Fire in the East

VI

The distance as the crow flies from Palmyra to Arete was a matter of some debate. Turpio thought it only about z2o miles; larhai considered it nearer 150. It mattered little. Both accepted that it was far further by road- and what a road. It made the previous journey from Emesa to Palmyra seem like a gentle ride in an ornamental Persian game park, one of those parks the Persians called a paradise. The first three days were not too bad, a Roman road running north-east, with a village to stop at every night. On the fourth day they turned due east and, from then on, they followed an unmade caravan track. It took them three days to come down from the mountains. Then they were in the desert.

Despite his years in north Africa, Ballista, like so many northerners, expected a desert to consist of miles of golden sand dunes, something like a larger version of the beaches of his childhood but without the sea. The desert here was nothing like that. There was sand, but the dominant feature was the multitude of rocks, sharp, hard rocks lurking to lame animals, and under the rocks were scorpions and snakes waiting to wound humans.

The caravan crept from well to well. It averaged probably little more than ten miles a day. Every day was the same as the last. In the saddle before sunrise, then man and beast sweating in the heat of the day. Every -mile or two a halt would have to be called as an animal went lame or lost its load. The silence was broken only by the footfall of the animals, the creak of leather and the occasional mechanical curse from the men.

The seemingly endless repetition of the days put Demetrius in mind of Sisyphus, punished in the underworld by having to roll a huge stone up a sharp incline every day only to see it bounce back down again. Ballista thought of Skoll the wolf who chases the tail of the sun. Maximus worried a lot about snakes.

On the sixth day a range of steep hills appeared in the distance ahead. They were almost there: Arete could be seen clearly from the crest of the hills. Ballista set off at a fast canter, ahead of the column. Maximus, Demetrius and a newly appointed standard-bearer, a Palmyrene who on joining the Roman army had taken the ludicrously Roman name of Romulus, spurred after him. The draco he held snapped and whistled in the air.

Ballista sat on his pale horse on the summit and looked down at the city of Arete. It was about a mile away, and 300 feet below him. From this vantage point he could see into the city and make out its chief features. His first appraisal was quite encouraging.

On the far side, to the east, at the bottom of what appeared a steep cliff, the Euphrates. It justified its reputation as one of the great rivers, one of the limes imperii, the limits of the empire. It was enormous, as big as the Rhine or the Danube. Like them, it did not run in just one course. There were several islands in it, a largish one quite near the town. Yet so broad was the Euphrates that there was no realistic chance of the enemy crossing it without amassing a huge number of boats or building a bridge. Either way would take time, could not be hidden and could be opposed.

To the north and south the city was bounded by ravines. The engineer in Ballista imagined the waters from the winter rains gouging them out from the weaknesses in the rock over millennia. The southern ravine was the shorter. It ran close to the walls, rising to the level of the plain some 300 yards beyond the town. There was a bit more of a gap between the walls and the lip of the northern ravine, although of only a few yards. This ravine split in two, one spur curling around the western wall of the town, the other disappearing off towards the hills to the north-west. For the majority of their course both ravines were at least Zoo yards across – just within the range of effective artillery fire.

The obvious line of attack was from the west. From the foot of the hills a flat dun-coloured plain ran to the city walls. Apart from scattered rocks, it had no natural features whatsoever.

Ballista studied the scene with a professional eye. From this distance the walls looked fine; tall, and in good condition. He could see five rectangular towers projecting from the southern and eastern walls, three in the northern, and no fewer than fourteen in the western. The walls facing the plain and the Euphrates boasted fortified gates, each with its own flanking towers. A group of men with donkeys was approaching the main gate, probably peasants bringing in produce from the villages to the north-west. Using them as a measure, Ballista estimated that the wall facing the plain was almost a thousand yards long. That meant an average distance between the projecting towers of about sixty-six yards. Although the towers towards the northern end clustered closer together, undermining the average, a careful look indicated that no two towers were as far as a hundred yards apart. This was all good. The projecting towers allowed defenders to aim missiles along as well as away from the walls. Most of the gap between the towers was within effective javelin range; all was within effective bowshot. An attacker approaching the wall would thus face missiles coming from three directions. The builders of the walls of Arete had concentrated their resources (towers took time and cost money) on what appeared to be the right place.

