Fire in the East

XVI

Ballista lay in the pool of the frigidarium. The cool water was scented with carnations or cloves. He was alone; both Maximus and Demetrius had asked for the evening off. To anyone who knew them it was no surprise after such a day. They would look for release in their different ways. Maximus would find his with a woman; Demetrius would opt for the less physical, the rather less tangible comforts offered by a dream-diviner, an astrologer, or some such charlatan. Ballista had been happy to grant their requests. Solitude was a rare commodity for a man in his position.

Putting his thumbs in his ears and blocking his nostrils with his forefingers, he submerged himself. Motionless underwater, his eyes shut, he listened to the beating of his heart, the plink, plink of water dripping. It had been a good day. Things had worked out well at the tower and the wall. But every danger surmounted brought on fresh dangers in its train.

Ballista surfaced, shaking water out of his hair, wiping it from his eyes. It had a taste of carnations or cloves too. Idly he wondered where Calgacus had got this new, unlikely scent. He lay motionless. The ripples in the pool died down. Ballista looked at his body, the forearms burnt dark brown by the sun, the rest pale white, the two long scars on the left of his ribcage a still paler white. He flexed his left ankle, felt the bone scrape and click. He yawned a big yawn, the right-hand side of his jaw scrunching where it had been broken. He was thirty-four. Sometimes he felt much older. His body had taken a battering in the thirty-four winters he had walked the middle earth between the gods above and Hell below.

Ballista started to think of the siege. He pushed the thoughts away, keen to hang on to the momentary feeling of peace the bath had brought. He thought of his son. It was over a year – thirteen months – since he had left Isangrim in Rome. The boy had turned four in March. He would be growing fast, changing fast. Allfather, do not let him forget me. Deep Hood, Fulfiller of Desire, let me see him again. Ballista felt crushed by longing, by sadness. Unwilling to give way to tears, he plunged under again.

Standing up abruptly, the water sluiced off his heavily muscled, battered body. Stepping out of the pool, he wrung the water from his long fair hair. From nowhere Calgacus appeared and handed him a towel. The northerner began to dry himself. Somehow he had never got used to the Roman habit of having others towel you down.

'Did you like the perfume?' Calgacus asked, his intonation showing what he thought of it.

'It's fine.'

'It was a present. From your mincing little tribunus laticlavius. Seeing how fond you and Acilius Glabrio are of each other, I tested it on one of the house slaves. He did not die, so it must be safe.' Both men smiled. 'And here is the robe you asked for; the finest sheer Indian cotton-you sensitive little flower,' wheezed Calgacus.

'Yes, I am, renowned for it.'

'What?'

'Nothing.'

Although he spoke at the same volume, Calgacus as ever affected to believe that a change of tone rendered the asides he came out with when they were alone completely inaudible.

'I have put some food and drink out on the terrace for you. It is in the shade of the portico. There is a cover over it to keep the flies off.'

'Thank you.'

'Will you need me again tonight?'

'No. Go off and indulge in whatever frightful drunken lechery your vices demand.'

With no word of thanks Calgacus turned and walked away. As his domed head receded, his complaints floated behind him. 'Lechery… vices… and when would I find the time for them, working my fingers to the bone all hours looking after you?'

Ballista pulled the soft robe around himself and walked out on to the terrace. In the gathering gloom under the portico he found the food up against the back wall. Lifting the heavy silver cover by its handle, he poured himself a drink, scooped up a handful of almonds. Having replaced the cover, he went over to his accustomed place on the wall of the terrace.

It was the best time of the day. To the west the farmland of Mesopotamia was purple-hazed as night advanced. A cool wind blew over the Euphrates. The first stars shone. Bats hunted across the face of the cliff. But none of it brought back to Ballista the fleeting peace of the bathhouse.

Things had gone well today. But that was luck. Ballista had had the earth banks built to protect the walls and towers from artillery and from rams; that they had saved the defences from undermining was luck. Yet, Ballista smiled ruefully in the dark, if others put it down to his farsightedness, that was no bad thing for morale. He had issued orders to capitalize on his luck. Throughout the night men would labour, packing the leaning tower with earth. By the morning the parapets of tower and wall should have been replaced or shored up.

The Persians had thrown all the instruments of siege warfare at the city of Arete: siege towers, the great ram – the Fame of Shapur – the siege ramp, the mine. All had failed. The defences had held. Now it was the first of October. The rains should come in mid-November. There was not enough time for the Persians to gather the materials and begin new regular siege works. But only those defenders of very little understanding could believe that the danger was passed. The King of Kings would have no intention of slinking away defeated. The frustrations, the losses, the stain on his glory – all would have increased his resolve. Shapur would have no intention of lifting the siege. If his siege engineers could not deliver the town to him, he would punish them – probably savagely – and revert to a simpler strategy. He would decree another attempt to storm the town.

Five and a half months of siege had taken their toll on the defenders. Casualties had mounted. When the Sassanids launched another assault, Ballista wondered if there would still be enough defenders to deny them. The storm would not come tomorrow; there was not enough time for Shapur and his nobles to whip their men up to fighting frenzy. It would come the day after. Ballista had one day. Tomorrow he would send more men to the desert wall. He would go among them. He would speak to them, try to encourage them. Tomorrow evening he would hold a last supper for his officers and the leading men of the town; try to put heart in them. Inauspiciously, he thought of the final dinner in Alexandria of Antony and Cleopatra. What had they called the diners? 'Those inseparable in death' – something like that.

Finding that he had finished his drink, Ballista wondered for a second if he could throw the heavy earthenware beaker all the way over the fish market far below and into the black waters of the Euphrates. He did nothing of the sort. Instead he walked back to the portico. It was very dark behind the columns. He only found the food because he already knew where it was.

There was a noise of something scraping on brickwork. He froze. The noise came again, from the south of the terrace. Ballista crouched down low. From over the south wall a shape appeared. Compared with the darkness under the portico where Ballista waited, it was reasonably light out on the terrace. Ballista could make out the black-clad figure that dropped down over the southern wall, the wall that led into the town. More sounds of scraping on brickwork and two more black-clad figures joined the first. There was a quiet rasping as the three drew their weapons. Starlight glittered on the short swords.

