Lion of the Sun

Hidden in the unlit colonnade, Ballista waited. It was the last hours of the night, some time after the start of the fourth watch. Away from the palace to the south, across the open space of the citadel, he could make out furtive figures in the darkened temple of the Tyche of Zeugma. Without Ballista consciously directing it, his right hand moved: first to the dagger on his right hip, freeing it an inch or so from its sheath and snapping it back, then to the sword hanging on his left, drawing it a couple of inches and pushing it home again, finally to the healing stone tied to the scabbard. What was going to happen was all bad. But he had no choice but to play his part.

At last he heard them moving up the hill; a confused murmur of voices, the rattle of weapons, no attempt at concealment. As the first of them came through the gate, the torches they carried flickered through the leaves of the fruit trees. Snatches of boisterous, rough voices reached Ballista. The men emerged from the orchard fully armed for war — helmets, mail shirts, shields and weapons. But the column was in no order. The soldiers walked with friends from their units, talking in loose groups. The centurions present led some of them off to left and right. In no time at all, the palace was surrounded.

There goes all hope of escape, thought Ballista. His mind had been running on slipping away on the far side of the citadel; down through the trees, over the low wall, across the roofs, saddling Pale Horse and riding west, following the route Castricius's man had shown Calgacus and the others. Of course it had been an idle thought. Even if he reached Antioch, how would he get Julia and the boys away? Come to that, what welcome would Gallienus give him in the west? He remembered entertaining a similar idea before the siege of Arete. Childish fantasies. It was time he put such things aside. Still, it was good of Castricius to have reunited him with Pale Horse and his own weapons. He touched the healing stone again.

The ring of armed men around the palace began to chant.

'Come out! Show yourselves! Quietus and Macrianus, come out! You cannot hide from the soldiers!'

Nothing happened. The soldiers clashed their weapons on their shields. Their chants became impatient. Flasks of drink passed from hand to hand. One or two whistled, called out obscenities.

This cannot go on for long, thought Ballista.

A rectangle of orange light sprang out from the palace as a door opened.

'Come out! Come out!'

Quietus and Macrianus the Younger stepped out. There was tension in their movements, none of the usual arrogant swagger.

Macrianus the Younger raised his right arm in an oratorical pose. The noise from the soldiers gradually fell away. Torches hissed in the night air.

'Soldiers of Rome, what is the meaning of this? Have you forgotten your disciplina? Return to your quarters.'

'Never! Never!' The men roared back.

Now Quietus came forward. His arms were stretched out in entreaty. 'Remember our youth, our blameless lives. Have pity on our father's grey hairs. Do not put us in this danger. We have not asked for this. We have done nothing to deserve it.'

A few soldiers laughed. Then, as if at an order, they all began a rhythmic chant:

'Quietus imperator, Augustus free from all guilt, may the gods keep you. Macrianus imperator, Augustus free from all guilt, may the gods keep you.'

Over and over, the words were chanted. Quietus and Macrianus the Younger made half-hearted gestures of unwillingness.

From the gloom, Ballista listened and watched. He had heard that, in some Scythian tribes, a man's ritual reluctance to rule was overcome by pelting him with mud. It seemed a custom the Romans could adopt with profit.

A new chant boomed out. 'The good faith of the soldiers, happiness!' Louder and louder it was repeated. 'Fidei militum feliciter! Fidei militum feliciter!'

Slowly, Macrianus the Lame made his way out of the palace to stand between his sons. He raised his walking stick. The silver head of Alexander glinted. The soldiers instantly stopped chanting. The father gestured Quietus to speak.

'Fellow soldiers, it is a heavy burden you wish to place on our shoulders. Commilitiones, you know that neither my brother nor myself has sought this honour. Yet the gods know our love for the Res Publica.'

Quietus paused, as if in deep thought — the effect slightly spoilt by the half-smile on his weak mouth.

'Commilitiones, we hear your command. The soldiers of Rome are the sword and shield of the imperium, the embodiment of our ancient virtus. But to be Augustus is not just to be a military commander. Our minds would be easier, our burden less heavy, if we knew that the senate and people also called us to the purple.'

As Quietus finished, lights blazed out from the temple behind the soldiers. Through its open doors Ballista could see a group of civilians gathered around the statue of the Tyche of Zeugma. The ring of soldiers opened to let them pass.

Maeonius Astyanax, toga-clad and backed by other senators, halted before the candidates for the throne. In the torchlight, his eyes were like pebbles under water.

'Too long the ship of state has drifted, no firm hand on the rudder. Valerian was old and ineffectual. Now he is gone, may the gods have mercy on him. His son, Gallienus, lies sunk in luxury and debauchery. Shunning the senate house, the forum and the army camp, he disports himself with pimps and prostitutes, actors and barbarians. Fit only to be dragged with a hook, he brings disgrace and disaster. The throne of the Caesars calls for vigorous young men of courage and decency. The senate calls for Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus and Titus Fulvius Iunius Macrianus. Take the purple. Each of you: trust us, trust yourself!'

The senators took up the call: 'Crede nobis, crede tibi; crede nobis, crede tibi.'

At the twenty-fifth repetition, another group of civilians came forth from the temple. The man at their head looked overawed. He was sweating heavily.

'I am Barlaha, son of Antiochus, a member of the Boule of this city.'

Some of the soldiers, well refreshed with wine, sniggered. Barlaha stumbled on.

'Rome has made one city of the civilized world. She has given all who dwell in the imperium citizenship. All the citizens of Rome speak through us, the Boule of Zeugma, when we call Quietus and Macrianus to the throne.'

The two young men inclined their heads in acceptance.

'The immortal gods grant long life to Augustus Quietus, long life to Augustus Macrianus. Happy are we in your imperium, happy the Res Publica.'

Like a well-trained chorus, the audience chanted.

Two small groups of soldiers encircled Quietus and Macrianus. A flat, oval infantry shield was placed on the ground before each brother. They stood on them. The soldiers bent down and carefully, if with a certain unsteadiness, lifted the shields and raised Quietus and Macrianus to the heavens.

Macrianus the Younger, wobbling just a little, waved and made a fair show of imperial dignitas. Quietus, pouchy little eyes darting here and there, could contain himself no longer. Now and then clutching at the top of a soldier's head for balance, he giggled in open exultation.

Once the two young men were safely back on terra firma, their father embraced them and spoke.

'This has been so sudden, so unexpected, the hands of the gods must be behind it. Man must always bow to the dictates of the divine. But it has been so sudden that the necessary regalia is not prepared.' The old man produced two ropes of gold, glittering with jewels. 'These were your late mother's necklaces; for now, use them as diadems.'

Quietus held up his hand. 'Thank you, Father, but no; such a female adornment would not be right. There will be nothing womanly about our reign,' he simpered.

A couple of cavalrymen approached. 'Use these gilded horse trappings, Domini.'

This time it was Macrianus the Younger who demurred. 'Many thanks, commilitiones, but what has been worn by a beast would impair the dignitas of an Augustus.'

There was an awkward pause. A centurion hissed, 'Now, you fools.' Two standard bearers shuffled up. They removed the gold collars from their necks. Evidently overcome by the occasion — or by alcohol — they had forgotten their lines. The new emperors snatched the offerings and placed them on their own heads.

Servants swarmed out. Two purple cloaks were produced and draped around the shoulders of Quietus and Macrianus. In front of each was placed a low altar on which burned the sacred fire of an emperor. Behind them, men ran about fixing imperial symbols to the front of the palace: eagles, the shield of four virtues, wreaths, bay leaves for victory, oak leaves for saving citizens' lives.

All of this rather gave the lie to the 'impromptu' nature of the events, thought Ballista. He would not be able to remain lurking in anonymity behind a column for long. His own unwanted part in these ghastly theatrics was fast approaching. He fiddled with his sword.

It was Quietus who made the expected formal speech of acceptance.

'Commilitiones, senators, citizens of Rome, it is with humility that we accede to your demand and take the imperium. Our joint reign will be marked by courage, clemency, justice and piety.' He gestured at the golden shield now being hammered to the wall behind him on which 'Virtus', 'Clementia', 'Iustitia' and 'Pietas' were inscribed.

'It is gratifying to us that the senate, people and soldiers unanimously call us to the throne,' continued Quietus. 'All shall benefit. The senate shall return to its ancient dignitas. Our consilium shall be open to senators. The senate house will be purged of informers. Senators will be free of unjust condemnations and confiscations of their estates. The great military commands will again be open to men of the senatorial order.'

The senators at least cheered this with enthusiasm.

'To the people, their ancient libertas will return. We decree that ten days of games will be held, starting as soon as gladiators and animals can be gathered.'

The town councillors of Zeugma, as the only representatives of the people on hand, made suitably grateful noises.

'Fitting reward must be given to the loyalty of the soldiers — two gold pieces to every man with the standards. But to those of our commilitiones present, to those through whom the gods brought us to the throne, much more is due.'

Quietus had his audience now.

'The majority of the Praetorian Guard was lost with Valerian. All those here will be enrolled in the reformed unit, and accrue the resulting increases in pay.'

The men cheered. Shouts of 'Rich soldier' broke out. Quietus gestured for silence. He was ignored until his father joined in.

'And a donative — five gold pieces and a pound of silver per man,' Quietus continued.

The shouts returned, much louder, swelling into unison: 'Dives miles! Dives miles!'

Again Macrianus the Lame had to calm the throng.

Quietus resumed. 'A new guard needs a new commander. A man of loyalty. As our new Praetorian Prefect, it is right that Maeonius Astyanax should be first to take the sacramentum in our reign.'

Chin high, short beard jutting, Astyanax stepped up and took the military oath:

'By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the emperors' commands, never desert the standards or shirk death, to value the safety of the emperors above everything.'

Ballista listened to the words with misery. He had broken the sacramentum he had made to Maximinus Thrax and earned himself the undying hatred of that emperor's daemon. He had broken his oath to Valerian. Now he was about to take another sacramentum, one he had no intention of keeping. But all this was nothing. It was breaking the oath to Shapur that plagued him: Spill my brains on the ground… my brains and the brains of my sons too.

Next up was Gaius Calpurnius Piso Frugi, the new governor of Syria Coele. He was followed by the other two governors present, Annius Cornicula of Syria Phoenice and Achaeus of Palestine. Then it was the turn of Ballista, the Vir Perfectissimus, Prefect of Cavalry, as he was announced.

As Ballista stepped out, most of the soldiers cheered perfunctorily, but one group showed real enthusiasm. The eagle, lion and Capricorn on their shields showed them to be from Legio IIII Scythica. They must have been part of the detachment that fought under Ballista at Circesium. The distinctive angular face and huge hooked nose of one of the legionaries confirmed it — Ahala, Aharna, his name was something like that. His was not a face you would easily forget. Ballista waved.

Having mouthed the words of the oath in a daze, Ballista found himself part of the new emperors' entourage. He watched as everyone else took the sacramentum; those of importance as individuals, others in groups. The ceremony was far from over. When the oath-taking was done, they would process down to the main army camp and tour selected temples in the town before climbing the hill again for dedications in the temple of the Tyche of Zeugma and an audience in the palace.

Ballista supposed the ceremony had been well enough planned. Certainly Astyanax had devoted much effort to it; even trawling through old acts of the senate to select exactly right 'spontaneous' acclamations. Holding it at night had added some drama. Allowing only those soldiers already selected for the Praetorian Guards had been sensible. The unexpectedly generous donative had generated genuine excitement. Ballista could see the point of the theatricals with the diadems. It was meant to show that the new emperors had the dignitas of the imperium at heart, were close to their soldiers and could stand up to their father. Of course it was all nonsense.

Although the ceremony was passing off well, the same could not be said for the realities of the bid for power. Admittedly, all Roman provinces east of the Aegean had come over, including the initially uncertain military ones of Egypt, Arabia, Osrhoene and Syria Phoenice. But no governor in the west had declared for the sons of Macrianus, despite the sending of urgent letters accompanied by large bribes. And there was no possibility of winning over the vital Danubian armies now Ingenuus was leading his own revolt.

Far worse than all this, the Persians were on the move. Bypassing Edessa, they had crossed the Euphrates and taken Samosata. Macrianus the Lame had adopted what he called a strategy of containment. In the face of the Persian advance, Samosata had been hurriedly abandoned. The twenty thousand Roman troops there had been divided. Ten thousand had rushed south to Zeugma with the emperors-to-be. Five thousand had been sent north to reinforce the governor of Cappadocia, Pomponius Bassus. The final five thousand had been ordered to Doliche to block the road west. Ballista saw the latter as the problem. Unsupported, they had no chance of preventing Shapur riding west to Cilicia and beyond, should he wish.

Of course, there was another problem looming in the east. The Lion of the Sun. Still no word had come back from Odenathus. No one knew what the Lord of Palmyra would do. Would he join the revolt? Would he remain loyal to Gallienus? Was it possible he would throw in his lot with the Persians? Only a couple of months before, Ballista had been there when Odenathus had sent envoys to Shapur. They had been rejected, but events had moved fast, and a second approach might yield a very different outcome.