The only obvious problem was the necropolis. Tomb after tomb – at least five hundred of them, he roughly calculated, probably more, stretching out about half a mile from the western wall, halfway to the hills. And they were like the ones at Palmyra: tall, square stone-built towers. Each one provided cover from missiles fired from the walls of the town. Each one was a potential artillery platform for attackers. Together, they were a huge, ready-to-hand source of materials to build siege works. They were going to make his life very difficult, in more ways than one.

Ballista shifted his attention to inside the walls. Beyond the desert gate the main street of Arete ran straight, other streets opening off it at set intervals at exact ninety-degree angles. The arrangement of neat rectangular blocks covered the town, breaking down only in the south-east corner, where there was a jumble of twisting lanes. In the north-west corner Ballista could see an open area, probably the campus martius, the army parade ground that Turpio had mentioned.

Ballista scanned the town again, this time for what was not there: no theatre, no circus, no obvious agora and, above all, no citadel.

His appraisal was mixed. The open area and the neat Hippodamian plan of regular town blocks would facilitate the assembly and movement of defending troops. But if the enemy breached the walls, there was no second line of defence, nor any suitable buildings from which to improvise one, and the regularity of the city's layout would then help the attackers. So many men were going to die in Arete the following spring.

'The kyrios is thinking!' Demetrius's furious stage whisper cut into Ballista's thoughts. He turned in the saddle. Maximus and Romulus looked impassively through and beyond their commander. Demetrius had turned his horse across the path.

'Let her through, Demetrius.'

Bathshiba smiled at the Greek boy, who was obviously trying not to glower back. She drew her horse alongside the northerner's.

'So, you are thinking, is it worth it?' she asked.

'In a sense. But I imagine not in whatever sense you mean.'

'Is it worth it for a famous Roman general and northern warrior such as yourself to travel all this way to defend a fly-blown dump like this? That is what I mean. And a fly-blown dump full of luxurious, decadent Syrian effeminates.'

'My people tell a story – obviously in the few moments when we are not painting ourselves blue, getting drunk or killing each other – that one evening a strange man appeared before Asgard, the home of the gods, and offered to build a wall around it if the gods let him have Freyja, the beautiful goddess.'

'I am not sure that my father, or your wife, would appreciate your attempts at paying me compliments.'

Ballista laughed. 'I am sure they would not. And I am sure that you are not here just for my company.'

'No, my father wants your permission to send a messenger ahead so that our people are ready. His messenger can also tell the town councillors, so that they come to meet you at the gate.'

Ballista thought for a moment. 'Of course your father may send a messenger to your own people. But I will send one of my staff to tell the other councillors. Thank your father for his offer.' That is one political upset avoided, thought Ballista.

Bathshiba wheeled her horse. 'And did the stranger get her?'

'No, the gods tricked him. The stories of the north tend not to have happy endings.'

Anamu was waiting for the new Dux Ripae at the gate of Arete.

The column of dust was leaving the hills and heading for the town. At least the new barbarian overlord had the good manners, or had been well enough advised, to send a messenger. In fact, almost everything had been ready for some days and, that morning, the scouts that Anamu had posted on the crest of the hills had reported that the new Dux Ripae was at hand. Ogelos's men had been there as well.

Anamu looked across the road at Ogelos. As often, Anamu was irritated by the ostentatious simplicity of his dress: the plain tunic to mid-calf belted with a white cord, the nondescript pointed white hat, the bare feet. The image of a simple, otherworldly priest was undercut by Ogelos's ridiculously trimmed and tweaked two-pointed beard (going grey, Anamu noted with satisfaction). Ogelos held a palm branch in one hand, a jug, bowl and two knives in the other. He stood by a tall vase of holy water and a portable altar. A haze of heat wavered above it. The fire had been lit in good time; there was no longer any smoke. Ogelos was organized. Anamu had never underestimated him.

Behind Ogelos was an acolyte in a deliberately contrasting magnificent costume in scarlet and white. He held an incense burner and a rattle. Behind the boy, and clad like Ogelos, were two burly priests waiting with the sacrificial bull.