Ballista reached for his own sword. It was not on his hip. You fool, you stupid fucking fool. He had left it in the bathhouse. So this was how it was going to end: betrayed by his own stupidity. He had let down his guard and he was going to be punished. You stupid fucking fool. Even that poor bastard Mamurra warned you of this.

The three black-clad assassins moved slowly forward. Ballista pulled the robe up half over his head to cover his face, his long fair hair. If by some miracle he survived, he must thank Calgacus for finding a robe of the finest Indian cotton in the black that his dominus customarily wore. The dark figures advanced down the terrace. Moving ever so gently, the fingers of Ballista's left hand found the big silver food cover. He gripped the handle. His right hand found the heavy earthenware beaker from which he had been drinking. As weapons they were not much but they were better than nothing. He stilled his breathing and waited.

A fox barked away across the river. The three assassins stopped. They were a few paces short of Ballista. One of them waved, gesturing the one nearest Ballista to go under the portico. The northerner raised himself up ready to spring.

The door to the terrace opened. A rectangle of yellow light shone across to the wall, plunging everything outside it into a deeper darkness. The assassins stopped.

'Kyrios? Kyrios, are you out here?' the voice of Demetrius called. After a moment, when there was no answer, the young Greek could be heard going back into the palace. His shadow disappeared from the rectangle of light.

One of the assassins spoke softly in Aramaic. All three crept silently towards the open door. The one just inside the portico, his night vision spoilt by looking into the light, passed no more than four paces from Ballista. At the edge of the patch of yellow they stopped, drawing close together. Again one whispered in Aramaic, so low that Ballista probably would not have made out the words even had he spoken the language.

The first assassin slipped through the door.

Safe, thought Ballista. Let them come inside, run across the terrace, over the north wall, drop down into the alley, a few paces to the two guards on the north door, collect them, run to the main courtyard, collect the five equites singulares from the guardroom, pick up a sword, and then back through the main door into the living quarters. Take one of the bastards alive, and then we can find out who sent them.

The second assassin slipped through the door.

But – Demetrius. The Greek boy would be killed, maybe Calgacus too.

Ballista moved. As the third assassin stepped through the door, Ballista came up behind him. The northerner smashed the heavy beaker into the back of the man's head. There was a sickening thud, the sound of breaking crockery. With a gasp of pain the man turned. Ballista ground the broken crockery into his face, twisting the edges into his flesh. The man fell back, his face a bloody ruin.

Just outside the doorway Ballista assumed a fighting crouch, side on, the food cover held out as an improvised shield, the shards of the beaker drawn back to strike.

One of the assassins dragged the injured man out of the way. The third man leapt forward, stabbing underhand with his sword. Ballista took the blow full on the food cover. He felt the soft metal buckle. The impact jarred up his arm to his shoulder. He lunged with the broken beaker. The lunge was too short and the black-clad man swayed back out of reach. The man stabbed again. Ballista angled his improvised shield to deflect the blow. Again his counter-stroke failed to bite home.

The other uninjured assassin was crowding behind Ballista's assailant, bobbing about, desperate to be in a position to attack their quarry. Ballista knew that, as long as he held the doorway, they could come at him only one at a time. Another thrust sliced a chunk out of the northerner's inadequate shield. Ballista found that he was yelling, a deep, wordless roar of rage. Again and again his opponent's sword bit into his increasingly tattered shield. The food cover was awkward, offering less defence and feeling heavier with each blow it took.

The assassin unable to gain access to Ballista stopped hopping from foot to foot. He looked down at the three inches of steel protruding from his stomach. He opened his mouth. Blood came out. He was hurled sideways. Realizing something was wrong behind him, the assassin fighting Ballista ducked, turned and swung a cut at Maximus's head. The Hibernian parried the blow, rolling his wrist to turn the blade aside, and stepped inside to drive his own weapon up into the assassin's throat.

'Don't kill the other one. Take him alive,' Ballista shouted.

The injured man had crawled to the side of the room. There was a smear of blood across the chequered tiles. Before Ballista or Maximus could act, the final assassin got to his knees, put the point of his sword against his stomach, braced the pommel against the tiles and threw himself forward. There was an awful sound as the sword tore through his guts. He collapsed sideways, curled around his own blade, twitching in his death agony.

From the start things did not bode well for Ballista's dinner party.

It was not the setting: the great dining room of the palace of the Dux Ripae was splendidly decked out. The windows opening on to the terrace were open to catch the evening breeze blowing across the Euphrates. Hangings of fine material were in place to keep out insects. The polished cedarwood tables were arranged in an inverted U. Flouting the convention that diners should not outnumber the nine Muses, places were laid for thirteen. As much a council of war as a social gathering, it was to be an all-male affair. Dining with Ballista were his senior commanders Acilius Glabrio and Turpio, and the three caravan protectors turned Roman officers Iarhai, Anamu and Ogelos. Some less exalted officers were present, the two senior centurions from the two cohorts of Legio IIII, Antoninus Prior and Seleucus, the one from Cohors XX, Felix and Castricius, as deputy praefectus fabrum. The numbers were made up with three of the more influential town councillors – the bearded Christian Theodotus, a nondescript little man called Alexander and, most unusually of all, a eunuch called Otes. As poor Mamurra had often pronounced, things were very different in the east.

It was not the food, the drink or the service. Despite months of siege there was a sufficiency of meat, fish and bread. In truth the fruit was limited – just a few fresh apples and some dried plums, and the vegetables were few and far between ('How much for a fucking cabbage?' as Calgacus had been heard eloquently to exclaim) – but there was no danger whatsoever of the wine running out and the guests being reduced to the unhappy expedient of drinking water, and the servants came and went with silent efficiency.

All the way through, from the hard-boiled eggs to the apples, there was a spectre at the feast. Never spoken of but seldom far from mind were the three naked corpses nailed to crosses in the agora and the treachery they represented. At dawn Ballista had had the assassins stripped and publicly exhibited. On each cross beneath their feet was nailed a placard offering a large reward to the man who would identify them. The face of one was mutilated, but the wounds on the other two were to the body. They should have been easily recognizable. So far no one except one madman and two time-wasters had come forward. The soldiers had given them a beating for their temerity.