And then there were the gods. Macrianus the Lame had consulted widely among the oracles of the east. The responses were far from uniformly favourable. At the shrine of Aphrodite Aphacitis in the mountains between Byblos and Heliopolis was a sacred lake. If the offerings thrown in were accepted by the goddess, they sank, light and heavy alike. If rejected, they did not. The gifts of Macrianus — silk and linen, gold and silver — all had floated. The oracle of Apollo Sarpedon at Seleuceia in Cilicia had been similarly robust. When the envoys of Macrianus had asked about the success of the uprising, the god gave a reply that no amount of sophistry could make favourable: Leave my temple, guileful baleful ones, Who cause pain to the glorious race of gods.

Since breaking his oath to Shapur, the gods were much on Ballista's mind. Were all the gods the same? If not, could his northern gods protect his sons from the southern gods of the Greeks and Romans? And even were they able to, would they wish to? Somehow, he doubted it. But he prayed anyway: Allfather, Hooded One, Death-blinder…

The bad news had reached Zeugma six days before. The Persians had marched from Samosata. With no warning, they had appeared before the walls of Doliche to the north-west of Zeugma. Outnumbered, the Roman force of five thousand stationed there could do nothing but watch them sweep on to the west. The following day, an exhausted scout had ridden into Zeugma with the further news that the enemy were taking the road up into the Amanus mountains, heading for the Amanikai Gates. Once through that undefended mountain pass, Shapur's force, variously estimated at fifteen, thirty and fifty thousand men, would have the rich territory of Cilicia Pedias and the unarmed provinces of Asia Minor at its mercy.

Having predicted just these events won Ballista no commendation. Summoned before the new emperors, the northerner was brusquely ordered to take five thousand cavalry, ride west and defend Antioch. The Syrian Gates, the southern pass back over the Amanus range, must be held at all cost. Similarly, Seleuceia in Pieria, the port of Antioch, had to be defended in case the Persians commandeered ships along the Cilician coast.

It had taken Ballista some effort and considerable patience to explain to the unmilitary father of the young emperors that, to hold ground, one needed infantry. Eventually he had been given permission to replace one thousand of the cavalry with mounted infantry. He was to requisition a thousand horses and mount on them any legionaries he could find from Legio IIII Scythica who admitted any hint of equine experience. His old companion Castricius was to accompany him.

The journey had been hard. It was July, blazingly hot in Syria, so they had left at dusk. They had reined in after a couple of miles to check girths and tack. Then they had ridden on until nearly noon the next day. Some sixteen hours in the saddle, with just a brief halt every hour to drink and four longer ones to give their mounts some respite from the weight on their backs. They were eating up the ground, but it was tough on man and beast.

Three days of this and they had reached the village of Gindaros. From there, still keeping to this regime, Castricius had taken half the force on towards Antioch and Seleuceia. Ballista had rested his men overnight in the village. He would need daylight for the last stretch of his march, crossing the swampy and roadless plain to the north of the Lake of Antioch.

Now, finally, they were in an unprepossessing village called Pagrae at the foot of the Amanus range. Their blistering pace had had an effect. Of the two thousand cavalry, half bowmen, half spear-armed, some two hundred had dropped out. Unsurprisingly, things were much worse with the mounted legionaries. Only about three hundred of the complement of five hundred remained. Ballista wondered how many men Castricius would still have with him when he reached the coast. The centurion had faced another two days' travel when he rode out of Gindaros. Still, Ballista had instructed him to gather any troops he could find in Antioch.

It was early evening. The men were looking to their horses, settling in. They would spend at least some of the night here, gathering their strength. They would need it, but there would be no such luxury for Ballista.

The village headman had provided information. It was about five miles to the narrows of the Syrian Gates, the road good but demanding. He had also recommended a guide; a wiry goatherd. Having asked for volunteers, Ballista had selected two scouts from the cavalry. On his instructions, the exploratores had discarded all armour and weapons except their sword belts, tied scarves around their heads and put on dark cloaks. They had bound their horses' hooves to muffle the noise of their approach. Reluctantly swapping Pale Horse for a black gelding, Ballista had done the same.

Having eaten, relieved himself and handed over command to one of the prefects of cavalry, a Syrian with the impeccably Roman name of Servius, Ballista could see no reason to delay. He gave the order. They rode out of the village and took the road up into the mountains.

It was a dark night. The wind from the east was pushing black clouds across the stars. Possibly it would rain later, one of those sudden torrential summer thunderstorms. Initially the incline was gentle, the hills wide-spaced, but soon the slopes reared up and came close. Beside Ballista, the goatherd on his pony did not talk. The exploratores behind were quiet also. An owl hooted, and another replied. Once, something sent a scatter of stones rattling down the slope to their right. Apart from that, there was just the creak of leather and the deadened sound of the horses' footfall.

When the ascent became steep, Ballista spelled the horses, the men swinging down to walk for a time before getting back up. With the repetitive landscape and their fatigue, time soon lost meaning. There was nothing but the road and scrub-covered rocks all around.

Possibly, this would all go well. Ballista would find the defile of the Syrian Gates empty. They could wait peacefully in the pass while one of the exploratores galloped back to tell Servius to rouse out the men and bring them up.

Ballista regretted not writing a note for Castricius to give to Julia as he passed through Antioch. But it would have delayed the centurion, and he did not dare to entrust it to anyone else. The imperial spies were never more active than at a time of insurrection. Censorinus, the feared head of the frumentarii, had long been close to Macrianus the Lame. He would have his men prying into everything. Beyond a formal note saying that he was safe, Ballista had not written to Julia since his return, since the breaking of his oath.

The goatherd's outstretched arm startled Ballista. Unnecessarily indicating silence, the man mimed that they should dismount. Having handed his reins to one of the exploratores, Ballista took stock. The mountain walls had come closer on either side. The road ran up straight for another hundred or so paces then turned to the right. The goatherd put his mouth to Ballista's ear. He smelled rank, like one of his animals. The Syrian Gates were ahead, around the bend.

Alone and on foot, Ballista set off. There was no cover beyond a few fallen rocks at the sides of the path. He walked on the balls of his feet, feeling for loose stones before he put his weight down. He stayed close to the right mountain wall. Moving inconspicuously at night was not a problem for him. Following the custom of his people, as a youth he had gone to learn warcraft in the tribe of his maternal uncle. He had been lucky his mother came from the Harii. They were feared night-fighters.

When he reached the turning, Ballista remained motionless for a time, stilling his breathing, listening hard. Nothing. He sniffed the air. Nothing. He listened some more. When there was still nothing, he crouched down, carefully arranging his belt over his back so that his scabbard lay between his shoulderblades, the hilt of his sword just behind his head. Looking back the way he had come, he half noticed the dark shape of his companions. That was of no interest. When the shadow of one of the clouds came in from the east, he looked round the corner.

The low, smouldering fire was unexpected: bright red in the night. Ballista did not look directly at it. Keeping his eyes on his hands and feet, he crawled to a fallen rock and lay behind it.

Closing one eye to keep his night vision, Ballista studied the scene. The road ran about one hundred and fifty paces to the fire. It grew increasingly narrow. The rock walls were jagged; at the fire, no more than fifty paces apart.

There was a campfire burning in the Syrian Gates. The wind was from the east. That was why Ballista had not smelled it. He could see the silhouette of what looked like a small cart. Other smaller, dark shapes indicated men by the fire. A group was spending the night there. But who were they? It could be an innocent caravan. But it could be a Sassanid war party.

For a long time, Ballista lay silent, hoping to hear what language the men by the fire spoke. Now and then, he heard a murmur of conversation, but they were talking low, and the wind was against him. There was nothing for it: he would have to get closer.

Waiting for the clouds, using the movement of their shadows, Ballista crawled nearer. It was slow, painful going. His hands were cut, knees grazed. The last twenty-five to thirty paces, there was no cover. Ballista stretched out behind a rock little bigger than his head. The cloud cover had increased, but every time it cleared he felt horribly exposed. Suddenly, from beyond the camp, a horse called. From behind him, clear on the freshening breeze, came an answering neigh from one of the Roman horses.

There were voices from the fire now: 'Did you hear that?' 'What?' 'Listen!' They were Persians.

Outlined by the glow, two men stood up.

'We should go and look.'

'Not me. Who knows what daemons lurk in these hills at night?'

A third man spoke. His voice conveyed authority: he must be some form of officer. 'If it was not misfortune enough to be sat on this bleak mountain missing all the pleasure the others are enjoying in Iskanderun — but to be stuck with a man who sees a Roman behind every rock, and another who fears devs everywhere. Sit down. Let the night pass quietly.'

The men sat.

If he had not been so well trained, Ballista would have sighed with relief. It was mid-morning the following day when Ballista returned to the Syrian Gates. Time plays tricks. His crawl back to the others had seemed to take for ever; the ride to Pagrae passed in moments. He had given orders and fallen into a heavy sleep for a couple of hours.

The troops had been roused well before dawn. Having been tormented by mosquitoes, few complained.

Ballista had called a consilium of officers, down to the rank of optio. He had made sure everyone knew the order of march and his tactical plan, such as it was. They were to explain it to the men under them and see that all had a good breakfast.

Food was important. Ballista knew the Persians ate only a light breakfast but took lunch earlier than westerners. If his timing was right, his men would be well fed, the Sassanids hungry. It was not much of an advantage to build on. This was a battle that would be decided by the disciplina and sheer fighting quality of the Romans; above all, that of the legionaries.

The march up had been glorious. In daylight, the Amanus range had revealed its beauty. The men had climbed upwards in the shadow of pine and wild olives, between banks of lavender and myrtle. In every shelf of soil, every crevice where a tree could thrust its roots, was a mass of vegetation. The view, looking backwards, at times took in the whole plain, with the lake of Antioch glittering in the centre and the valley of the Orontes off to the south.

They had marched on foot, quickly, but with no attempt at concealment. There was no chance of surprising the Sassanids. A column of over two thousand armed men cannot but make a lot of noise, but their numbers would only be sufficient if the Persians had not had time to summon reinforcements.

As they halted near the summit, the wind picked up. Big, dark stormclouds again rolled in from the east. Strong gusts tugged at Ballista as he made a final check that everything was in order.

At the front were the saddlesore, aching legionaries; a block fifty wide and six deep, close-packed. Behind them were five hundred dismounted horse archers, in loose order. The rest, nine hundred spear-armed and four hundred bowmen, again all on foot, were stationed as a reserve a few hundred paces back, where the space was wider.

'Remember, boys, they are just a bunch of easterners. They hate fighting on foot, and they get frightened close to the steel.' Ballista had to bellow to compete with the wind. Even so, he was not sure how many even of the legionaries could hear him. 'Get through the arrows and we will kill them. Remember they carry their wealth on their persons. But no looting until the order. Keep your places. Look after your brothers.'

The legionaries clashed swords on shields.

'Are you ready for war?'

'Ready!'

When the third response echoed from the rocks, Ballista took his place in the front rank. His right hand freed his dagger a little then snapped it back, drew his sword an inch or two then rammed it back, and finally touched the healing stone on the scabbard. His personal pre-battle drill done, he took up the borrowed oval shield, and told the bucinatores to sound the advance.

As they trudged the last fifty paces to the turning, Ballista wondered how this would turn out. He had no idea how many Persians they were facing. The vital snatch of conversation he had overheard the night before suggested that the majority of the enemy force was down in the western plain, sacking Iskanderun, as the Persians seemed to call the town of Alexandria ad Issum. But, as he did not know how many easterners there were in total, it meant next to nothing. Again, he did not know what, if any, obstructions or defences they might have placed in the defile. All he had seen was a fire, a handful of men and a cart. It would all fall out as the gods willed it. One thing was certain. It would be unwise for a man who had broken an oath to the Persian king to let himself be taken prisoner. Ballista thought of the cell in Carrhae, thought of what had nearly happened there. No, he was not going to be taken alive.

The men of Legio IIII Scythica jogged round the corner and into range of the eastern bows. They heard yelled Persian orders. The sky darkened.

'Testudo!' Ballista's was not the only voice shouting. He crouched and held his shield out in front of him. The man behind slammed his shield down on the top edge of Ballista's, covering the northerner's head. The noise was repeated from behind as the shields of each rank in turn slammed home, overlapping like tiles on a roof.

Seconds later came the arrows, thumping into wood, dinging off metal bosses, skittering off the road. Ballista felt the shield above him bang down on to his helmet as an arrow struck. Somewhere, a man screamed. Nearby, a man swore fluently. Another was praying.

'Bind and advance.'

Ballista grabbed the back of the mail shirt of the man to his right, gripped it in his fist. He felt his own tighten as the man to his left did the same. Half turned to the right, taking short steps, crabwise, the left foot always first, they advanced.

'Left, left, left,' they muttered, getting into rhythm, the momentum mounting.

Another volley of arrows whistled down. More men screamed, cursed. More men were praying, calling out encouragement.

'Only officers will speak! This is not a fucking symposium!'

It was hot and close in the testudo; a strong smell of sweat and unwashed men. Ballista peeked out of the gap between the top of his shield and the overlapping one to the right. The air was full of missiles. A line of men. Incongruous in the centre, a four-wheeled cart. A long way to go. At least a hundred paces.

The arrows fell like rain. The Persians were shooting at will.