The other priests were standing back towards the gate. All the religious groups in Arete were represented: the priests of Zeus Megistos, Zeus Kyrios, Zeus Theos, Atargatis, Azzanathcona and Aphlad, of Bel and Adonis, and many more. Even the priests of the groups that denied the gods of the others existed were there – the head of the synagogue, and the leader of the Christians.

Legionaries from the vexillatio of Legio IIII Scythica stationed in Arete lined the last hundred yards of the road to the gate. Their presence was both to show respect for the new Dux and to keep back the demos, the lower classes – not that any trouble was expected. Their commander, Marcus Acilius Glabrio, the only one mounted, sat on a very fine chestnut in the middle of the road blocking the gateway exuding an air of calm superiority.

On Anamu's side of the road stood the majority of the council, bedecked in embroidered togas, bracelets, amethysts and emeralds, and their precious walking sticks, with silver knobs, and golden tops wonderfully carved. There was little division between religion and politics in Arete. Most of the priests were also councillors, and every man was the head of religion in his household. The real divisions were those between the three leading men of the town.

In our fathers' day there must have been thirty caravan protectors in Arete, thought Anamu. Even two years ago there had been a dozen. But it had taken skill to avoid exile, to remain alive when the city first opened its gates to the Persians, then rose up and massacred their garrison. Now there were three. Ogelos had survived, prospered, his treacheries masked by his false piety as priest of Artemis. larhai had fled to the Romans, returned and organized the massacre. He had always been like a bull at a gate; sudden changes of heart, a burning certainty that he was right. Anamu had not had strong feelings about either the arrival of the Persians or their violent end. He saw himself as a tamarisk bending with the wind, possibly one of those groves of tamarisks on this side of the Euphrates, one that conceals a wild boar. Anamu played with the image; poetry was very dear to his soul.

The column of dust was high now, its leading point halfway across the plain. Everything was ready. As the year's archon, the leading magistrate, it was Anamu's duty to make sure it was. Barley, hay, suckling pigs, full-grown pigs, dates, sheep, oil, fish sauce, salt fish – all had been delivered to the palace of the Dux Ripae. He ticked them off in his mind; all were to be paid for by the Dux. Profit and poetry sat easily together in Anamu's soul.

Further along the road into the plain the band struck up. The drums and stringed instruments laid down fast, chopping rhythms while the whistles soared above. A children's choir joined in, to herald the adventus, the ceremonial arrival of the new Dux.

First rode a standard-bearer, with a standard in the shape of a dragon; the wind whistling through it made it writhe and hiss like a real beast. A couple of lengths behind came the new Dux Ripae. He cut a dramatic, if barbaric figure.

'You bastard, larhai!' Anamu was not sure if he had said it out loud. The music would cover it anyway. You devious bastard! Anamu had-expected to see Iarhai. He had known for some time that larhai was travelling with the Dux (he expected that Ogelos knew it as well). But he had not expected to find Iarhai's men leading the column. It looked less like larhai was travelling with the new Dux than that he was escorting him, protecting him. 'You conniving reptile, you…' Anamu stopped at the same time as the band and choir.

The Dux Ripae pulled his horse to a halt. He lifted his right hand, palm forward, the ritual gesture of benevolent greeting and power. The townsmen of Arete lifted their right hands in return and began the acclamations.

'May the gods keep you! May the gods keep you! May the gods keep you!'

You camel-fucking bastard! Outwardly, Anamu was waving his palm branch and chanting with the rest. Inwardly, he was raging. You fucking pimp! How could you prostitute your only daughter?

Bathshiba and Iarhai had walked their horses forward. They halted just behind the Dux. larhai caught Anamu's eye, and his battered face smiled a slight smile.

Anamu had not survived the time of troubles by giving way to his emotions. By the time the chanting was done he was fully in control. He watched as Ogelos dipped the palm branch into the tall vase, flicked the holy water, threw handfuls of incense on to the altar, poured a libation and drew his knife across the throat of the bull. The bull behaved and died in a not inauspicious way.