Near the end of the meal, as Ballista broke another loaf of unleavened bread and passed half to Turpio, he knew he could not be alone in thinking that the traitor had to be in the room. Pledging the health of his fellow diners, dipping his bread in the communal bowls had to be the man who had organized the attempt on Ballista's life the previous night, the man who would if he could betray the town to the enemy.

Ballista studied his fellow diners. On his right hand, Acilius Glabrio gave the impression that he would far rather be in other company as he drank deeply of his host's wine. To his left, Turpio gave the impression that he was privately enjoying the follies of mankind in general and those round the table in particular. The three caravan protectors, brought up in the hard school of their mutual loathing, betrayed nothing of their feelings. There was little to learn from the appearance of the town councillors: the Christian Theodotus looked beatific, the eunuch Otes fat, and the one called Alexander virtually anonymous. The four centurions wore suitably respectful expressions. Together the company looked as far from 'those inseparable in death' as could be imagined – a group of disparate men thrown together by Tyche, and one of them a traitor.

Unsurprisingly, the evening had passed slowly, the conversation had flagged. It was not the place of the less important members of the party, the centurions and town councillors, to initiate conversation. The others, to avoid the topic of the crucifixions and everything they entailed, had chewed over again and again the likely course events would take the next day.

No one doubted that the Persians would make another assault in the morning. All day Sassanid noblemen had been seen riding to and fro in their camp haranguing their men. No attempt had been made to conceal the distribution of the siege ladders, the hasty repairs to the mantlets. All agreed, with more or less conviction that, after their terrible losses, the hearts of the Persians would not be in it, that they would not press their attack home: stand firm for just one more day and at last Arete and everyone left alive in the town would finally be safe.

All were agreed that the latest disposition of the defenders' meagre supply of men was the best that could be envisaged. As the nine centuries of Legio IIII on the western wall now averaged only thirty-five men each and the six of Cohors XX just thirty, Ballista had ordered that all the surviving mercenaries of the three caravan protectors be stationed there. They were to be joined by some levy bowmen nominally commanded by larhai; given the latter's now customary lack of involvement, they were really in the charge of Haddudad. In addition, Ballista had brought the number of artillery pieces there up to the original number of twenty-five by the expedient of taking them from elsewhere. All this seemed to put the defence of the desert wall on a sound footing. Some 1,300 men, composed of 500 Roman regulars, 500 mercenaries and 300 levies, supported by artillery, would face the Persian attack. Of course this came at a price. The other walls were now held only by conscripted citizens very sparsely supported by a few Roman regulars and an inadequate number of artillery pieces.

Over the cheese course, the silence was broken by the eunuch councillor Otes who, possibly surprised by his own daring, addressed himself directly to Ballista. 'So, you say that, if we stand firm for just one more day, we are safe?' One or two of the army officers failed to suppress a smile at the eunuch's use of the collective 'we stand firm' – they had never seen him on any of the battlements. Ballista ignored the look on his officers' faces. He tried to override the prejudice against eunuchs instilled in him by both his northern childhood and his Roman education. It was not altogether easy. Otes was grossly fat and sweating profusely. The cowardice was evident in his high, sing-song voice.

'Broadly speaking, yes.' Ballista knew it was not true except in the very broadest of terms, but this occasion had been intended to put heart into the men of importance in the town of Arete.

'Unless, of course, our mysterious traitor takes a hand – our very own Ephialtes shows Xerxes the path along the spine of the mountain and outflanks our Thermopylae so we all go down fighting bravely like the 300 Spartans against the countless thousands of the eastern horde.' Acilius Glabrio's reference to the most infamous traitor in Greek history (Ephialtes' notoriety had been immortalized by Herodotus) brought a shocked silence, which the young patrician affected to ignore for a time. He took a drink, then looked up, his face a picture of assumed innocence. 'Oh, I am sorry. I seem to have pointed out that Hannibal is at the gates, that there is an elephant in the corner of the room – to have let the cat clean out of the bag.'

Ballista saw that, while Acilius Glabrio's hair and beard were as elegant as ever, there were unhealthy-looking pouches under his eyes and his clothes were slightly disarrayed. Possibly he was drunk. But before Ballista could intervene, he continued.

'If tomorrow we are to share the fate of the Spartans, possibly we should pass our last night as they did, combing each other's hair, oiling each other's bodies, finding what solace we can.' Acilius Glabrio rolled his eyes at Demetrius as he spoke. The young Greek, standing behind the couch of his kyrios, kept his eyes demurely on the ground.

'I would have thought it better, Tribunus Laticlavius, if one of the Acilii Glabriones, a family which I understand claim to go back to the founding of the Republic, took examples of antique Roman virtue as his model – Horatius, Cincinnatus or Africanus, say – staying up all night doing the rounds, checking the sentries, staying sober.' Ballista had no idea if the Roman heroes that he named had a reputation for shunning sleep for duty, if they cut their wine with plenty of water. He did not care. He could feel his anger rising.

'Claim to go back to the founding of the Republic. Claim! How dare you! You jumped-up -' Acilius Glabrio's face was flushed, his voice rising.

'Dominus!' The voice of the primus pilus Antoninus Prior was used to carrying across a campus martins.It stopped the commander of his unit in mid-flow. 'Dominus, it is getting late. We should take the suggestion of the Dux Ripae. It is time we checked the sentry posts.' Antoninus ploughed on, giving his superior no time to speak. 'Dux Ripae, the officers of Legio IIII Scythica thank you for your hospitality. We must go.' As he spoke the centurion had risen to his feet and moved to Acilius Glabrio's side. The other centurion from the legion appeared on his other side. Together Antoninus and Seleucus gently but firmly got their young commander on his feet and propelled him towards the door.

Acilius Glabrio suddenly stopped. He turned and jabbed a finger at Ballista. The nobleman was shaking, all the colour drained from his face. He seemed too angry to speak.