A cheer spread through the testudo. The Roman bowmen were round the corner. They were shooting back. Now the Sassanids could try the bitter luck of war.

Above all the noise — the impact of arrows, the hard breathing, the rattle of equipment, the intermittent howls of pain — there was a rumble of thunder.

Ballista risked another look around his shield. Getting there: about sixty paces to go. But something struck him as odd. There were fewer missiles in the air. A commotion in the centre of the Sassanid line. Warriors pushing the cart forward.

'Halt!'

Surprised, but obedient to orders, the legionaries bumped into each other as they came to a sudden stop.

The easterners had let go of the cart. It was beginning to gather speed down the incline.

'Legio IIII, lie down. Cover yourselves with your shields. Pass the word back to the archers to stay on their feet and spread out.'

In a confused, uncertain scramble, the men around Ballista got to the ground.

'Face down. Shields over your backs.'

Ballista had no time to explain or check that his instructions were carried out. The cart was moving faster. He dropped down, nose an inch or so from the road, grit under his elbows, shield braced above his head.

The terrible rumbling and squealing grew louder as cart and the inevitable collision drew near. The trick had worked for Alexander the Great. Arrian's Anabasis, Ballista thought. That was where he had read about it.

There was an awful sound of splintering wood, agonized screams. A moment's silence, then a sickening crash.

'On your feet. Close ranks.'

Alexander's ploy had not worked so well for Ballista. At the front, men were down where the wheels had hit them. The cart must have been airborne for a time. But it had not cleared the unit. There was a mangled mess of broken bodies and shattered woodwork where it had landed, towards the rear. The sound of low sobbing could be heard.

'On your feet! Close ranks.' The legionaries, eyes wild with shock, were slow to move. 'Close ranks!' Ballista took stock as the men shuffled to obey. The incoming arrows had dropped away as the Persians watched. Still about sixty paces to go: further than he would have liked. But the legionaries were in no state to reform the testudo. It had to be now.

'Ready for war?' Ballista roared at the darkening sky.

'Ready!' Each time, the routine response was bolder, more angry. After the third, Ballista ordered the charge.

As they set off, swords drawn, the arrow storm recommenced.

The road was steep here. Within a few paces, Ballista felt the muscles in his legs complain. His chest began to burn as he dragged in air. Another peal of thunder.

Splinters flew hideously close to Ballista's eyes. He felt a sharp stab of pain, blood hot on his cheek. The wicked barbed point was near his face. An arrow had punched half through his shield. He snapped the shaft. Kept moving.

The Sassanid now facing Ballista was coming forward. He was a big man, scale-armoured, eyes hidden by his helmet. The long sword blade hissed through the air as the easterner aimed a mighty two-handed overhead blow. Ballista punched upwards with the boss of his shield. The impact almost forced Ballista to his knees. Instinctively, he drove upwards, thrusting his sword. The point slipped off the armour. The two men were locked together. Ballista cracked the pommel of his sword on to the back of the Sassanid's helmet. The man grunted.

There was a deafening crack of thunder.

In the press of bodies, neither of the men could wield their blades. The Sassanid tried to bite Ballista's face. Horrified, the northerner twisted back. The man's beard scratched his cheek. Ballista dropped his sword. Its wrist strap dug into his flesh, the weight hard on his arm. He grabbed the plume on the Sassanid's helmet; dragged his head back with a convulsive lunge, and Ballista headbutted his opponent. The metal ridge of the northerner's helmet connected with the bridge of the man's nose. Both their faces were running in blood. The crush of bodies pressed further.

A vivid flash of lightning illuminated the hellish scene.

The Sassanid had freed his sword arm. Overhand, he was sliding the tip of the steel over the rim of Ballista's shield. Arms pinioned, the northerner struggled desperately. If only Maximus were here. The Sassanid set himself to thrust down into Ballista's throat. He spat blood, broken fragments of teeth.

There was a surge of pressure from behind Ballista. Driven backwards, the Sassanid adjusted the angle of his sword. His mouth opened. More blood, pouring into his black beard. The sword fell from his hand. He looked down at the Roman blade driven into his armpit. His body went into spasm, became limp.

'Gratius, Dominus.' The legionary withdrew his sword. The corpse of the Sassanid fell underfoot.

'I will remember,' said Ballista.

A space had opened up. The Persians were giving ground. Another boom of thunder, and the rain began. It fell in heavy curtains. Ballista could feel it beating on his back. It was driving into the faces of the enemy.

'One more step,' yelled Ballista. He launched himself forward.

Ballista did not know if anyone was with him. His boots slipped in the water. No arrows came at him. The rain had soaked the bowstrings.

The Sassanid in front of Ballista looked around, hesitated, then turned and ran. Another flash of lightning lit the gloom. All the easterners were running through the rain.

Ballista laughed to be alive. If the gods wanted vengeance on the oath-breaker, they were biding their time.

Julia finished inspecting the house in the Epiphania district of Antioch. Everything was in order. She dismissed the maids. It was important that a house was in order when the dominus returned. It was especially important in one with senatorial connections. She went and sat in a wicker chair on the shady side of the atrium.

It was hot, but the regular afternoon breeze was blowing up the Orontes valley. The wind moved the material on the loom propped against the wall. Julia looked at its two vertical timbers, shed race, weights and cross bars with something close to loathing. Its presence was necessary in a well-run household. Yet she liked it about as well as an Armenian tigress liked a cage. For women, the loom had always been there. Penelope in the Odyssey, weaving by day and unravelling by night, holding off the suitors while she waited, in the hope that her philandering husband might return. The character displayed an unpleasant mixture of passivity and cunning in the story, Julia thought. Maybe it had been necessary for a wife to weave in the primitive and poor heroic age at the dawn of time, but wealth had rendered the loom redundant for many women. The Roman imperium had added a new level of hypocrisy to the image: Livia, the wife of the first emperor, in a houseful of servants, sitting at the loom playing the dutiful matron of old, in between procuring young virgins for her husband to deflower. Nothing annoyed Julia more than those male doctors who claimed that such work was good for the delicate health of a woman.

Julia mastered her impatience. Ballista would not care or notice if the wretched loom was there or not. She did not know why she bothered. In the two months since he had escaped from Persian captivity, he had sent just two notes, both brief and impersonal. She knew as well as anyone the danger of the frumentarii intercepting a letter, but he could have sent something more intimate with a trusted friend. That little pleb he put such faith in, Castricius, had been in Antioch.

Yesterday, the second formal note had come: standard enquiries after her health and that of the children, then much of the public duties of a Prefect of Cavalry and Vir Perfectissimus. The Sassanids had made no further attempt on the Syrian Gates. Nor had they commandeered ships. Neither Seleuceia nor Antioch presently was in danger. The Sassanids had marched to the north to plunder Cilicia. Ballista was ordered to raise ships and men to pursue them. He would return to the house today at noon.

Except he had not. Three hours after the lunch things had been cleared away, a grubby little legionary by the name of Gratius had arrived. With an impertinent air, he had said that the Prefect of Cavalry had been summoned to the palace down on the island; there was no way of telling how long the emperors' consilium would last; war was a weighty matter.

Julia had dismissed him coldly. 'War was a weighty matter.' Indeed. Let war be the care of men, as Hector had told Andromache. Men — what fools they were. I would rather stand three times in the front of battle than endure childbirth, as a heroine in a tragedy had said. Both lines had been written by men, but the tragedian had been nearer the truth than Homer had. Julia thought of her childhood friend Metella, dead giving birth before she reached sixteen. If men bore children, it would put an end to their puerile glorification of war. How could the dangers of war compare with those of childbirth?

Now she was waiting. As always when he returned, Ballista would want sex — he was like an animal marking its territory. At least he was not a womanizer, did not bother the maids. Not like poor Cornelia's husband. He was a complete ancillariolus. Their house was almost unendurable with its endless tears and recriminations. Julia had always found Ballista's fidelity flattering, but strange. It was part of his barbarian upbringing, like his jealousy. There had been more than one terrible scene at dinner parties when he had thought that she was flirting. She did not want to be a Messalina, but his jealousy was stifling. It was un-Roman.

'Domina,' the porter announced, 'Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Perfectissimus, has returned.'

Julia stood and walked around the pool to greet her husband. Ballista smiled. His front teeth were chipped. He looked tired and careworn.

'Dominus.' Julia's senatorial family had not encouraged public displays of affection between wife and husband. Julia kept her eyes modestly down.

'Domina.' Ballista leant down. She raised her face and he kissed her on the lips.

Julia told the porter to summon the children. The silence stretched as they waited. She looked down again. The wind rippled the surface of the pool, making the fishes, dolphin and octopus in the mosaic at the bottom seem to swim.

A cry of pleasure, and Isangrim ran out. The eight-year-old hurled himself at his father. Julia felt a twinge of irritation. In a senatorial home, it was not just the wife who should behave with decorum. A son should greet his father solemnly, call him Dominus.

Ballista scooped up the boy, burying his face in his neck. They talked low together.

Julia noticed the new scars on Ballista's wrists and forearms. She had always liked his forearms. There was something different, attractive, about a man's forearms.

A high-pitched squeal. Dernhelm, not yet two, was being carried by old Calgacus. They were followed by Maximus and Demetrius. Setting his eldest son on his feet, Ballista took Dernhelm in his arms. Again he buried his face in his child's neck, inhaling the smell of him.

Having handed Dernhelm to Julia, and with Isangrim still clinging to his waist, Ballista embraced each of his freedmen in turn.

'Welcome home, Kyrios,' said Demetrius. The other two were less formal.

'Like a counterfeit coin, I knew you would return,' said Calgacus.

'So far,' replied Ballista.

'We must celebrate, have a drink,' beamed Maximus.

Before Ballista could reply, Julia cut in. 'It is time Isangrim was at his lessons, and Dernhelm must sleep.'

The three freedmen took the hint. Soon husband and wife were alone again.

Julia put her hand on Ballista's forearm. She led him through to the private cubiculum towards the rear of the house. The shutters were half closed, the covers on the couch drawn back. Man and wife made love, urgently, briefly.

Afterwards, they lay drinking and talking. They were naked. Julia knew that, after the wedding night, a respectable wife never showed herself naked to her husband. That was the behaviour of a whore. But she knew it pleased Ballista, excited him.

Julia traced the fresh scars on his wrists and ankles. 'You had a bad time with the Persians.'

'The boys look well.' He made no effort to hide the fact he was changing the subject.

'Mmm.' Julia kissed his chest, his stomach. She did something no respectable Roman wife should ever do. The very wickedness of her behaviour excited her. They made love again, more slowly this time.

'How long will you be in Antioch?'

'Two days. Then as long as it takes to find ships in Seleuceia. I can requisition a house there. You should come down, bring the boys. We will have a little time until I have to sail north after the Sassanids.'

Julia watched him fiddle with his wine cup, felt his desire to be gone. Men, from what her friends said, were all the same. The act of love would last longer if left to women: all night, if men were made that way.

'Go on,' she smiled. 'Go and find your friends. It is a long time since they have had a chance to drink with you.'

There was a hollowness to Ballista's grin. 'Edessa, a couple of months ago. The festival of the Maiuma. At the end of the night, someone tried to kill me.'

After he had gone, Julia put on a robe. She called for a maid. Ignoring Anthia's complicit smile, she asked for her bath to be made ready. He was trying to hide it, but there was something preying on her husband's mind. She had a couple of days. She would discover what it was. Demetrius stood on the prow of Ballista's flagship. Since the fleet had left Seleucia in pursuit of the Persians, things had not gone well. Demetrius looked at the port of Aegeae.

All sacked cities are the same: in each, the kicked-in doors and smoke-blackened buildings; the ransacked houses and defiled temples; the muted sounds where there had been terrible noise; the splayed and huddled corpses; the smell of burning, excrement and corruption.

Yet each is different. There is always some specific thing that catches the observer's eye, moves his heart to fresh pity: a treasured heirloom smashed in the street; an old woman sobbing noiselessly; a child wandering alone. Those who say compassion is blunted by repetition are wrong.

Demetrius stood on the ship looking at the city of Aegeae. For in my heart and soul I also know this well: the day will come when sacred Troy must die, Priam must die and all his people with him… That is nothing, nothing beside your agony when some brazen Argive hales you off in tears, wrenching away your day of light and freedom!

The lines of Homer — Hector's all too prescient words to his wife — came unbidden into Demetrius's thoughts. Human happiness is very fragile. One day, a prosperous, peaceful town; the next, a stinking ruin. One day, a happy, free youth; the next, a slave at the whim of a capricious and brutal master.

Demetrius had seen too much horror in the last few days. Ballista's ships had followed the Persians around the bay of Issus. Alexandria ad Issum, Katabolos and now the port of Aegeae — all had been sacked.

There had been no way Demetrius could avoid the horror. At each town, his duties as accensus required him to accompany Ballista. Ashore, the kyrios's dark mood had worsened. But Ballista was diligent. He interviewed survivors. He investigated which supplies, public and private, had been taken, attempting to estimate enemy numbers. Here at Aegeae, he had even studied the horse droppings on the road to the interior taken by the Sassanids as they rode out of the sacked city.