The sophist Callinicus of Petra stepped forward to make the formal speech of welcome. Ogelos claimed to prefer simple truths simply said, and larhai made no secret that display oratory bored him, but Anamu had been looking forward to it. Appreciation of the art of rhetoric was one of the signs of a cultured man.

'With fortunate omens have you come from the emperors, brilliant as a ray of the sun that appears to us on high…' The introduction, based on joy as was the tradition, had been solid enough. How would he deal with the main body of the speech, focussing on the subject's actions, his native city or nation and his family? 'You will face up to danger like a good helmsman, to save the ship as the waves rise high…' Straight to theoretical virtues, a good move. The orator had wisely avoided mention of the Dux's origins; and they knew nothing as yet of his actions. It continued in the same vein, courage followed by justice, temperance and wisdom, and finally, the epilogue, 'We have come to meet you, all of us, with joy… calling you our saviour and fortress, our bright star… a happy day dawns out of darkness.' Callinicus ended with a sophist's flourish, breathing heavily and wiping away the sweat to show the effort of extempore composition.

Not bad, thought Anamu – although Callinicus's stuff always smelt of the lamp. It would be interesting to see how the barbarian got on with his reply. It was tradition to speak of having long yearned to see the gymnasia, theatres, temples and harbours of the city. This would be difficult enough, even if the Dux were not a barbarian, with a city he had almost certainly never heard of before his orders came, and which lacked gymnasia, theatres and, unsurprisingly in the middle of a desert, harbours.

'The Dux began:

'In the past I was distressed and grieved. I could not behold the loveliest city on which the sun shines down. Now I see her, I cease from grief, I shake off distress. I see all I longed for, not as in a dream, but the walls themselves, the temples, the colonnades, the whole city a harbour in the desert.'

Impressive the way he cut straight into what would normally be the second section. The whole city as a harbour was clever. Now he was off into a lengthy encomium of the mighty Euphrates – river and god, unsleeping guardian, unwearying road, bringer of food and riches. After nature came nurture: the people of Arete were hospitable, law-abiding, dwelt in harmony and treated strangers as they did each other. All very well – despite the unintentional irony of the last point.

The Dux ran through accomplishments and actions and returned in the brief epilogue to the city as a harbour in the sea of the desert.

Anamu felt his uneasiness lift. This barbarian had been worth waiting for. He spoke good Greek. He understood eloquence and speechmaking. Anamu could deal with him.

The civil side of the ceremony of adventus had passed off well. Now Ballista issued a volley of commands: he felt it was important to be seen to be in charge from the beginning. First he would sacrifice to the tyche of the city and other gods for the safe arrival of the column, then he would go to his official residence, the 'palace'. In two hours' time he would address the council.

Civic affairs may have gone without a hitch at the gate, but the same could most certainly not be said for the military side of things.

A military officer, his horse across the road, had blocked Ballista's entry into the town.

'Marcus Acilius Glabrio, Tribunus Laticlavius, commanding the vexillatio of Legio 1111 Scythica in Arete.' His accent and manner would have shown him to be from an old Roman senatorial family if his title Laticlavius had not already done so.

He had not dismounted to meet the new Dux. Ballista took one look at the supercilious young man on his elaborately outfitted horse and disliked him instantly.

'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' Ballista had never heard the standard army formula spoken with less respect.

'I will inspect your men tomorrow at the second hour of daylight on the campus martius,' said Ballista.

'As you wish.' Glabrio did not add Dominus. This was proving something of a habit among the officers in the eastern provinces.

'And then at the fourth hour we will inspect the accounts of your unit in the military headquarters building.'

'I will tell the exactor and librarius.' Glabrio's tone implied that he left such things to his accountant and secretary.

His attitude promised trouble, but at least, so far, he had not directly disobeyed orders – unlike the commander of Cohors XX. Again, as at Seleuceia, there was no sign of Gaius Scribonius Mucianus. There was no likelihood that Ballista would ever forget the tribune's name now. What was this bastard Scribonius doing? This second deliberate snub was even worse than the first. It was one thing that Scribonius had failed to travel to Antioch to greet his new Dux, even though such had been his orders, it was quite another not even to bother to go to the city gate. It could only be a deliberate attempt to undermine the authority of Ballista's new command, to wreck the northerner's mission almost before it had started.