Taking an elbow each, the two centurions got him out of the door with no further words spoken.

The party did not last long after that. Turpio with Felix and Castricius, the centurions under his command, were the next to leave, followed in rapid succession by the caravan protectors and the councillors.

As soon as he had said farewell to the last of his guests, the eunuch Otes – 'Most enjoyable, Kyrios, a great success' – Ballista, Demetrius at his heels, retired to his private quarters. Maximus and Calgacus were waiting.

'Did you get the things I asked for?'

'Yes, Dominus,' replied Maximus.

'And bloody expensive they were too,' added Calgacus.

On the bed were spread two sets of clothing. Gaudy red, blue, yellow and purple tunics, trousers and caps, striped, hemmed and embroidered in contrasting colours in the local style.

'Let's get on with it.' Ballista and Maximus began to strip off their normal clothes and pull on the eastern garments.

'Kyrios, this is madness,' said Demetrius. 'What good can it do?'

Ballista, having removed the two ornaments from his belt, the mural crown and the gilded bird of prey, was looking down, concentrating on attaching a new decoration which spelt out FELIX, good luck. 'There is a danger that junior officers tell their superiors what they think they want to hear: "the men are in good spirits, full of fight." Imagine what the King of Kings is told. I am no Shapur, but it is always more pleasant to bring good news than bad.' Ballista scooped his long hair up under the Syrian cap.

'Please, Kyrios, think of the dangers – if not to yourself, then to the rest of us if something should happen.'

Ballista was wondering if he should remove the amber healing stone from the scabbard of his sword. He decided against it. 'Stop worrying, boy. There is no better way of testing the morale of the men. At their posts, unsupervised, they talk intimately of their hopes and fears.' The northerner patted Demetrius on the shoulder. 'It will be fine. I have done this sort of thing before.'

'No one seems all that concerned about me,' said Maximus.

'You are expendable,' said Calgacus.

Ballista hung a combined bow case and quiver over his shoulder, draped a wolfskin around himself and looked at himself in the mirror that Calgacus held out. Then he looked at his bodyguard. 'Maximus, rub some soot on your nose. Apart from that gleaming white cat's arse, no one could recognize us. We look like a couple of the most villainous mercenaries employed by the caravan protectors.'

A quiet word with the guards, then the two men slipped out of the northern door of the palace. They turned left and walked down through the military quarter towards the desert wall. At the campus martius they were challenged by a picket of legionaries from the century of Antoninus Posterior stationed there: Libertas. They gave the password – principatus – and went on their way.

They climbed up to the battlements at the north-west angle of the wall by the temple of Bel. Having been challenged again – Libertas-Principatus – they stood by the parapet for a time looking out over the ravine to the north and the great plain to the west. In the distance the myriad fires of the Sassanid camp cast a ruddy glow in the sky. A low hum of noise drifted across the desert. A Persian horse neighed and, near at hand, a Roman one answered.

Along the wall torches guttered. From somewhere in the town came the ringing of a hammer as a blacksmith worked late, closing up the rivets of a sword or the sprung rings of a mail coat. Up on the tower above, a sentry called Antiochus talked lengthily and monotonously of his recent divorce: his wife had always been a shrew, vicious tongue on her, and gods below did she talk, worse than being married to your own stepmother.

Ballista leant close to his bodyguard. 'I think that you did enough last night to pay back your debt and claim your freedom.'

'No. It has to be the same. Last night, sure those three may have soon killed you, but I cannot be certain. When you saved me there was no room for doubt; on my back, weapon knocked out of my hand, one more second and I was dead. Certain, it has to be the same.'

'Some religions hold pride to be a terrible sin, I believe.'

'More fool them.'

Ballista and Maximus drifted south along the wall walk. Here and there as they passed in and out of the pools of torchlight, they were challenged by sentries, lean-cheeked men in war-worn tunics: Libertas- Principatus, Libertas-Principatus.

At the fourth tower they came to the sentries were playing dice. They were legionaries from IIII Scythica. Their oval shields, red with blue victories and a golden lion, were piled near by. Ballista and Maximus stayed in the shadows watching the firelight play on the men's faces, listening to their talk.

'Canis,' a player groaned as his four dice landed in the 'dog', the worst throw possible.

'You have always been unlucky.'

'Bollocks. I am saving all my luck for tomorrow, fuck knows we will need it.'

'Bollocks to you. Tomorrow will be a walk in a paradise. We have whipped them before and we will whip them again.'

'So you say. There aren't that many of us left. Most of the men on this wall are just fucking civilians playing at soldiers. I tell you, if the reptiles push it home tomorrow, we are fucked.'

'Crap. The big barbarian bastard has got us through so far. He'll see us right again tomorrow. If he says we can hold this wall, are you going to argue with him?'

Ballista grinned at Maximus in the shadows.

'I would rather argue with him than that fucking Hibernian bodyguard of his.'

Maximus's teeth flashed white in the shadows.

'You have got a point. You wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley. Ugly bastard, isn't he?'

Ballista took Maximus by the arm and led him down the stairs.

By the time they had reached the Palmyrene Gate the night was creeping on and they had heard enough. The regular soldiers seemed solid enough; moaning furiously, their contempt was evenly divided between the enemy and the conscripts on their own side. The much-derided conscripts, especially those new to the desert wall, were either very quiet or boastfully loud – just as was to be expected from those who had not yet looked closely into the face of battle.

Ballista decided to return to the palace. They needed their sleep. Tomorrow was another day.

Demetrius finished dressing. Fussily he retied his writing block and stylus to his belt, getting them to hang just so. He looked at himself in his mirror. Despite the distortion in the polished metal, he could see that he looked awful. There was a network of fine blue veins under his eyes. He felt awful too. For the first half of the night he had remained fully dressed, pacing about. He had told himself that he would be unable to sleep until Ballista and Maximus returned from their foolish theatrical errand. When, some time after midnight, they had returned, in high spirits, laughing, teasing each other, Demetrius had gone to bed. He had still been unable to sleep. Stripped of his concerns for the others, he had had to face his fears for himself.