Demetrius did not think he would do well in the sack of a town. In the noise, confusion and fear, he doubted he would make the right decisions. Would he run or hide? In either case, where? Would he follow the crowd, hoping for some safety in numbers, or slink off alone, praying to be overlooked? Would his courage fail him altogether? Would he drop to his knees in the pose of a suppliant, trusting in his looks to spare his life? And if they did, at what cost? His first years of slavery had taught him all about degradation.

Demetrius returned his thoughts to the present. Ballista's consilium was not going well; as expected, his plans were not being well received.

'No, we will not pursue the Sassanids inland. We are outnumbered. They have at least fifteen thousand cavalry. We have five thousand infantry and the crews of twenty warships. The Sassanids have taken the road to Mopouestia. The open plains of Cilicia Pedias are ideal for horsemen. They would surround us and shoot us down at their pleasure.'

The assembled officers, some forty men, down to the rank of pilus prior and including the centurions commanding the warships, listened in unconvinced silence. They wanted revenge. However, Ballista's second-in-command, Ragonius Clarus, the legate appointed by Macrianus the Elder, nodded sagely.

Ballista continued. 'We will adopt the strategy used by Fabius Cunctator to defeat Hannibal. We will wait. The prefect Demosthenes will take a composite unit of five hundred spearmen and archers to hold the Cilician Gates. Apparently, they command the only road north over the Taurus mountains viable for a large force of cavalry. The warships can take Demosthenes' men to Tarsus — there will just be space if the marines temporarily transfer to the transport ships. From Tarsus, Demosthenes will force-march north to the Gates.

'The warships will rendezvous with the rest of us at Soli. There we will plan with Voconius Zeno, the governor of Cilicia, to guard the narrow coastal path west to Cilicia Tracheia.

'If the Syrian Gates to the south-east are still held, and the emperors have taken my advice and blocked the Amanikai Gates to the north-east, the Persians will effectively be trapped in the lowlands of Cilicia Pedias. Then we watch and wait for opportunities. With our fleet, we can come and go as we please. Sooner or later, the Persian horde will split up to plunder or we will catch them at some other disadvantage.'

This was Ballista at his best, thought Demetrius. The kyrios was putting aside his personal troubles and fears to plan meticulously, to do what needed to be done. Yet the officers still seemed unhappy.

Ragonius Clarus interjected in patrician tones. 'An admirable strategy — timehallowed and in keeping with the ways of our Roman ancestors. Thus Cunctator vanquished the Punic evil of Hannibal, Crassus destroyed the servile menace of Spartacus. Our noble young emperors will approve.'

Everyone knew that Clarus had been foisted on Ballista to report to Macrianus the Lame. His words elicited no enthusiasm from the military men.

'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.'

Ballista declared the consilium over and, with his familia, retired to his cabin at the stern of the trireme.

'Sure, but it must be a joy to know our noble young emperors will approve of your thinking,' said Maximus.

'Joy unbounded,' Ballista replied flatly. Obviously he was not in the mood for joking. Since his return from captivity, he seldom had been.

'A drink?' Calgacus suggested.

'No, thank you. I think I will rest.'

As the freedmen filed out, Ballista called Demetrius back.

The young accensus watched as his kyrios looked at the lists and plans piled on the desk. Distractedly, Ballista picked one or two up, moved some others about. A few moments of this, and Ballista stopped. He went over to his bed, retrieved a papyrus roll that lay on the covers and sat down.

'Demetrius, you are a Hellene. Are these Cilicians Hellenes?'

Over the years, Demetrius had got used to the abruptness of Ballista's conversational openings when he had something on his mind. The point usually became clear after a time.

'They like to think they are,' Demetrius replied. 'In terms of descent, most of the cities of Cilicia claim a founder from the ancient Hellenic past. The claims of some of the poleis are plausible. Hesiod and Herodotus tell of Amphilochus, the seer who fought at the siege of Troy, journeying here. He is said to have founded Mallos. The town of Mopouestia is named after another seer, Mopsus. But other claims are most unlikely. The citizens of Tarsus themselves are unsure who founded their town: one of the Hellenes — Perseus, Heracles or Triptolemus — or an oriental called Sandan. Zephyrion openly admits it was the creation of the Assyrian king Sardanapallus.'

When Demetrius stopped, Ballista nodded for him to go on.

'In terms of culture, it is true they pay almost exaggerated respect to Hellenic paideia. Chrysippus the Stoic was from Soli. The two men called Athenodorus, the one who lived with Cato and the one who was Julius Caesar's teacher, were both from Tarsus. There are several schools of philosophy and rhetoric in Cilicia. But those who attain distinction tend to travel away, and few men of the highest attainments ever come here from abroad. I think there is something suspect about the Cilician nature which undermines their paideia. In quite recent times, the two sophists from Cilicia who became famous under the emperors, Antiochus and Philagrus, each had a violent temper. The latter would get so angry he could not declaim. Once, in a fit of anger, he went so far as to utter a barbarism.'

Ballista smiled ruefully, and used the papyrus roll with which he was fiddling to indicate to Demetrius to continue.

'It is not just the pepaideumenoi — all the inhabitants have a reputation for being hot-tempered, unwilling to submit to anyone being placed over them. As a province, they often try to prosecute their governors before the emperor. Among themselves, the cities quarrel incessantly. Only the Pax Romana — the boots above their heads — stops them resorting to open violence, if not war.'

Ballista had stopped playing with the papyrus. He looked thoughtful. 'If they are not truly Hellenic but part oriental, and they are unhappy with Roman rule, might some of them side with the Persians? Or might the hatred of one city for another induce it to go over to Shapur?'

Now Demetrius smiled. 'I am sure any of their cities would point out the weak place in their neighbour's wall rather than be sacked themselves. But a Sassanid monarch is more alien to them than a true Hellene or a Roman.'

'Then why do they not fight?' Ballista was thinking aloud. 'Admittedly, Alexandria was taken by surprise, but at Katabolos they fled the walls, and here at Aegeae it appears traitors opened the gates.'

'There may be two reasons, Kyrios,' Demetrius replied. 'You remember how at Antioch, a few years ago in the time of troubles, some of the poor, encouraged by a man called Mariades, betrayed the city to the Persians? It might be much the same in Cilicia. Here in the cities of the plain, the poor are oppressed. They hate the rich, and the feeling is reciprocated. Many years ago the great philosopher Dio of Prusa endeavoured to persuade those who controlled Tarsus to give citizenship to the poor they call the linen workers. Eventually they got the title, but by all accounts they remain as downtrodden as ever.'

All air of distraction had vanished from Ballista. 'That may explain the treachery at Aegeae, but not the cowardice at Katabolos.'

'The plains of Cilicia Pedias are soft and fertile.' Demetrius, like his kyrios, could come at things from an angle. 'Wheat, sesame, dates, figs, vines — all grow in abundance. The streets of the towns groan with the sound of wagons laden with fruit and vegetables. A soft place breeds soft men,' Demetrius concluded in Herodotean mode.

Ballista nodded. 'True, they are unaccustomed to fighting.'

'No, Kyrios, it is much worse than that: they snort.'

'They what?'

'Snort.' Demetrius waved his hands about, palms up. 'You know, they snort.'

As Ballista clearly did not know, Demetrius, using one finger, adjusted his hair with elaborate care.

In the face of Ballista's continuing non-comprehension, Demetrius tried a more obvious tactic. He bent slightly forward, looked over his shoulder and made a sudden noise halfway between a man snoring and the squeal of a stuck pig.

'Ah,' Ballista laughed, 'that sort of snort.'

This was embarrassing. Demetrius knew that his kyrios, like Calgacus and Maximus, was aware of the ways he found his physical pleasure. But, apart from some occasional, oblique teasing, it was not something mentioned within the familia.

Straightening up hurriedly, Demetrius rushed on. 'It is not just the men, the women do it too.'

Ballista was still laughing.

'They are all totally without restraint. Luxury, improper jests, insolence; they give more thought to their fine linen than to wisdom. Here in Aegeae, in the very temple of Asclepius, the holy man Apollonius of Tyana met a one-eyed Cilician — '

'Thank you, Demetrius,' said Ballista.

Although his run of thoughts had been broken, Demetrius continued his flustered diatribe. 'Of course, that is just those from the lush lands of Cilicia Pedias. The hill men of Cilicia Tracheia are very different. All brigands and pirates. All killers.'

Ballista held up his hand. 'Thank you.' The laughter had gone from his eyes. 'I think I will read now.' Ballista swung his legs up on to the bed and unrolled the papyrus to find his place.

As he made to leave, Demetrius risked a glance at what Ballista was reading. It was Euripides, the Medea, the tragedy in which Jason breaks his oath to Medea and she, without losing the favour of the gods, kills their innocent sons. It was hard to think of worse reading for a man in Ballista's position.

Ballista stood at the top of the small stone theatre in the town of Sebaste. He had not chosen the location solely to wrongfoot the man he was to meet, although that would not be unwelcome. In every port at which the fleet had moored since it sailed west from Aegeae, Ballista had sought out a good vantage point from which to assess the town's defences.

The heart of the city of Sebaste was spread out below him. The island, as it was called, although clearly it had never been other than a promontory, stuck out into the sea like the blade of an axe. The south-western harbour was only partly sheltered. It lay outside the walls and was little more than a beach on which longshore fishermen drew up their boats. To the north-east, the island curved back, nearly meeting the shoreline. The main harbour here was almost completely enclosed. Ballista had noted it was silting up with the prevailing current from the east.

The island was walled. A chain which could be lowered and raised stretched across the north-eastern harbour mouth to the first tower of the land walls. These ran away to Ballista's left, out of sight. He knew they encircled the mainland extension of the town, including the theatre where he stood and the civic centre, public baths and agora below him. The walls did not look as if they had undergone any work for a number of years but still seemed essentially sound. Some high ground overlooked the landward walls. On all the roads into Sebaste, a jumble of suburban villas and tombs screened the approaches. There was no artillery. Despite all this, the town was basically defendable. There was no internal source of fresh water, and the aqueduct could be cut, but there were plenty of cisterns. The granaries contained food for several weeks. All in all, there was no pressing reason why the citizens of Sebaste should not hold out when the Persians reached the port.

Yet Ballista was not hopeful. Since he had left Aegeae, the Persians had taken Mopouestia, Mallos, Adana and the provincial capital, Tarsus. A despatch boat had just brought him the news that a detachment of about three thousand had now pressed ahead and seized Zephyrion. As far as he could ascertain, there had been no real reason any of these cities should have fallen either. Zephyrion was not much over forty miles away.

Things were not going well. Admittedly, when the warships had rejoined him, they had brought Ballista the news that Demosthenes and his five hundred men had marched north from Tarsus before the Persians had arrived. With luck, the Cilician Gates were now garrisoned. But everything else was bad.

Dropping anchor at Soli for his rendezvous with the governor of Cilicia, Ballista had been disappointed. Voconius Zeno was not there. He had fled west, leaving behind a letter in which he denounced Quietus and Macrianus the Younger as rebels and accused their father Macrianus the Lame of being the chorus master behind them. Zeno said he had gone to join the legitimate ruler Gallienus. With several nice turns of phrase, the departing governor had encouraged all other officials likewise to hasten to throw themselves on the clementia of the true emperor. Ballista had thought, sourly, if only it were that simple — if only his wife and sons were not in Antioch, effectively held as hostages by the rebels.

In any case, Zeno had gone, and now Ballista had to deal with this man Trebellianus here at Sebaste. He had been suggested by Macrianus's man Ragonius Clarus. 'Yes, Trebellianus is a local, from Cilicia Tracheia. But we must never hold a man's origins against him. And, with Trebellianus, it could well prove most useful in dealing with some of the wilder elements in the rough country. Trebellianus is a man of honour, wealth and influence. Right at the beginning, he wrote pledging his support to Macrianus the Younger and Quietus. He stands high in the regard of the young emperors, and Macrianus the Elder himself will have no qualms if Trebellianus were to be appointed acting governor of Cilicia. Rather the reverse — who knows what form his disappointment might take?'

It was a suggestion that Ballista could not ignore. But even the briefest and most superficial investigation — by Demetrius in the houses of the councillors of Sebaste and by Maximus and Calgacus in the bars of the waterfront — had revealed much to bring disquiet. Not least that Trebellianus was commonly referred to as 'the Arch-pirate'. Given the nature of the inhabitants of Cilicia Tracheia, it was little surprise that the title was most often given with respect.

'Here they come,' said Maximus.

Ballista saw the small party leaving the gate from the island. They had expected Ballista would see them there, in the old royal palace. Now they had to toil across town up to the theatre. But as far as Ballista was concerned, if they were put out, it was no bad thing.

As he waited, Ballista regarded his fleet, moored in the main harbour. They were all there except the seven little war galleys, which were shuttling back and forth monitoring the enemy force at Zephyrion. The quays were crowded: twenty-five transport vessels, ten big triremes and the other three little liburnians not at sea. The sword of Damocles may have been hanging by a thread over the heads of the citizens of Sebaste, but those who ran the bars, brothels and baths down by the port had never had a more profitable time, with a fleet and four and a half thousand soldiers to service.

