Fire in the East

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 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 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.'