There was no escape from the thought that in the morning the Persians would come again. Demetrius had not been much reassured by Ballista's performance at the dinner. He knew his kyrios well: the big, bluff northerner was not good at lying. There had been a hollowness to his claims that the hearts of the Persians would not be in it. When that fat eunuch had asked if it was true that if they survived tomorrow they would be safe, what was it that Ballista had replied? Something like it being broadly true. The kyrios was not good at dissembling. But there again, privately, the kyrios was a worrier. It was part of what made him such a good soldier, the obsessive care for detail that made him such an excellent siege engineer. But this time surely he was right to be worried. This would be the Persians' last throw. Shapur and his nobles would have whipped their warriors into a lather of fanaticism and hatred. They would want to eat the defenders' hearts raw.

Although he did not want to, Demetrius kept remembering that first Persian assault. The fierce dark bearded men swarming up the ladders, long swords in their hands, murder in their hearts. And tomorrow it would happen again: thousand after thousand easterners over the parapets, laying about them with those terrible swords, cutting down those who stood in their way: an orgy of blood and suffering.

Needless to say, at gallinicium, when the cocks start crowing but in peacetime men are still fast asleep, that time well before dawn when the entourage of the Dux Ripae had been ordered to assemble, Calgacus had had to wake Demetrius from a troubled sleep, a sleep in which he endlessly chased an aged dream-diviner through the narrow, filthy back alleys of the town. Tantalizingly, the man had remained out of reach, while from behind had come the sounds of the pursuing Sassanids, the screams of men and women, the crackle of burning buildings.

'There is no time to lose,' the old Caledonian had said, not unkindly. 'They are all breakfasting in the great dining room. Everything will be all right. They are feeling good.'

Calgacus was not wrong. As Demetrius entered the dining room, where the lamps still burnt at this early hour, he was greeted with a wave of laughter. Ballista, Maximus, the centurion Castricius, the standard-bearer Pudens, the two remaining messengers, the one remaining scribe and ten of the equites singulares were crammed together eating fried eggs and bacon. Ballista called Demetrius over, shook his hand, had Maximus slide along to make him a space. If anything, Ballista and Maximus were in even higher spirits than they had been when they returned the previous night. They were laughing and joking with the other men. Yet Demetrius, the unwanted plate of food in front of him, wedged between the two men from the north, thought that he detected an underlying tension, a fragility to the humour. Maximus was teasing the Dux for drinking just water. Ballista said that he wanted to keep a clear head – a state he assured everyone that his bodyguard had never known; tonight he would drink until he sang maudlin songs, told them all he loved them as brothers, and passed out.

Breakfast finished, they trooped into the main courtyard of the palace to arm. They were quieter now; low conversations, short bursts of laughter. One after another men disappeared to the latrines. From the living quarters emerged Calgacus and Bagoas, carrying the parade armour of the Dux Ripae, unworn until now.

'If you are going to defeat the Sassanid King of Kings you should look like a real Roman general,' said Calgacus.

Ballista would have preferred his old war-worn mail shirt, but he did not argue. Calgacus always had a desire to send him off well turned out, a desire that Ballista all too often frustrated. He stood, arms outstretched, as Calgacus and Maximus buckled him into the breast and back plates of the muscled cuirass, fitted the ornate shoulder guards and the fringe of heavy leather straps designed to give protection to manhood and thighs. Ballista put on his sword belt then let Calgacus pin a new black cloak over his shoulders. Over the cloak Calgacus draped the wolfskin from the previous night against the chill of the early morning and handed Ballista his helmet. Ballista noted that the wolfskin had been cleaned, the helmet polished.

'If you don't defeat Shapur, sure you will turn up well dressed in Valhalla,' Maximus said in Ballista's native tongue.

'I hope that this is not the end of the long road for us, brother,' Ballista replied in the same language.

They set off from the main gate of the palace, silent now. In the darkness, torches flaring in the chill southerly breeze, they walked down through the military quarter, across the campus martius and to the northern end of the desert wall. As they climbed the steps by the temple of Bel to the north-west tower a sentry challenged them: Isangrim, the outlandish word correctly pronounced. Ballista gave the Latin response, Patria, fatherland or home.

Ballista greeted the men out on the battlements, a mixture of soldiers from Cohors XX and local conscripts, shaking each one by the hand. Then he climbed half up on to the artillery piece. He took off his helmet and his hair streamed away. The leather of his moulded cuirass gleamed in the torchlight. He addressed the men.

'Commilitiones, fellow soldiers, the time has come. Today is the final throw.' He paused. He had their full attention. 'The Persians are many. We are few. But their numbers will be nothing but an encumbrance. Our sword arms will have all the room they need.' There were rueful smiles in the torchlight. 'Their numbers do not signify. They are the effeminate slaves of an eastern despot. We are soldiers. We are free men. They fight for their master. We fight for our freedom, our libertas. We have whipped them before. We will whip them again.' Some of the soldiers drew their swords and began quietly to rap them against their shields.

'If we win today the noble emperors Valerian and Gallienus will declare this day a day of thanksgiving, a sacred day to be celebrated as long as the eternal city of Rome stands. The noble emperors will open the sacred imperial treasury. They will shower us in gold.' The soldiers laughed as one with Ballista. The elder emperor was not renowned for being open-handed. Ballista waited a moment, then, altering the tone of his voice, went on.

'Today is the last day of our suffering. If we win today we have won our safety with our own swords. If we win today we will have earned our fame, which will be remembered down the centuries. We will be remembered with the men who beat Hannibal at Zama, the men who beat the barbarian hordes of the Cimbri and Teutones on the plains of northern Italy, the men who beat the Asiatic multitudes of Mithridates the Great, humbled his oriental pride, and drove him to exile and a squalid suicide. If we win today we will be remembered from this day to the ending of the world.'

All the men cheered. The din of swords beaten on shields was deafening. The chant rang out: 'Ball-is-ta, Ball-is-ta.' It was picked up and, like a great wave, it rolled down the wall walks and towers of the embattled town.