Ragonius Clarus entered the theatre. He was followed by a big man in a toga. He in turn was followed by two tall men wearing what looked like goatskin cloaks. It was a mild summer day, but their choice of clothing was strange. In single file, they began to climb the stairs.

Ballista sat down on the top row of seats. The man in the toga must be Trebellianus. He was a powerful-looking individual in middle age, broad-shouldered, with a shock of black hair; restrainedly good-looking. The two trailing him were younger. They had the same black hair but looked thinner and hungrier. Both wore swords at their hip.

As they reached the top, Ragonius Clarus stepped aside. The other three passed him and halted. They said nothing. None of them was blowing after the steep climb. Together, they exuded menace. Ballista felt Demetrius, standing to his left, shrink back. Maximus, on his right, drew himself up to his full, not over-tall height. Calgacus and Castricius remained lounging a little way off. Ballista wondered what impression he and his followers must convey.

Unexpectedly, the northerner found himself thinking how many men these three Cilicians had killed. Come to that — how many men had he himself killed? And then there were those killed by Maximus, Calgacus and Castricius. That must make a legion of souls, flitting and shrieking across the dark meadows of Hades.

'Gaius Terentius Trebellianus?' Ballista pronounced it as a question.

'Yes.' He had a soft, pleasant speaking voice.

'You have brought bodyguards.'

'Not at all.' Trebellianus's smile went nowhere near his eyes. 'These are my young friends Palfuerius and Lydius.'

'It is illegal for a civilian to carry arms in the imperium.'

'Not if the weapons are necessary for a man's profession, are inherited, or are carried for self-defence.' Trebellianus's smooth cheeks had the sheen of good living.

Ballista nodded. It was so. The Arch-pirate knew the law.

'I am told you have influence with the people of Cilicia Tracheia.'

'Some of my fellow citizens are kind enough to come to me for advice.'

One of the young men smirked. Ballista ignored him. 'On what subjects do you advise them?'

Trebellianus gestured to the mountains. 'Our country is a poor one. What little livelihood we have comes from the humble goat. In summer he must go to the high pastures. In winter he comes down to the coastal lowlands. Moving many animals and men up and down, across other people's land, through different communities, always involves difficulties. I make these difficulties go away. I help my friends.'

And what do you do to those who are not your friends, wondered Ballista. 'And your friends, what do they do for you?'

A smooth smile crossed Trebellianus's face. 'They are good enough to show me honour.'

'What town is your patria?'

'My family estates are up country around Germanicopolis. I have been fortunate enough to acquire others on the coast at Korakesion and Charadna.'

So, Ballista thought, your lands lie at either end of the trail, and your armed toughs escort the herds up and down. Your 'influence' rests on violence and intimidation. He remembered his friend Iarhai at the desert city of Arete. Trebellianus was a small-scale version of that caravan protector. A strong man provides 'protection', and those he protects give him 'gifts'. And just as Iarhai had rivals at Arete, so would Trebellianus here in Cilicia Tracheia. The gods knew what misfortunes would be heading their way now that Macrianus the Lame had decided that this Arch-pirate was to become a senior official with the weight of the imperium behind him.

Ballista held out his hand and Demetrius placed an ivory and gold codicil in it. Standing, Ballista passed the imperial codicil to the Cilician. 'Gaius Terentius Trebellianus, you are hereby appointed acting governor of the province of Cilicia.'

'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' The answer came back blandly.

'Your first task, in the face of which nothing else matters, must be to block the coast road to the west. I take it you can call on armed men?'

Trebellianus did not speak, but inclined his head.

Ballista went on, 'I have collected what detached troops were to be found in the ports between Aegeae and here. These stationarii only amount to just over three hundred, but they are at your command. The eirenarch I have left in each town, along with his armed men of the watch. These officers and their diogmitai are locals. They should fight to defend their homes, but may well desert if we attempt to move them somewhere else. Where do you propose to close the road to the Persians?'

'Korakesion.' The answer came without hesitation.

'A long way to the west.'

'Indeed, and it will leave my own estates at Charadna at the mercy of the Sassanids. But, at Korakesion, the mountains come down to the sea, and the town itself is fortified by nature as well as by man.'

Ballista was more than suspicious that some private motive was behind the choice. Korakesion was at the western extremity of the province. Perhaps Trebellianus was sacrificing some of his own estates in the knowledge that his rivals would suffer worse. But there was nothing to be done. The Cilician knew the country. Macrianus the Lame wanted him as governor.

'So be it,' Ballista said, as if he had the power to decide. 'I am going to base the fleet and army on Cyprus, at the port of Kyreneia. The liburnians will keep me in communication. You will submit written reports of all your actions.'

Again Trebellianus wordlessly inclined his head.

'I am afraid I cannot spare you any transport ships. You will have to march the stationarii from here.'

Trebellianus smiled his smooth smile. 'Forewarned by Ragonius Clarus, I took the liberty of requisitioning some merchant ships at Corycus. We can sail from there.'

Ballista kept his face expressionless. 'So be it. I will not detain you further.'

Trebellianus sketched a salute. He and his young followers, both of them smirking now, turned and set off down the steps.

Took the liberty… requisitioning ships. Ballista was fuming. Come what may, the owners would never see them again.

Ragonius Clarus was mouthing some platitudes. Ballista was too angry to pretend to listen. How much suffering would he spare this province if he just killed Trebellianus now? A word to Maximus and Castricius. He could do it with his own hand. And those two evil-eyed goatboys. Nothing here could stop him. The troops would not care. They would follow Ballista, not Ragonius Clarus. Nothing to stop him — except what would happen to Julia and the boys at the hands of Macrianus and his repulsive sons in Antioch?

Ballista drew a big breath and calmed himself. What were these Cilicians to him anyway? And if he killed Trebellianus, it would only leave a space for his equally murderous rivals to fight over. Fuck them all.

Mind you, The Allfather willing, one day it would be good to send Trebellianus to meet Charon. And that sniggering pair of young strong-arm boys. Palfuerius and Lydius. Which was which? Fuck it, they could cross the Styx together. Julia sat in the seating reserved for respectable matrons. It was pleasant in the great theatre of Antioch, with the afternoon breeze blowing up the Orontes valley. She felt more relaxed than she had for a long time. Macrianus the Lame and Quietus had taken the army south to Emesa in an attempt to overawe Odenathus of Palmyra and secure his allegiance. Since the arrival at Antioch of the new imperial court, Julia had largely kept to her house. But when Quietus chose to visit, it was impossible to refuse entry to a man who, however unworthily, wore the purple. It was not as if she could not deal with his oily innuendoes. And while Macrianus the Elder needed the services of Ballista, Quietus was too scared of his father to attempt force. But his presence was deeply unwelcome.

It was a pity Quietus did not follow the example of his brother, Macrianus the Younger, and remain in the palace indulging a passion for making small wooden toys. Imagine, a grown man, an emperor, indulging in such a childish pastime, doing the menial work of a slave or paid pleb. It was less harmful, but almost more demeaning than Nero singing or Commodus fighting as a gladiator.

Imagine a man such as Ballista fiddling with glue and little saws. As she framed the thought, suddenly she found she could imagine it all too easily. Men never really grew up. Not that her husband would be enjoying any such fripperies in his present mood. Before he sailed, Julia had discovered what was troubling Ballista: the ridiculous oath he had made to Shapur; the fear that breaking it endangered their sons. He had not lost the superstitions of the dark forests of his childhood. Part of him would always remain a barbarian.

The actors reappeared on stage. It was a domestic mime, and Julia was enjoying it. The wife was running rings around her old miser of a husband. Julia had checked the programme before bringing her boys. Nothing too untoward. Nothing like the striptease of the Floralia or the naked whores of the Maiuma. The husband and wife who ran the troupe had a reputation for a more moral sort of mime.

Isangrim was bored. Julia fished in the purse tied to her girdle and gave some coins to the custos who attended her. The elderly manservant shuffled off to buy a sweet for Isangrim and something suitable for two-year-old Dernhelm. For once, Julia was in such a good mood that being saddled with the custos and two maids — the minimum that custom dictated should accompany a married woman of her status in public — did not bother her. A sticky treat would cheer Isangrim up, and the next mime was about the bandit Selurus, the Son of Etna. Apart from Tillorobus, the terror of Mysia and Mount Ida, there was no legendary outlaw the boy liked more. The hiding in a cave, the daring escapes, the cunning disguises and tricking of the centurion, even the poignant death scene — all captivated him.

The old woman on the stage stopped mid-line. She pointed to the rear of the seats.

'Am I dreaming, or are the Persians here?'

Heads began to turn. First one or two, then everyone looked back. There was muttering, then shouts of consternation, screams. Dark figures could be seen on the roofs of the houses towards Mount Silpius. With a terrible whistling, the first flight of arrows rained down. More screams, accompanied by yells of pain. Pandemonium.

Julia scooped up Dernhelm, grabbed Isangrim by the hand. 'Come,' she said.

The two maids stared, open-mouthed.

'Come,' Julia shouted again.

The maids sat on in moronic immobility. Stupid girls.

Julia set off. The nearest entrance was only a few paces away. Some of the audience sat, stunned. Others, as if woken from sleep, were getting to their feet. The more acute were scrambling over the seats already. More arrows sliced through the air.

The stairwell was full of terrified people. They tore down the steps. Isangrim stumbled. As he started to fall, Julia felt his hand slipping through hers. Go down now and he would be trampled. With unrecognizable strength, she gripped his damp fingers, hauled him to his feet.

'Run, boy.' Her fear for him made her snap at him.

At the bottom of the stairs they ran into the backs of a stationary knot of people. More bodies thumped in behind them. In a moment everyone was crushed together. The pressure was increasing. Up on her shoulders, Dernhelm was all right. But Isangrim was in trouble. She was finding it hard to breathe. All matronly restraint gone, she braced her legs, arched her back, pushed out with her free elbow; anything to make a space. Isangrim, arms wrapped around her waist, looked up with huge, frightened eyes. She went to speak, to reassure. The pressure surged. The words were cut off. Her face was pressed into the tunic of the man in front.

They were moving. Gripping her children, Julia prayed. Like the liquid when a stopper is taken out of a flask, the crowd burst free of the doorway. Julia felt something soft under her sandals. A woman, bloodied on the threshold.

For a while they went with the crowd: down the street, away from Mount Silpius, away from the Sassanids. An eddy in the mob carried them to the far side of the street. Julia pulled Isangrim into the shelter of a porch. Putting Dernhelm down, she hugged her sons to her. There was an angry red weal where she had grasped Isangrim's wrist. She kissed them both. She was crying. They were not.

More and more people were streaming past, down towards the river, down towards the potential safety of the palace on the island and its remaining garrison. Julia had to think. Not the palace. The mob would block the bridges. Not the island. Home. She must get her sons home. Julia looked out. There was a sidestreet to the left, about thirty paces away. Hoisting Dernhelm back on her shoulder, taking a firm grip of Isangrim's hand, she set off again.

Around the corner it was quieter. Julia knew the Epiphania district like the back of her hand. Instinctively turning left or right, she began to cross it. Within a few streets, they were in a different world. All was peace. Citizens strolled, hawkers called out their wares, pack animals plodded. Thrown by the normality of it all, Julia stopped. In a portico, she set Dernhelm down, tried to get her breath back, make sense of what was happening.

A sharp cry. A thunder of hooves. More cries, then screams. Three Persian horsemen were spurring down the street. Bows in hand, they were shooting at anyone who took their fancy. They were laughing.

Sweeping up the children, Julia pushed them to the back of the portico. Bundling them close together, she covered them with her body. The noise of the hooves grew louder. Her face buried in the boys' hair, Julia waited for an arrow to rip into her back.

The horsemen passed. Julia looked up. The Persians had gone. A few steps away, a bread-seller was on his knees, curled around the arrow in his guts. Not sparing him another glance, Julia got the boys and ran on.

Between its two pillars of imported marble, the door to their house was open. The porter must have fled. The news must be all through the town by now. The street was completely empty. Julia put Dernhelm down. Together they stepped over the mosaic of the improbably endowed hunchback. As if even a superstitious fool could think that would avert evil. Inside, it was dark. The door to the porter's lodge was open, too. They set off down the long corridor.

Behind them, someone stepped out of the lodge. Julia whirled round. A Sassanid. His drawn sword was wet. Dernhelm wailed. The Sassanid raised his weapon to silence the child. Julia stepped in front of him. The Sassanid altered his aim to cut her down. She knew what she had to do — what Helen had done to get Menelaus to spare her life.

With trembling fingers, she tore at her clothes, pulling her stola open, her tunic down, letting her breasts spill free. The man grinned. With a hand at her throat, he slammed her against the wall.

'Run, take your brother, hide,' Julia said quietly to Isangrim, who was out of sight behind the man.

The man released her neck. He sheathed his sword. With both hands, he grabbed her breasts. He fondled them roughly, grunting something in his language. One hand still pulling at her nipples, with the other he fumbled with his belt, pushed his trousers down.

Julia reached up to let her hair down, working the long hairpin free. The man was slobbering on her breasts. He stank: a feral reek of unwashed male lust. His hand hauled her tunic up over her thighs. He lurched back, screaming.