Ballista looked around. There was Turpio, clearly wishing he was somewhere else.

Glaring at him, Ballista said, 'Pilus Prior, I want Cohors XX on the campus martius at the third hour tomorrow. The unit accounts will be inspected at the sixth hour.'

Turpio curtly acknowledged the order. Whatever rapport the long journey had fostered between the two professional soldiers had dropped away as if it had never existed. Turpio's face was closed and hostile.

'Tell your tribune that if he values his future he should attend.'

Ballista was certain that Turpio knew more about Scribonius's absence than he would willingly say. Accepting that he would find out nothing in front of a large audience of troops and half the population of the town, he turned away.

Having made sacrifice, and bathed in his new palace, Ballista walked to the temple of Artemis. There, at the threshold of what passed for a bouleuterion, town hall, he stood and waited. He did not feel at all nervous about the speech he had to make now. It was not like his earlier one; this one had a hard edge of reality to it.

The precinct of Artemis took up the whole block. The council used a smallish building in the south-east corner. It said a lot about the political balance between rich and poor in this town that the bouleuterion could be removed from the agora, that the councillors felt free to meet in seclusion, away from the common people.

'Dominus, would you please step this way?' said the archon.

Demetrius whispered his name in Ballista's ear. Anamu was a strange-looking man. It was not intentional. His dress was a formal toga with a narrow purple stripe and his full beard and receding hair were conventionally cut. It was his head that was the problem: his face was far too long and his eyes were far too wide, their turned-down corners matching those of his mouth.

Anamu led them into a U-shaped room containing about forty men, the councillors of Arete. 'Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Egregius, Dux Ripae, welcome.' Anamu sat down where his name was inscribed in the first tier. Only larhai and Ogelos the priest of Artemis were already seated there. Many of the other names in the front tier had been defaced. Obviously, politics was a deadly business in this town. These three survivors were the men who really mattered. Yet it would not be safe to discount the other councillors. Ballista saw that most of the priests who had met him at the gate sat as councillors, including the hirsute Christian priest.

It was quiet. Motes of dust moved in the sunlight. Ballista began to speak.

'Councillors, you must prepare yourselves for very great sacrifices. The Sassanid Persians are coming. Next spring they will advance up the Euphrates. They will be led by Shapur, the King of Kings himself. As the people of Arete massacred his garrison last year, he will stop at nothing to take the city. If he succeeds, the living will envy the dead.' Ballista paused. 'I have been sent by the emperors Valerian and Gallienus with full powers to ready Arete for defence. We can hold out until the great Valerian brings an imperial field army to our aid. But it will be difficult. I will need your unquestioning help. You can be sure that if we do not all hang together, we will all hang separately on the cross of crucifixion.'

It had been a long, long day. Ballista found it hard to believe that he had seen Arete for the first time that morning. He sat sideways on the low wall of the terrace. The Euphrates was 250 feet below him. There were groves of tamarisk and the occasional date palm on this side; on the other cultivated fields stretched almost as far as he could see. A pair of plovers chased each other over the river. Julia would love it here. Bathshiba would too.

'I will have a drink, thank you.'

Maximus poured the watered wine and put the jug down carefully. He sat on the wall, one knee bent, facing Ballista. Neither felt the need for formality when alone.

'It is not good, your palace.' Maximus gave the word a strange emphasis and smiled. 'It is a death trap.' He took a drink. 'The first courtyard is all right, just the one great gate. The second has no security at all. There is a gate in the north wall for the stables, a gate in the south for the kitchens, and doors connecting back to the first courtyard and through here.' He nodded at the private apartments of the Dux. 'The doors are not the real problem. The walls are low, easy to climb. There is open ground to the south but buildings come right up to us on the north. In at least three places you could jump from one roof to another.' He took another drink and picked up an olive.

'Demetrius.' Ballista waved the young Greek over from where he had been waiting politely across the terrace. 'Help yourself to a drink, and sit down.'

The boy sat cross-legged on the floor.

'We must get some furniture out here.' As Ballista spoke, Demetrius produced a hinged wooden writing block and, with a stylus, wrote in the wax. 'So how does it look?'