When they left the tower it was the time of morning that the light of torches first turns a pale yellow then fades to nothing. They walked south the length of the wall. At every tower Ballista made a version of his speech. Always the listeners cheered; sometimes they chanted 'Ball-is-ta, Ball-is-ta'; sometimes they tipped their heads back and howled like wolves. By the time they had walked north again and taken their accustomed places high on the Palmyrene Gate the sun was hot on their backs.

'Dominus.' Two troopers of Cohors XX stood to attention. Between them stood a man in Persian dress. 'Marcus Antoninus Danymus and Marcus Antoninus Themarsas of the turma of Antiochus, Dominus. This here is a deserter. Came up to the north wall last night. Says his name is Khur. Says he can tell you all you want to know about the Persian plan of attack.'

At the sound of his name the Persian showed his teeth like a dog expecting a beating. The man's colourful clothes were grimed in dust. His loose long-sleeved tunic was unbelted. The belt must have been removed when he was searched and disarmed. Under the dirt his face was pale.

Ballista gestured him forward. The Persian came close, then prostrated himself. He bowed his forehead to the floor then got up to his knees, his arms out in supplication.

Demetrius watched the man with distaste as Ballista spoke to him in Persian. Before he replied the Sassanid prostrated himself again, covering his hands with his long sleeves. It was disgusting how these orientals abased themselves.

The man got to his knees again and lunged up at Ballista. The knife shone in the Persian's hand as he thrust it to stab below the northerner's cuirass. Quicker than Demetrius could follow, Ballista stepped forward and inside the blow. Seizing the Persian's arm with both hands, Ballista brought his knee up. There was a loud crack as the arm broke. The man screamed. The trooper called Danymus leapt forward and drove his sword between the shoulder blades of the Persian. The easterner fell forward. In a few seconds he had choked his life out.

'That was unnecessary, soldier,' Ballista said.

'Sorry, Dominus. thought…' Danymus's voice trailed away.

'I take it he was searched?'

'Yes, Dominus.'

'Who by?'

'I do not know, Dominus.'

'Not by you?'

'No, Dominus.' Danymus dropped his eyes to where the blade of his sword was dripping blood on the floor. He was sweating heavily. His crestfallen manner was at odds with the jaunty ornaments on his military belt: a sunburst, a flower, a fish, a man carrying a lamb and a swastika. It struck Demetrius that the Persian's killer was the only one present with a drawn blade.

'Very well. Take the corpse away.'

Danymus sheathed his weapon and the two troopers, taking a leg each, dragged the Persian towards the stairs. The man's face scraped along the floor. He left a trail of blood.

'Pick that fucking corpse up. Someone could hurt themselves if they slipped in that blood,' Castricius roared.

Ballista and Maximus looked questioningly at one another. If he had been disarmed when he deserted, someone must have given the Persian the knife. There was no time to investigate that now. They could search for the culprit tomorrow, if they were still alive. Almost imperceptibly, Ballista shrugged and then turned to look up and down the wall.

Unable to take in the sudden eruption of extreme violence followed by the equally abrupt return to something like normality, Demetrius watched as his kyrios took off his helmet. As Ballista handed it over, Demetrius realized that his own hands were shaking. The big northerner smiled a tight smile and said that he ought to show the boys that he was still alive. Demetrius became aware of the oppressive silence on the battlements, the sort of silence that precedes a thunderstorm. He watched Ballista climb up on to the frame of the nearest artillery piece and raise his arms above his head. Turning slowly so that all could see him, he waved. The southerly wind caught his sweat-flattened hair. The polished cuirass gleamed in the sunshine. There was a strange noise like a thousand men exhaling at once. Nearby a voice shouted, 'Flavius, Flavius.' Along the wall walk soldiers laughed and took up the chant: 'Flavius, Flavius,' 'Blondie, Blondie.'

'So that is what they really call me,' Ballista said as he climbed down.

'Among other things,' said Maximus.

When Demetrius tried to hand back the helmet, Ballista asked him to put it with the other things until it was needed. The young Greek went and placed the helmet on the carefully folded wolfskin next to the kyrios's shield which, after some consideration, the young Greek had earlier put out of harm's way in the corner of the tower.

From the front parapet, Ballista inspected the defences. The men waited quietly. Above their heads, the banners snapped in the breeze. Two towers to the south, where Turpio was stationed, flew the green vexillum of Cohors XX, the unit's name picked out in gold, the image of its patron deity, a proud Palmyrene warrior god, shifting. On the southernmost tower was larhai's battle standard, the red scorpion on a white background. Haddudad would be standing there. Ballista wondered if Iarhai himself would be present. Away two towers to the north was the red vexillum of the detachment of Legio IIII, on it the personifications of victory in blue, the eagle, the lion and the lettering all gold. The young patrician Acilius Glabrio would have taken his stand under that. Beyond that flew the yellow-on-blue four-petal flower of Anamu. Beyond that again, near the north-west corner of the defences, was the banner of Ogelos, a golden image of the goddess Artemis on a purple background. And, in the centre, above the main gate, the white draco of the Dux Ripae hissed and snapped. Here and there along the wall the air shimmered where the fires were heating the sand to a crackling, spitting heat.

The city of Arete was as ready as it could be to face this ultimate test. This wall had become the final frontier of the imperium, where West met East, where Romanitas, even humanitas itself faced Barbaricum. The irony that four of the six standards that floated over the wall of Arete could in no real sense be described as Roman was not lost on Ballista.

He looked out across the blasted plain at the Sassanid horde. It was the fourth hour of daylight. The easterners had taken a long time getting arrayed for battle. Was this reluctance? Had it proved hard for Shapur, his client kings and nobles to have their men stand once again in the dreadful battle line? Or was it calculation, the desire for everything to be right? Were they merely waiting for the sun to be pulled clear of the eastern horizon, out of their eyes as they gazed on the stark, lonely wall of Arete?