Isangrim's miniature sword was embedded in the man's left leg. The Sassanid doubled up, gripping the hilt. As he pulled it free, he screamed again. And Julia plunged the hairpin into the side of his throat.

The man was on his knees in a spreading pool of blood. His fingers clutched the end of the hairpin. Julia slid away from him along the wall. She held out her hand. Isangrim led his brother to her.

Harsh noises echoed around the atrium. Towards the back of the house, things — expensive things — were being smashed in the family's rooms. To the left, a group of Sassanids had gathered behind the columns. They were laughing and joking but intent on what they were doing — drinking. And there was a servant girl in their midst — suffering what her mistress had just escaped.

With her children, Julia slipped into a door to the right leading to the servants' quarters. Little to loot there. Apart from rape, little reason for the Sassanids to be there. Gods below, gods above, by all the gods, let them not be there. Diligent in her cura of the household, Julia knew every twist and turn of the rabbit warren of tiny cells and confusing corridors. Flitting through dark corners and in the shadows of the walls, she led the boys to the stables at the right of the house.

The tack room was locked. Julia struggled to get the keys from her girdle, find the right one. Shutting the door behind them, she locked and bolted it. Intended to prevent pilfering, it would not stand for long under a determined assault. But it was something.

Telling the children to stay where they were, Julia grabbed a saddle and bridle and went through to the stables. Thank the gods she had often gone hunting with her husband. Few of her friends could ride, let alone saddle a horse. She selected her favourite bay gelding; it was quiet, unflappable. Her breath was still coming in gasps, but the mechanical work of her hands calmed her a little. She realized her clothes were torn, her breasts still half exposed. She started to make herself decent, then stopped, annoyed with herself.

The horse ready, girths double-checked, she went back to the tack room. Isangrim was holding Dernhelm's hand, talking softly to him. The little boy had been crying again. No time now; she would comfort him later.

There was plenty of stuff to choose from. Ballista had always been a keen huntsman. Stripping off her clothes, Julia tugged on a man's pair of trousers and tunic. All too big, but she held them in place with her own girdle; the keys and purse jingled as she struggled to fasten it. Finally, she pulled on the smallest pair of riding boots she could find. She was ready. As she collected the children, her eye fell on the neatly arrayed hunting weapons, polished and softly gleaming on the wall. Dismissing the idea of taking a boar spear or bow and quiver, she slung a sword belt over her shoulder. Then, as an afterthought, she handed one to Isangrim. The miniature sword had no great intrinsic value, but it had been one of his treasures. His father had given it to him when he came back from Ephesus last year. Dear gods, even in his barbarian homeland Ballista had not had to kill a man until he was fifteen.

Julia helped Isangrim on to the horse, then put Dernhelm up in front of him. She unbolted the outer gate. Outside, the street was empty. She heard distant sounds of uproar, their direction uncertain. Using the mounting block, she got into the saddle.

Where to go? Out of the city, but then where? To Daphne? In the time of troubles, Shapur had spared the suburb after a sign from the god. There was no telling if such superstition would hold him back this time. So possibly not to her estate at Daphne. Maybe the other place. But first get out of the city.

Julia set off towards the postern gate in the south-east. As they crossed the affluent Rhodion district the streets became wider and steeper, the houses more impressive. The sun was getting low. She had no idea how much time had elapsed since she had left the theatre.

The broad streets were eerily deserted, the mansions shuttered. Now and then, she glimpsed individuals or small groups, who scurried away at the sight of someone on horseback.

Julia turned a corner — and there stood more Persians, six or seven warriors. They were inspecting their loot at the gate of a large property. Their horses were tethered nearby.

For a few heartbeats, the Persians did nothing. Then three of them stepped out into the street. Julia kicked her heels into the flanks of the gelding. It leapt forward. One of the easterners lunged for its bridle. She urged the horse on. The Persian missed his hold. The horse's shoulder sent him spinning.

Julia looked back. All the Persians were running for their mounts. Holding the children with one arm, Julia hauled the animal round the next corner.

She had a small start. But the horse was burdened with her and the children. Soon the sounds of pursuit swelled behind. She forced herself to think. Two blocks to the south was her friend Sulpicia's house. There was a small alley at the back, its entrance overgrown. She kicked on.

Her pursuers were close but not in sight when she reached the alley. Ducking low, she forced the gelding through the overhanging branches.

From the street came the rattle of hooves. Three, four horsemen rode past. Hushing the children, she waited. The sounds dwindled. She turned her mount. Outside, more noise. Another two Persians clattered by. Again she waited, heart pounding, hands slick on the reins. No sound. Nothing. She urged the horse out into the wide, empty street.

The shadows were lengthening. She was near the gate now. One final turn and there it was. And in front of it three more Persians on horseback.

Confidently the warriors walked their animals towards her. The easterners were smiling broadly.

Julia ran her hand along her girdle — the keys, her purse — to the belt hanging from her shoulder and the hilt of the sword. The Sassanids were not going to take her or her children alive.

Ballista walked out on to the battlements of the north-east tower of the fort guarding the harbour of Kyreneia on the island of Cyprus, where he had taken the fleet and army. The wind was strong, blustery. Standards snapped and hissed, metal fittings clicked against their wooden shafts. He had summoned his consilium to meet up here to catch the breeze. Down below, inside the fort, it was stiflingly hot.

With much voluble swearing, Maximus and Calgacus set down the table. Did he realize how fucking heavy it was; how difficult to get up the fucking stairs? Demetrius spread out and weighted down the maps.

Ballista leant back against the crenellations and looked around. To the west, a mist was forming over the mountains. In August, it was unlikely to presage rain. There was a dark line on the horizon to the north. It looked like land. It was not. The mainland was some sixty or seventy miles north of Cyprus. But behind or under that dark cloud were the Persians, ranging at will, ravaging unopposed the coast of Cilicia. Turning, Ballista saw a bright little war galley coming from the east. It was rowing into the wind. There was quite a swell running. The gaudy liburnian was in a hurry. It was not one of Ballista's — all his ships had been painted an inconspicuous blue-grey. Most of them crowded the small, half-moon harbour in the lee of the fort.

Ragonius Clarus cleared his throat and announced that the members of the consilium were all present. The fighting top of the tower was quite spacious, although not designed to accommodate a meeting of over forty Roman officers.

Ballista thanked the legate and, raising his voice against the wind, began the telling of how the war went.

'Commilitiones, as I am sure you know, the Sassanid forces have split in two. The smaller part, the three thousand or so that had taken Zephyrion before we left the mainland, have pressed far to the west. Those places that have offered anything other than token resistance, they have bypassed. But, even so, they have sacked' — he pointed at the periplous showing the coast of Cilicia Tracheia unrolled on the table — 'Sebaste, Corycus, Calendris and Anemurium. On the last report, they were before the walls of Selinus.'

There was a murmur of surprise. Selinus was a very long way west.

'The main force, estimated at about twelve thousand and led by the King of Kings, Shapur himself, has ridden back east into Cilicia Pedias. They have sacked Augustopolis, Anazarbos, Kastabala, Neronias.' One by one, Ballista tapped the places off on the itinerary map of Cilicia Pedias spread on the table. 'They were last heard of at Flavias.'

The muttering was louder this time, as the scale of the depredations registered. 'Unprecedented disaster'; 'Slaughtered citizens'; 'Insult to the imperium'; 'Something must be done'; 'The barbarian superbia of Shapur must be humbled'; 'Sail with the evening offshore breeze'; 'Teach the eastern reptiles how to fight.'

Ballista looked away as he let them run on. The commander of the bright little liburnian was in a tearing hurry. His left-hand oars were almost shaving the headland that sheltered the harbour from the east.

'Dominus.' The voice demanding attention belonged to Marcus Aurelius Rutilus, the prefect of a unit of Thracian auxiliaries. He was a big man, with a square head and an obviously broken nose. The bright-red hair that had given him his cognomen probably indicated Celtic or Germanic ancestors.

Ballista gave Rutilus permission to address the consilium.

'Dominus, commilitiones, the news is not good. But given our strategy, it was to be expected. The Persians remain trapped in Cilicia. Trebellianus still blocks the coast road to the west at Korakesion. Demosthenes still holds the Cilician Gates through the Taurus mountains to the north, and imperial forces occupy both the Amanikai Gates and the Syrian Gates through the Amanus range to the east.'

There was something about Rutilus that reminded Ballista of his old friend Mamurra. It could be just the shape of his head. But maybe there was something more — the same intelligence and unusual self-possession in a man risen from the ranks. That poor bastard Mamurra. Ballista had left him to die in a siege tunnel at Arete in Syria. It had been that or let the Persians swarm in and take the town, kill everyone. But Ballista did not like to think about having given the order that had collapsed the entrance to the tunnel and entombed his friend — may the earth lie lightly on him.

'And now the Persians have divided their forces, as the prefect Marcus Clodius Ballista said they would.'

Clever bastard, thought Ballista. Quicker than Mamurra. You will repay watching. Was it possible Rutilus was a frumentarius? Usually those who spied on the emperor's own subjects were of lower rank. But you could never be sure.

Ragonius Clarus, with only the barest nod in Ballista's direction to ask for permission to speak, launched into a repetition of the substance of Rutilus's words interleaved with a eulogy on the wisdom of 'our beloved, noble young emperors' for designing this so very successful strategy.

Down below Ballista, the liburnian skimmed past the rocks of the western breakwater and bumped to a halt against a jetty. A man sprang off the ship and ran pell-mell towards the shore.

'Quite so,' Ballista interrupted as Clarus was settling into an extended discussion of the foresight of Quietus and Macrianus the Younger. 'Unexpected providentia in ones so young — could not have put it better myself, Legate.'

Although one or two of the officers grinned, Clarus forced himself to smile.

'Rutilus and Ragonius Clarus are right,' Ballista continued. 'The Sassanids at Selinus are in a poor position. Trebellianus at Korakesion blocks them to the west. It would not be easy for a force of cavalry to withdraw into the Taurus mountains to the north. We will land to their east at Charadros. With luck, they will be trapped. There are only about three thousand of them. Shapur and his men are far away. We have four and a half thousand infantry. The narrow coast road should favour us.'

There was a commotion at the rear of the consilium. An officer pushed to the front. Red-faced, out of breath, it was the man from the liburnian. This messenger did not bring good news.

'Dominus, Antioch the Great has fallen.'

Amid the general shout of horror, Ballista was silent. There was a terrible hollowness in his chest.

'My sons? My wife?' Ballista asked quietly.

The officer looked down. 'They are gone.'

'Gone?'

'They have not been seen since. The Sassanids killed many. Took no prisoners. Many of the bodies are burnt… gone.' Maximus was watching Ballista. He had been for days, almost unsleeping. He had watched Ballista throughout — his silence during the night of frantic preparations for sailing, sitting alone at the prow of the ship for the two days it took them to cross to Seleuceia, disembarking at the smoking port, riding to Antioch, tearing through the streets to the house, finding the pool of dried blood on the mosaic just over the threshold, and by it the discarded miniature sword.

Four days in which Ballista had eaten and drunk next to nothing, had not washed, shaved or slept. Four days in which Ballista had hardly spoken.

Now, the stench of burning and corruption in his nostrils, Maximus watched his friend leaning against one of the columns by the door of the ransacked house, waiting for news. Any news.

Withdrawn in his grief, Ballista had effectively relinquished command. The senatorial legate Ragonius Clarus was incapable. Some of the junior officers, Castricius and Rutilus to the fore, had taken charge. The troops had secured the walls, sent out patrols. Work parties were dealing with the bodies. Selected men were searching among them for Ballista's wife and children. Calgacus and Demetrius were scouring the city for witnesses.

Having sacked Antioch, the Persians had turned on the great city's port of Seleuceia. Then they had left the city and ridden north, possibly to retrace their steps to the obscure, unguarded pass south of the Amanikai Gates by which they had come, possibly to take the small garrison of the Syrian Gates from behind. Macrianus the Younger had escaped the palace, hustled to safety by a unit of the Equites Singulares. He had been taken towards the army of his father and brother, now belatedly rushing north from Emesa. All of this Ballista neither knew nor cared about. Maximus did not care either.

There was a rattle of hooves and Calgacus and Demetrius returned. On foot between them was an old, dishevelled man.

'The custos. He was at the theatre with them.' Calgacus pushed him forward.

The old man started talking. 'The kyria had sent me for sweets. For the boys. The reptiles came out of nowhere. It was chaos. I could not get back to them.'

For a time Ballista looked at him, seemingly uncomprehending. Then he fished in the purse at his belt. He took out a coin and passed it over.

The old man took it.

'In your mouth.' Ballista's tone was flat.

The custos did not move.

'Put it in your mouth,' Ballista said, 'to pay the ferryman.'

Ballista hefted the miniature sword.

The old man fell to his knees. Pleading, he clasped Ballista's thighs.

'Too late.' Ballista aimed the blow.

Maximus caught Ballista's arm. Quick as a flash, the Hibernian's hand was knocked away. The tip of his friend's blade was at Maximus's throat.

'Ballista, it is me. Killing the old man will not help.'

The sword clattered to the ground. Ballista sank down. Both hands clawing in the soot and filth, he poured it over his head, fouled his face. Black ashes settled on his tunic.

