the fatal appeal of inaction. A choice had to be made. Blood and steel, it was the only path.

The boy turned in his sleep and muttered. Priscus opened his eyes, and regarded him. With the near perfect symmetry and harmony of his features, the curve of his shoulder, the clean limbs, he could model Ganymede for a sculptor. The beauty of a boy was natural, unadorned. Women needed artifice; cosmetics, tongs and curlers, gauzy gowns, legions of maids and hairdressers.

Reason would always choose true beauty, necessity settle for less. Not that Priscus had any time for the nonsense spouted by philosophers. The modest youth learning from the restrained older man, the combination of pleasure with virtue; such a path was nothing but condemning yourself to the punishment of Tantalus: parched, but unable to drink. And if restraint failed, there would be the fresh tortures of guilt. Far better to imitate the Emperor Trajan; take those you desire to bed, but do not hurt them.

Priscus looked at the first, golden down on the boy’s face. When it became stubble, cast a shadow on his cheeks, then he would send him away. Priscus had bought estates outside Antioch and in Italy. The stewards and overseers of his properties were all good-looking young men.

‘Prefect.’ Sporakes was in the room, his voice calm, but urgent.

‘Yes?’

‘The Persians are inside the walls.’

Priscus got out of bed, reached for his tunic. ‘How many?’

‘Too many.’ The bodyguard helped him on with his boots, passed him his sword-belt.

‘The consilium?’

‘Have been summoned to the roof-garden. I will bring your armour up.’

As he left, Priscus took a last look at the boy, who was sitting up in bed, naked, with no false modesty.

The governor’s palace was set high on the acropolis. From its roof, the scene was set out like a spectacle in the amphitheatre. Flaring torches and dark groups of men pushing through the Moon Gate and into the streets. One phalanx was moving inexorably towards the Gate of Sin in the north, another heading to the Euphrates Gate in the west. Outside many more waited for those gates to be opened. Either surprise or treachery had unbarred the Moon Gate. It made no difference now, the thing was irreversible.

Priscus stood still as Sporakes fitted his breastplate, checking buckles, tightening laces. One by one the consilium clattered onto the roof. Some were still getting armed, but there was no panic, no wasted words. Philip, the Prefects Julianus and Porcius, the Hatrenes Ma’na and Wa’el, the men from Edessa Manu, Abgar and Syrmus, they were all dependable. These were men too valuable to throw away in futile gestures.

‘The bucellarii are saddling the horses in the courtyard,’ Philip said.

‘Good.’ Priscus took his helmet from Sporakes. ‘No Sassanids to the south yet. We will take the Mirage Postern.’

‘We must be quick,’ Philip said.

His brother was right. The Persians were nearly at the Euphrates Gate.

Down in the courtyard the horses were infected by the nerves of the men. They stamped and barged each other, calling out in their anxiety.

A bucellarius held the head of Priscus’ warhorse, another gave him a leg up.

As he settled himself into his saddle, the boy appeared by Priscus.

‘Take me with you.’ He had slung on a tunic, his hair was tousled, eyes very frightened in the torchlight.

‘No.’

The boy gripped his boot. ‘I love you, master.’

Priscus put his hand on the boy’s head. ‘You are a slave now. Tomorrow you will have a new master.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Your looks will save you from much harm.’

‘Master …’

Priscus gestured to the troopers, and two of them pulled the boy away. Not looking at the boy again, he checked the men were ready, gave the order to leave.

The streets down from the citadel were narrow and winding. They went at a canter. As they cornered, the metal hipposandals of their mounts slipped on the cobbles, struck sparks. They held hard to the horns of their saddles.

As they crossed a square, Priscus saw dark words daubed across a light wall. Such things accursed war brings in its train. Much graffiti had appeared in the last couple of days, all of it highly literate. Priscus recognized the line as Euripides, although the context escaped him. Perhaps he had underestimated Hieronymous and the Boule of Carrhae. Now it seemed they had betrayed their city for some promise of personal safety. Priscus very much hoped the Sassanids would play them false.

They had not gone far when they heard the sounds of pursuit. High eastern shouts screeched above the thunder of their own passing. At each twist and turn, the ululating war cries grew louder. They echoed off the close walls, burst from every alleyway. Priscus crouched forward over the neck of his mount, urging it on, oblivious to everything but keeping it balanced, retaining his seat.

The open space inside the postern was empty. The gate was shut. Its guards nowhere to be seen. The column skidded to a halt. The Persians were close behind. Sporakes and two bucellarii jumped down, lifted the bar, opened the door. Priscus and the others waited, the flanks of their horses heaving. The three on foot led their mounts out. No assailants fell on them, no arrows took them. Outside all was still quiet. Behind the streets rang with the approach of the Sassanids.

‘Prefect.’ It was Wa’el. ‘The reptiles will run us down. With two men, I can hold the postern.’

‘Thank you.’

Wa’el grinned, his face shining with conviction. ‘For my Prince Ma’na. If you live, tell King Sanatruq I kept my word. Honour is not dead in Hatra.’

Priscus saluted, and went through the gate.

They rode west across the plain. They were well mounted, safe for the moment. Batnae and the Mesopotamian field army were not far. Under the star-pricked sky, Priscus regretted the boy. He was beautiful, but he might have delayed them. No call for misguided heroics. Priscus would buy another. There were always boys for sale.