The Sassanids were ready now, a dark line which stretched across the plain. The trumpets and drums fell silent. Thousand upon thousand warriors waited in silence. The wind kicked up dust devils out on the plain. Then the drums thundered, the trumpets shrilled. The sun struck the golden ball which topped the great battle standard of the house of Sasan as it was carried across the front of the army. The Drafsh-i-Kavyan glinted, yellow, red and violet. Thin at first then filling, the chant of 'Mazda, Mazda,' came across the plain. The chant faltered and died, then a new one began, this one stronger: 'Shapur, Shapur.' His white horse kicking up the dust, the purple and white streamers flowing behind him, the King of Kings rode to the front of his army. He dismounted, climbed on to the high raised dais, settled himself on his golden throne and signalled that the battle should begin.

The trumpets struck a different note. The drums hit a different rhythm. A slight hesitation, and the Sassanid army moved forward. The screens were pulled aside and the ten remaining Sassanid artillery pieces spat missiles. Ballista nodded to Pudens, who raised the red flag. The twenty-five ballistae of the defenders answered. This phase of the day held few fears for Ballista. The odds in the artillery duel were heavily stacked in his favour.

As the Sassanid line began its long, long advance, Ballista called for his helmet and shield. Demetrius's fingers fumbled with the chin strap. Ballista leant forward, kissed Demetrius on the cheek, hugged him and whispered in his ear, 'We are all frightened.'

Armed, flanked by Maximus and Castricius, Ballista called the Persian boy Bagoas to his side to help identify the enemy.

When the Sassanid line crossed into extreme range of the defenders' artillery, Ballista nodded again to Pudens, who raised and lowered the red flag twice. The artillery of Arete switched its aim from the eastern artillery to their plodding infantry. Wicked iron-tipped bolts and carefully rounded stones shot away, seeking to pierce or smash the Persian mantlets and kill and maim the men who huddled behind them. As the first missiles struck, the Sassanid line seemed to ripple like a field of wheat when the wind gets up.

By the time the easterners passed the stretch of white-painted wall marking 200 paces from the town wall and came into the effective range of the defenders' artillery, their line had begun to fragment. Gaps had started to open between units. The gaudy banners under which marched the Sakas, Indians and Arabs, the men of King Hamazasp of Georgia and the warriors who followed the Lord Karen were falling behind. They still came on, but more slowly than the men under the banners of the scions of Shapur's family: Prince Sasan the hunter, Prince Valash, the Joy of Shapur, Queen Dinak of Mesene, Ardashir, King of Adiabene. The standard of the Lord Suren was still well to the front. In the forefront on the road which led to the Palmyrene Gate were the Immortals led by Peroz of the Long Sword, and the Jan-avasper, led by the Roman deserter Mariades.

'Shame, shame on those who dawdle,' muttered Bagoas. 'Truly they are margazan. They will be tormented in hell for eternity.'

'Quiet, boy,' hissed Maximus.

Ballista was lost in his own thoughts. The mere presence of the two guard units in the first wave of the attack was a double-edged weapon. It showed how furiously Shapur intended the attack to be pressed home. But, on the other hand, it showed that there were no reserves. If the first wave failed, there would not be another. 'So be it,' Ballista said under his breath.

When the leading Persian units were 150 paces from the wall, the red flag was raised and lowered three times and the archers among the defenders bent and released their bows. This time the Sassanids made no attempt to hold their shooting until they were just fifty paces from the town. As soon as Roman arrows struck, the Persians replied. The sky was darkened with their arrows. But Ballista noted with satisfaction that each Persian shot just when the mood took him: there were no disciplined volleys, and much of the shooting was very wild.

The Persian line was becoming ever more fragmented, the gaps between the units bigger. Now the men of the Lord Suren and those of Queen Dinak were falling behind – as were those of Mariades: 'Those who sacrifice themselves' were belying their name. Out in the plain, those who had already fallen behind were nearly stationary. Ballista watched a brightly clad horseman hectoring the Georgians. Bagoas confirmed that it was Hamazasp, their king. He had lost his son at the start of the siege. He had more reason than most to want revenge.

Ballista then saw something he had never seen on any field of battle. A line of men was deployed behind the Georgian warriors. They were wielding whips. A warrior turned to run. He was literally whipped back into position. Ballista looked at the other groups of warriors. Behind every one, even those still in the fore, was a line of men with whips. There was even one behind the Immortals. For the first time that day Ballista felt his confidence soar. He smiled.

Without warning, the warriors of Ardashir King of Adiabene hurled aside their mantlets and surged forward towards the wall. Ballista laughed for joy. This was not a charge born of courage or even bravado but of fear. Goaded and stung beyond endurance, the warriors of Ardashir just wanted to get it over one way or another. Throwing aside order and even their own protection, they ran forward. It was a classic flight to the front.

At an instant, the missiles of the defenders were concentrated on them. Hunched forward, stumbling as they carried their siege ladders, the Sassanids ran into the storm of iron and bronze. Men were falling. Ladders were dropped. More men were falling.

The first three ladders reached the wall. Up they swung, bouncing against the parapet. A simple rustic pitchfork pushed one ladder sideways. It fell, men jumping clear. A bronze cauldron appeared over another ladder and tipped white-hot sand down on those not quick enough to get away. The warriors around the foot of the third ladder looked at each other, then turned and ran.

The panic spread like fire on a Mediterranean hillside in high summer. Where before there had been an army, distinct units of warriors, now the plain was covered by an indiscriminate mass of running men, each with no thought but to save his skin, get away from the missiles which flashed towards him from the grim stone wall. The defenders did not spare them. Without any need for orders, they shot and shot again at the defenceless backs of their fleeing foes.

Along the battlements men laughed and roared. Competing chants broke out: 'Ball-is-ta, Ball-is-ta' – 'Rom-a, Rom-a' – 'Ni-ke, Ni-ke'. Some howled like wolves. The killing went on.

Ballista looked out across the plain. On the golden throne, high on the dais, Shapur sat immobile. Behind the King of Kings the great grey humps of his elephants stood impassive.

When the surviving Sassanids were out of range, all at once, as when a ship goes aground, any discipline vanished. Skins and jars of alcohol appeared as if by magic. Men tipped back their heads, gulping down the wine or local beer.

Maximus passed Ballista a jug of beer. The northerner found that his mouth was full of dust. He rinsed some of the thin, sour beer round and spat over the wall. The liquid landed on a Sassanid corpse. He felt disgusted. He drank some of the beer.