Maximus shoved the old man out of sight.

Overpowered by loss, Ballista sprawled in the dirt. 'A man who has killed his father is sewn in a sack… a dog, snake, monkey and cock for company… all drown together. What punishment for a man who by his perjury has killed his sons?'

'Dominus,' said Maximus, 'this is not you.'

'What punishment for him? Something worse? Nothing special? Just an old-style Roman death — tied to the stake and beaten to death?'

Then Maximus, raising his voice at Ballista's rambling, 'Marcus Clodius Ballista, stop! This is not you. This is fucking unseemly shit.'

Ballista seemed surprised. He gazed at the sky. 'Gentle breezes, a benign zephyr — most unseemly shit. No rain, wind, thunder and fire. Unseemly. The sky should fall, drench our temples, drown our priests, drown the Galloi, drown every cock.' He made a sound a little like laughter. 'Drown every monkey, snake and dog. Drown every man, woman and child. A second flood, with no boat for Deucalion and the good and deserving. Drown every god. Cut them down. Ragnarok — the death of gods and men. The sun swallowed by the wolf Skoll. The stars vanish from the sky.'

Maximus bent to get the miniature sword.

'Leave it!' Ballista snatched it up.

'Kyrios' — Demetrius spoke quietly — 'it is not your fault.'

On all fours, Ballista scurried over the threshold like an animal. He crouched on the blood-stained mosaic of the deformed dwarf. The blade in his fist flickered this way and that.

Maximus made to go to him. Calgacus's hand held him back.

Ballista's voice came from a faraway place. 'At Arete, my friend Iarhai told me his nightmare. Under the dark poplars he crosses the Styx, and there waiting for him on the fields of Tartarus by the ocean stream are the "kindly ones", and behind them every person he had killed. An eternity of retribution.'

He took a deep breath and turned from Greek to his native language. 'Now I can cross the icy river Gjoll, pass the gates of Hel, come to Nastrond, the shore of corpses. A different destination, the same fate. The faces of the dead, all turned to me. So many — the newly dead, the green and rotting, those more bone than flesh, those I remember — Maximinus Thrax, Mamurra — those I have forgotten, but at the front my own dear boys.'

Abruptly he reverted to Greek: mangled phrases of poetry. 'Set on me those maidens with gory eyes and snaky hair, with their dog-faces and gorgon-eyes, those priestesses of the dead, goddesses of terror — spare my boys.'

'That way madness lies,' said Maximus. 'Shun it. No more of that.'

'Not for long.' Ballista pulled the front of his tunic taut, slit it open. With his left hand he guided the point of the little sword to just the right place under his ribs.

Maximus was measuring the distance when Calgacus crossed in front of him. The old Caledonian knelt by Ballista. He drew his sword.

'That is my job.'

From his knees, Ballista looked up dully.

'My job,' Calgacus repeated. He tapped his blade on the mosaic. 'You remember. In your father's hall, after the centurion came for you, it was one of the things your father told us. My final duty to you. Then myself.'

Ballista lowered his own blade. No one relaxed.

'Do it,' Ballista said.

Calgacus carried on tapping the metal on the little coloured stones.

'Everything has been taken from you.' Calgacus spoke quietly. 'But before you go, you owe them one thing.'

Ballista did not respond.

'Vengeance. You are a killer, born, bred, trained. Now use it.'

Ballista gave no reaction.

'You have man-killing hands, a gift for death. Rest, eat, collect yourself — give them vengeance.'

Ballista was still. Then, almost quicker than Maximus could follow, he struck. Once, twice, three times.

The tesserae shattered. The hunchback dwarf was eyeless, its genitals mutilated.

Calgacus nodded slowly.

Again Ballista spoke in Greek verse, a different metre, this time perfect: 'Done is done. Despite my anguish I will beat it down, the fury mounting inside me, down by force. But now I will go and meet that murderer head on, that Hector who destroyed the dearest life I know. For my own death, I'll meet it freely — whenever Zeus And the other deathless gods would like to bring it on!' Calgacus stood at the prow of the trireme with Ballista. The sea was calm. The great warship lay on its oars. The sun had not yet burnt off the early morning mist. Around them, the rest of the fleet faded into the greyness. To the north, behind the mist, was the port of Soli.

It was thirteen days since they had left Antioch, eleven since they had sailed from Seleuceia. Again they had tracked the enemy, around the Gulf of Issus and along the Hollows of Cilicia. The Sassanid force that had raided Antioch had crossed the Syrian Gates, overwhelming its small garrison from the rear. Across the Amanus range they had reunited with their main body and together plundered the city of Rhosus. Then they had ridden through the devastated plain of Cilicia to the coastal city of Soli. This morning they would assault its walls. The Romans were well acquainted with their plans. Calgacus had been horrified at the ingenuity with which Ballista had tortured the Sassanid stragglers, appalled at the cold-eyed lack of emotion — or was it controlled pleasure? — with which he had finally despatched them.

Calgacus cast a sly glance at Ballista. The boy was far from right. Ballista stood, unnaturally immobile, staring ahead into the mist. He had had one of the armourers make him a new helmet. The broad nasal covered most of his face, and on either side was a curled metal ram's horn. Calgacus had not felt he could ask him why. No one had. Not even the bumptious Hibernian Maximus.

Calgacus was worried — more than worried, he had an ill-defined sense of foreboding and, worse, a strong sense of guilt. Dissuading Ballista from suicide, Calgacus had not spoken the whole truth. Ballista had never been a born killer. Some men are, Maximus for one. Maybe Calgacus was himself. But not Ballista. He had been a gentle child, sensitive. Left to his own devices, he might have become a farmer, been happy tending his flocks, or maybe a bard; he had always spouted poetry. There had been no hope of that, not for the son of Isangrim, the warleader of the Angles, trained by his uncle among the fierce Harii then hauled off into the imperium. Ballista had been shaped into a killer but, until now, it had never come completely easily to him. Never before had Calgacus seen him torture and kill in cold blood — or at least never take pleasure in it. Calgacus was worried — to keep the boy alive he had pushed him further down the path.

'There!' Maximus was pointing. Out of the thinning mist a liburnian was racing out towards them. At its prow a marine was holding a red cloak above his head.

Ballista came back from wherever he had been. He shouted, 'Full ahead.'

The rowing master gave the count. 'One, two, three, strike.' Almost as one, the oars bit the water. The trireme shivered like an animal waking then gathered way. By the third stroke, the ship was accelerating smoothly, the water running fast down her sides. All around, the fleet was getting underway.

Under the enclosing helm, Ballista was speaking softly. Calgacus, next to him, had to strain his ears to catch the words. 'Come what may come. What advantage in living? No fatherland, no house, no refuge.' More gloomy Greek poetry. The boy was in a very bad way.

Yet, bad way or no, Ballista could still set out a fine plan. The Persians had two main advantages: there were more of them, and they had horses. With luck, Ballista's plan might negate both. When the Romans landed, most of the Persians would be committed to the assault on Soli's walls. Under Rutilus, the ten little liburnians, just fifteen soldiers on each, would rush the camp. In their lazy superbia, the easterners had neglected to build a palisade or even set a proper guard. If they wanted their possessions, including their vast booty from Cilicia, the Persians would have to give up their superior mobility and fight hand to hand. The gods willing, many would have left their horses in the camp. The men with Ballista would form the initial line of battle just outside the camp. He had crammed fifty soldiers on to the decks of each of the triremes. These five hundred men, in only one rank, would have to hold until Castricius could get the four thousand or so reinforcements on the transport ships up in support. Even now the latter were wallowing behind, men labouring at enormous sweeps to propel the fat roundships to the shore.

The mist was lifting fast. Through the last wisps, the shore came into view. Off to the left were the walls of Soli — ringed by a mass of tiny dark figures; just to the right, the huge, sprawling array of tents, pavilions and horse-lines that formed the camp. In the far distance rose the snow-capped Taurus mountains. It was a beautiful summer morning.

Trumpets rang out from the Persians around the city, shrill cries of alarm carried across the water from the encampment. It would take time for the Persians to disengage from the assault and form up to face this new threat.

With a shudder that threw men off their feet, the trireme grounded on the shelving beach. Boarding ladders splashed down.

In a moment Ballista had descended the first one. Calgacus rushed to follow.

As he leapt down, Calgacus lost his footing. He went down on his hands and knees into the shallow water. A boot caught him in the back. He came up spitting, blinking salt from his eyes. Ballista was away — pounding up the beach. Calgacus scrambled to his feet and ran after him.

It was hard to run on the sand in full armour carrying a heavy shield. The muscles in Calgacus's legs screamed, his chest burned. He was far too old for this shit. He ploughed on.

Soon there was harder ground under his boots. Shutting out the pain, he closed his mind to everything but running.

Ballista had stopped. Calgacus pulled up — doubled over, retching dry and painful. Ballista was looking around, arms waving the line into place. Maximus had taken station on Ballista's right shoulder, the last man in the line. Demetrius, dressed for all the world as a soldier in a comedy, was at his left. Gently, Calgacus pulled Demetrius behind his kyrios and took his place. Every man in the line would have to stand firm. There was no point in letting the young Greek get himself or all of them killed. The new standard bearer, Gratius, was on Calgacus's left.

Calgacus looked out to sea. The transports were still some way out. Snaking down to the waves, just five hundred men of Legio IIII Scythica would have to face the anger of the Persian horde, and face it alone for some time.

'Here they come.'

The first Persians were closing, a cloud of mounted archers. Through the dust they raised, Calgacus could see a solid mass of armoured cavalry forming up. The gods had not been willing: all the easterners in sight were on horseback.

About fifty paces away, the leading Persians wheeled their mounts, loosed their bows.

The legionaries tucked their chins into their chests, hunkering down behind their big shields. Arrows thumped into leather and wood, sliced past.

'Ignore them — they are nothing,' Ballista roared.

'Girls' spindles,' a legionary shouted. 'Come here, darlings, and I will give you a good fucking.'

Soldiers laughed. Calgacus grinned sourly. Something Ballista had once said floated at the edges of his thoughts. Is this what it was to be a man? True male grace under pressure?

Calgacus leant back, looked at the shore. The transports were nearly there. He squinted round his shield at the enemy. The archers were withdrawing. The Sassanid knights, the dreaded clibanarii, were ready. The pitifully thin line with Ballista would somehow have to survive one charge.

A thunder of drums. The heavy cavalry walked forward. A dark phalanx, impossible to see how deep.

Hercules' hairy arse, this was not going to be pleasant.

When the Persians' individual armour — mail, plate, gaudy surcoats, steel visors — could be made out, at about five hundred paces, they moved to a trot. The banners above their heads — lilac, red, yellow — were bright in the sun.

Trumpets rang out from the clibanarii. They began to canter. Now the banners jerked this way and that. The horses seemed to rock back and forth as they exerted themselves under the weight of man and metal.

They came on. Calgacus looked at the sea. The Roman reinforcements were splashing ashore. Too late for the initial shock. But enough of that. 'Eyes front, hold the line,' he found himself shouting.

Horribly quickly, the Persians came on. The noise was like a wave crashing on a shingle beach, louder and louder.

'Stand for your brothers. Hold the line.' Legionaries called encouragement to themselves and their contubernales. Many prayed to their favoured deities: 'Let me live, great god, and I will give…'

Calgacus drew his sword, thrust it out beyond his shield. He dug his heels in the ground. The very air seemed to be shaking.

Gratius, next to Calgacus, was trembling. Out of the corner of his eye, Calgacus saw the urine run on Gratius's legs. It happened. And not just to cowards. The man was still in place.

The Sassanids came on — a wall of steel, inhuman, filling the world with their coming. Wicked spear points gleamed.

One hundred paces, seventy, fifty — dear gods, let this be over — thirty — they will scatter us like chaff. Calgacus ground his teeth.

About the distance a boy could throw a stone, the first horses refused the immobile wall of shields, digging in their feet, swerving, colliding. Men fought to stay in the saddle, sliding up their horses' necks. Losing their grip, some riders crashed, tumbling to the ground, lost under the hooves.

Ten paces from the Roman line, a confusion of stationary horses. Milling, backing, heads tossing, stamping, they bumped and bored into each other.

'Charge!' Ballista was running forward. He was yelling something. It sounded like, 'Nasu! Nasu!'

Ballista's long sword arced. It smashed into a horse's rear leg just above the hock. Tendons severed, the animal collapsed backwards, throwing its rider. Two quick steps and, almost casually, Ballista finished the man on the ground. The northerner's blade swung again, this time slicing off a horse's muzzle. Blood sprayed. Maddened by pain, the animal leapt forward. It crashed into another. Both went down in a tangle of limbs.

A Sassanid thrust at Ballista. Sidestepping, Ballista punched the tip of his weapon through the beast's armour and deep into its chest. It stood for a moment, pink froth at its nostrils, chest heaving, suffocating. It too went down, its rider tumbling in front of Calgacus. Chop — immediately the Persian's helmet cracked under Calgacus's blade.

Ballista was gone, into the mass of the enemy. Neither Calgacus or Maximus could keep up with him. Fucking fool, thought Calgacus. Never get in the midst of panicking horses. You will get trodden, knocked down, crushed, trampled.