Demetrius produced a piece of scrap papyrus. He studied his neat small writing. 'Overall, fine, Kyrios. In fact, we have too many provisions, far too much wine. We do not have enough papyrus but, apart from that, we have no worries about quantity or quality. The problem lies with the cost. I will make enquiries in the agora before we pay out a denarius to the archon, that man Anamu.'

'That's easterners for you,' said Maximus. 'They know an illiterate northern barbarian eats like a pig and drinks like a fish, and then they cheat him.'

The Greek secretary looked slightly pained. The three drank and ate in silence.

Ballista watched a boat make its crossing from the far bank. The current was very strong and the boat had set out a long way upstream to compensate. The two oarsmen pulled hard, taking the opportunity to rest when they could get into the shelter of one of the islands. They set off again. The angle looked right to bring them to the main jetty at the foot of the steep steps up to the porta aquaria, the water gate.

From the doorway came a strangled coughing, the closest thing to a formal introduction Calgacus could manage. Mamurra took it as such, and walked out from the portico.

Ballista got off the wall. 'Praefectus.'

'Dominus.' They shook hands.

'Please give me your report.'

'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' Mamurra stood very straight. 'I have chosen twenty men from Cohors XX to be your equites singulares, your horse guard. Ten for the nightwatch, ten for the day. I have posted two at the main gate, one each at the stable and kitchen gates, and another at the door to your apartments. The remaining five on duty are to be in the guardroom opening off the first courtyard. When off duty the men remain billeted and the horses stabled where they were.'

'It is good, Praefectus.'

Mamurra stood more at ease. 'All your staff are settled into the servants' quarters in the southern range. They have been fed. It has been a long journey. I gave all except one messenger leave for the night. I hope that is all right.'

Mamurra declined a drink when offered one by Ballista. He left and Ballista asked Calgacus to fetch Bagoas; he could sing some songs from his homeland to pass the evening. One Moment in Annihilation's Waste One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste – The Stars are setting and the Caravan Starts for the Dawn of Nothing – Oh, make haste!

The words of the Persian boy's song carried out into the immense Euphrates twilight. Even Demetrius and Calgacus, who could not understand a word, enjoyed it. Each was bound to his fate, like a dog to a cart. They were all a long way from home.

Across the moonlit city a man sat in a tightly shuttered room. Often he looked up from what he was doing to check that he was still alone.

If reading was a rare skill, almost entirely confined to the upper classes and a tiny minority of specially educated slaves, how much rarer was the ability to read in silence. Granted, as he followed his moving finger his lips formed the words, and he mumbled now and then, but he was proud of the accomplishment. In any case, his occasional mumblings were largely inaudible – and just as well, given his reading matter.

He knew he should not be so proud of his skill but at least he never boasted about it. Circumstances ruled it out: self-regard could jeopardize his mission.

He tipped the broken pieces of wax into the small metal bowl and placed it on the brazier. He opened the hinged wooden writing tablet. It was empty of wax. The words were written directly on to the bare wood. He re-read them for the third time. The northern barbarian sent by the emperors has arrived. He brings no troops. He talks of Valerian arriving with an army next year. He does not say when. People do not believe him. He does not expect to be attacked until next spring. The rains are late this year. When they are over, if it were possible to gather the army early and bring it here, it might arrive before the defences are ready. Was it not in February that the King of Kings crushed the Roman aggressors at Meshike, may the town now be known forever as Peros-Shapur, and killed the war-loving emperor Gordian III? In any event, I will unravel their sly secrets, unsettle their minds, and point my fingers at the weak places in their walls.

With an old stylus, he stirred the now molten wax. With a pair of tongs he picked up the bowl and poured the wax into the recess in each of the leaves of the writing tablet. Putting the bowl aside, he smoothed the surface.

He knew that many would call him traitor, many of those close to him, those he loved. Only a few would understand. But what he was doing was not designed to win passing praise from his contemporaries. It was a work to last for all time.

The wax had set. He took a new stylus and began to inscribe the blandest of letters in the smooth, blank surface. My dear brother, I hope that this finds you as it leaves me. The rains are late this autumn…