'I wonder how many of the fuckers we have killed – thousands, tens of thousands since they came here.' Castricius had his own jar of wine. Some of it was running down his chin.

Ballista did not know or care about the numbers of enemy dead. He felt very tired. 'Castricius, I want the sentries doubled tonight.'

The centurion looked taken aback but quickly recovered. 'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' He saluted and, still holding his wine jar, went off to give the necessary orders.

Ballista's progress along the wall was slow. Every man wanted to shake his hand, thump him on the back, praise him. First he walked south. Two towers from the gate under the green banner of Cohors XX he thanked and praised Turpio. The ex-centurion's face carried a look of unalloyed pleasure. He took off his helmet, his hair flattened by sweat. He and Ballista embraced, Turpio's face bristly against that of Ballista. At the southernmost tower Haddudad stood under the red scorpion of Iarhai. The mercenary captain explained that the Strategos Iarhai had been indisposed. Ballista said it was no matter when the noble Iarhai had such a captain as Haddudad. The northerner looked round. He could see no sign of Bathshiba. Quite surprisingly, it seemed that she had heeded his orders to avoid the wall and the fighting line. There was a knot of Iarhai's mercenaries in one corner of the tower. Momentarily Ballista wondered if they were concealing her. Then he pushed the idea away.

The walk back to the north was even slower. The copious amounts of alcohol that were being consumed had transformed the defences into the sort of Bacchanalian orgy usually discreetly veiled by secrecy and the darkness of night. Soldiers leant drunkenly on the parapet. They lay in groups on the slope of the internal earth bank. They passed skins and jugs of wine and beer from hand to hand. They roared out jokes and obscenities. The prostitutes were out in force. With no shame one girl was on her hands and knees; her short tunic turned up, she accommodated one soldier from behind, another in her mouth. Another girl was on her back, naked. The soldier who was thrusting vigorously between her legs was raised up on his braced arms to let two of his colleagues get to her face. As they knelt she turned her head from side to side, taking first one then the other in her mouth. Three or four more soldiers stood around drinking, waiting their turn. Ballista noted she was blond, big breasts, very large dark-brown nipples. He felt a sharp stab of lust. Allfather, but he could do with a woman.

Two towers north of the Palmyrene Gate the red vexillum of the detachment of Legio IIII flew. When Ballista climbed to the fighting platform on the roof, he found Acilius Glabrio sitting on a stool drinking wine. A good-looking slave boy was holding a parasol over his head. Another was fanning him. He was holding court over his soldiers, talking to them and praising them in the manner of a patrician, affable but always letting them remain aware of a certain distance. The young nobleman made no hurry to rise and greet his superior officer.

'Dux Ripae, I give you joy of your victory,' he said when eventually he was on his feet. 'A wondrous result, especially given all the things against you.'

'Thank you, Tribunus Laticlavius.' Ballista ignored the ambiguous implications the other had opened up. 'A lion's share of the victory must go to you and your legionaries of Legio IIII Scythica.' The northerner's words brought a cheer from the legionaries present. Acilius Glabrio did not look pleased. He took another long drink of wine.

'Some idiot of a messenger came here. The fool claimed to come from you. I knew it was nonsense. He said you had ordered the sentries doubled tonight. I told him in no uncertain terms that our Dux would not have issued such a ridiculous order. I sent him on his way.' Acilius Glabrio took another long drink. He looked flushed.

'I am afraid there has been a misunderstanding' – Ballista tried to keep his voice neutral – 'the messenger was from me. I have ordered the sentries doubled for tonight.'

'But why?' Acilius Glabrio laughed. 'The battle is done and over. We have won. They have lost. It is over.' He looked round for moral support from his legionaries. Some nodded. More avoided his eye. They looked down at the ground, unwilling to be drawn into the escalating tension between these two senior officers.

'Yes, we have won today. But there are huge numbers of Sassanid warriors still out there. Shapur will now be desperate. He will know that we will celebrate hard. It would be an ideal time for him to strike, when we have let our guard down because we think we are safe.' Ballista could hear the anger creeping into his own voice. He was thinking angry thoughts: You may be a good officer, but do not push me too far, you perfumed and crimped little fucker.

'Pshhah.' Acilius Glabrio made a noise of dismissal and gestured with his wine cup. Some of the wine slopped over the edge. 'There is nothing whatsoever to fear. Shapur could never force them to attack again tonight.' Acilius Glabrio was swaying slightly. 'I see no reason to stop my boys having a good time.' He smiled round at his men. A few smiled back. Noticing that he was not receiving unanimous support, the young nobleman scowled.

'Tribunus Laticlavius, you will order your men to double the sentries tonight.' No one could now mistake the anger in the big northerner's voice.

'I will not.' Acilius Glabrio glared defiance.

'You are disobeying the direct order of your superior officer.'

'No,' Acilius Glabrio spat, 'I am ignoring the ludicrous whim of a jumped-up hairy barbarian who should have stayed in the squalor of his native hut somewhere in the woods.'

There was a deep silence on the fighting platform. From beyond the tower came the sounds of revelry.

'Acilius Glabrio, you are removed from command. You will disarm yourself. Go to your home and place yourself under house arrest. You will report to the palace of the Dux Ripae tomorrow at the fourth hour of daylight to face court-martial.'

Ballista sought out a centurion. 'Seleucus, you will inform the Senior Centurion Antoninus Prior that he is to assume command of the detachment of Legio IIII here in Arete. He is to ensure that enough of his men remain sober to double the sentries tonight. And tell him that I want a blue lantern prepared on every tower. They are to be lit at the first sign of any enemy activity.'

'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' There was no emotion in the centurion's words.

Acilius Glabrio looked round. No one caught his eye. Realizing that what he had said was irrevocable, he raised his chin and assumed a pose of nobility wrongly arraigned. He put down the wine cup, undid his sword belt, pulled the cross belt over his head and let it fall to the floor. Looking neither right nor left, he walked to the stairs. After a moment's indecision his two slave boys scampered after him.