Calgacus saw Ballista duck clean under a horse. As he came up the other side, large coils of pinky-grey intestines slithered from the animal's sliced belly. It tried to run, slipped on its own guts, went down.

Some god had to be holding his hands over Ballista. Calgacus watched him move with the grace of a dancer, untouched through the thundering chaos, sword flashing, quick as a snake. Men and horses were screaming. There was blood everywhere.

Calgacus took a blow on his shield, ducked, pushed forward. Over the hellish din, he could hear Ballista: 'Nasu! Nasu!'

Some of the Sassanids were fighting; more were sawing on their reins, trying to turn, get free from the chaos.

'Nasu! Nasu!' — oddly it seemed that some of the Persians were taking up Ballista's chant. 'Nasu! Nasu!' — they fought to get away from the huge, grim figure in the horned helmet.

Behind the tumult, pushing against the tide of retreating easterners, and astride the most splendid horse, a tall figure in purple and white, a high golden crown on his head. The King of Kings gesticulated. His mouth was open, shouting, but the words vanished into the uproar. Calgacus could see, near Shapur, the aged figure of the captive Roman emperor Valerian.

Ballista had been standing, hands down, a still centre in the eye of the storm. Now he recognized Shapur. He hurled his shield away and leapt forward, howling.

Shapur saw Ballista coming. The King of Kings drew his sword, kicked his mount forward.

A big Sassanid warrior put himself in front of the king. He swung at Ballista. The northerner ducked. The blade glanced off Ballista's helmet.

Shapur's nobles swarmed around their monarch. They grabbed his reins, turning his horse's head. The beloved of Mazda roared orders. For once they were disobeyed. The nobles closed ranks, their gorgeous silks surrounding the king.

Try as he might, Calgacus could not get to Ballista. Horses, men, friend and foe got in the way. Maximus also was caught up in the melee.

Ballista's sword sang — desperate to be past the big Persian warrior and at Shapur. In a berserk fury, Ballista hacked his sword deep into the back of the neck of the Persian's horse. The steel edge cut through the armour, severing the ligament. As the horse went down, the warrior jumped free. He landed on his feet.

The great war standard of the house of Sasan was moving away. Shapur was being forcibly led to safety. Valerian was being dragged after him.

The big Persian warrior cut at Ballista's left thigh. The northerner caught the blow on his blade, pirouetted like a dancer and sank his own sword into the man's left shoulder. The warrior staggered. Dropping his sword, his right hand automatically went to the wound. He swayed in agony. He did not fall.

Overhead, Ballista brought his weapon down on to the man's other shoulder. Metal buckled, and gave. The man sank to his knees. In a flurry of blows, Ballista finished him.

'Nasu! Nasu!' Ballista cried at the fluttering Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the battle standard of the Sassanids, and the retreating Persian king. They were gone too far. Like an animal savaging its prey, Ballista chopped again and again at the corpse at his feet.

Calgacus reached him. Ballista continued his gory work of mutilation. The Persian's head was nearly severed, his reddish hair spread in the dirt.

'Stop, boy,' Calgacus said.

Ballista continued the butchery, dismembered the body.

'Leave him. It is over.'

Ballista stopped. He looked down at the dead Persian.

'Garshasp the Lion,' Ballista said, and drove the tip of his blade into the man's chest. He left it there, quivering.

Blood ran in every crevice of Ballista's armour, clotted in the links of his mail coat. It dripped from his dented helmet, his unshaven face.

Ballista was in a place where Calgacus could not follow.

'Nasu! Nasu!' Ballista screamed at the sky.

Calgacus remembered: Nasu was the Persian daemon of death.

'And this,' Rutilus said to Ballista, 'is the pavilion of the King of Kings.'

'Kyrios,' Demetrius interrupted, 'Ragonius Clarus wishes to see you. He says it is most urgent — for the good of the Res Publica. He has been waiting for hours, since the Persians ran.'

Ballista did not look round. 'Let him wait.'

No one was quite sure why the Persians had run. Despite their disarray, everyone had expected them to canter out of range, rally and charge again. Centurions and optiones had shouted themselves hoarse getting the legionaries back to the standards, getting the reinforcements into position. When the line was re-set — this time eight deep and with a comforting barrier of dead and injured horses in front — they had been surprised that the Persians were a distant smudge of dust. The only easterners left were dead or too maimed to hobble to safety. The latter were soon dead as well.

Panic can spread through an army in seconds. Certainly some credit had to go to an opportune sally into the Persian rear from the town. This had been led by the eirenarch of Soli — a man called Perilaus. Demetrius thought, if ever in the history of mankind, let alone of the imperium, there was a case of a brigand turned estate guard, it was Perilaus. He had to be either a close ally of Trebellianus or, more likely, one of his deadliest enemies.

Yet Demetrius knew Perilaus was not the real reason for the Persian rout. Demetrius had been there. He had stood in the battle line. True, that was all he had done — stand in the battle line. When Ballista, Calgacus and the others had run forward, Demetrius had taken just a couple of steps after them. He had his sword out. His intentions were good. But there had seemed no way into the maelstrom of horses and men. Everywhere flailing, falling horses, terrible, sharp weapons. Demetrius had not fought, but he had seen and he had heard everything that mattered: Ballista, miraculously unscathed, sword swinging, screaming from under his helmet — 'Nasu, Nasu.' Demetrius had witnessed the fear of the daemon of death spread through the Sassanid warriors. He had seen Shapur, the proud King of Kings, hustled away.

If ever a man had won a battle single-handed, it was Ballista today. But had Ballista been alone? Demetrius seriously thought that his beloved kyrios had been possessed — Nasu, the daemon of death.

Demetrius followed the others into the cool, purple shade of the royal tent. A long corridor later, they emerged into a cavernous room. Wherever they looked were bowls, pitchers, tubs and caskets, all exquisitely worked. The chamber itself breathed a marvellous scent of incense and spices. Couches and tables were laid for a banquet. At the far end was an ornate throne. Before it was a low altar on which burned a sacred Zoroastrian flame.

Ballista spoke, to no one in particular. 'This, it seems, is what it is to be a king.'

The northerner, his face still largely hidden under the blood-spattered helmet, looked around. He picked up a big pitcher of wine, took a drink. Then he carried it to the altar. Slowly he poured the wine over it. A cloud of steam rose as the sacred fire hissed and died.

This was too much for Demetrius. 'When a man who takes a city includes in the general destruction temples of the high gods…'

A laugh came from under Ballista's grim helmet. He finished the quotation from Euripides: 'He is a fool; his destruction follows him close.' Ballista laughed again, strangely carefree. 'I know it all too well, boy.'

At the sacrilege, two eunuchs, who had been hovering quietly behind the throne, started wailing.

Ballista went over to them. His hand went to his sword. It was not there. He had left it embedded in the corpse of Garshasp. Ballista drew Isangrim's miniature sword from his other hip. He killed both the eunuchs.

'Never cared for their sort in the north.'

From behind the hangings at the rear of the room came a terrible high keening.

Rutilus smiled. If, like Demetrius, he had been shocked by the killing, he had recovered quickly. 'To the victor the spoils.' He whisked back the curtain. The wailing redoubled.

'Heaven on earth,' said Maximus. 'Sure, a man could die happy.'

Wherever they looked now were girls. Tall, short; thin, rounded; dark and blond. All beautiful.

'The concubines of the King of Kings,' said Rutilus, having to raise his voice. 'About four hundred of them. At least one for every day of the year.'

Calgacus joined Maximus, crowding behind Rutilus and Ballista. Demetrius hung back. All five men were silent.

The noise dropped to some stifled sobs. The girls got down and performed proskynesis to the tall, red-haired man.

Rutilus laughed and pointed to Ballista. Hurriedly, the girls realigned themselves.

'It makes no difference,' said Ballista. 'Give them to the troops. Then kill them.'

Some must have understood Greek. The wailing redoubled.

'Kyrios' — Demetrius had to shout — 'this is not you. This is wrong.'

Ballista did not respond.

'Kyrios' — Demetrius pushed in front of him — 'you cannot kill defenceless women. They are slaves. They did not kill the kyria or your boys.'

'No,' said Ballista, 'I killed my sons. I took an oath. Like Jason, I broke it. Like Jason, the gods took the lives of the oath-breaker's darling sons. Soon they will take mine.'

'Kyrios,' said Demetrius, 'your mind is wandering, confused by grief. Medea lied. Jason took no oath. Your oath was taken under duress. It has no meaning.'

Ballista took off his helmet. His hair was matted, his face streaked with dirt and dried blood. He gazed far away, lost in thought.

'When Medea accused Jason of perjury, he did not deny it. In my case there is no woman, no lie. I took the oath. Of my own free will.' Again he seemed far away. 'Free will,' he murmured.

Suddenly Ballista snapped out of it. 'Rutilus, go and tell Ragonius Clarus I will see him soon. Wait for my order.'

If Rutilus was surprised, he hid it. He saluted and left.

When he had gone, Ballista started to talk fast. 'I am perjured three times over. I broke the sacramentum I took to Maximinus Thrax, and the one to Valerian. I broke the terrible oath to Shapur. One more broken oath makes no difference. I never really intended to keep the one to Macrianus's sons — value their safety above everything, indeed.' Ballista's voice had something of its old tone. 'Demetrius, pass me your writing things.'

Busily, Ballista dashed off a few lines. He handed the stylus and block back to Demetrius. He pulled the ring with his seal off his finger and gave that to Demetrius as well.

Confused, the young Greek gazed at the seal — Cupid winding a siege engine.

'Go to the ships, find the Concordia; her trierarch Priscus owes me a favour from long ago — you may remember him. That is an order for him to transport you to the west. Go to Gallienus. The ring should get you an audience. Tell him how things stand in the east. Tell him I would never have served the pretenders if their father had not held my family hostage.'

Ballista swung round to Maximus and Calgacus. 'You two, find a sack or something. Fill it with gold for the boy.'

As the other two rummaged around, Demetrius tried to find words. 'Kyrios, if I can go, so can you. We all can.'

Ballista shook his head.

'Kyrios, as your family are… now they are gone, Macrianus has no hold over you.'

Ballista smiled ruefully. 'I am what the Romans call devotus, dedicated to the infernal powers, to death. I will stay here — take what vengeance I can on the Sassanids, before the gods strike me down.'

Demetrius was crying. 'Kyrios — Calgacus, Maximus, you love these men. Let them come with me.'

Ballista looked at Calgacus.

The old Caledonian stopped stuffing precious trinkets into a pillowcase. 'I swore an oath to your father, the northern oath. If you fall on a battlefield, I will not leave it. I did outside Edessa, to protect your boys. I will not do so again. Fuck that.'

'Maximus?'

'I take it you have forgotten you saved my life in Africa all those years ago and me somehow never getting round to returning the favour.' The Hibernian grinned. 'And sure, you are a strange man — trying to tear me from all these lovely girls.'

Ballista took the bundle of booty from Calgacus and gave it to Demetrius. He hugged the boy, kissed him on the forehead. 'Go now. And do not worry, the men must have the girls, but they will not be killed.'

Tears streaming down his face, Demetrius embraced the other two. He stopped at the curtain, looking back.

'Go now.'

Demetrius left.

'What now?' Maximus asked.

'Now who is the strange one?' said Ballista. 'All these girls. Pick a couple for yourselves, more if you want, and take the rest out to the troops.'

Maximus, using his best Persian, ordered the terrified concubines to get moving.

'Wait,' said Ballista. He also spoke in Persian to the girls. 'Which of you is the favourite of the King of Kings?'

None of them answered, but several pairs of eyes slid to one tall, statuesque girl.

'You stay. The rest out.' Ballista turned to Maximus and Calgacus. 'And do not come back until I call you.' Back in the tent, Maximus was looking at the girl. No one else was. Ragonius Clarus, Rutilus and Calgacus were all looking at Ballista, and he was looking at the drink in his hand.

The girl, huddled on the floor by the throne, was crying, painful, dry sobs. Gods below, she is a concubine. What had the fucker done to her? Unpleasant thoughts crept up on Maximus. So much for Ballista's ridiculous superstition of fidelity — fuck another woman and get a theta after his name on the military roll next time in combat. Julia was dead. But it was not that. The fool was putting up one finger to the gods. It was the same as putting out the fire on the altar — fuck you, come and get me.

'Dominus,' Calgacus was using his courtly voice, 'the Legatus et Vir Clarissimus, Gaius Ragonius Clarus, accompanied by the Praefectus et Vir Egregius, Marcus Aurelius Rutilus.'

Ballista looked up with no evident interest.

Unfortunately for Ragonius Clarus, he had just caught sight of the two slaughtered eunuchs at the rear of the room. He stared open-mouthed, horrified, like Demetrius after the killing.

Maximus hoped the young Greek would be on his way by now. It would all be fine. The trierarch Priscus of the Concordia had been promoted to that position five years ago by Ballista. The ship's home port was Ravenna. Its crew were westerners. They would be glad to go home.

So Demetrius's journey should be fine, but his arrival was another matter. How exactly would the emperor Gallienus respond to what the pretty-boy Greek had to say to him? Dominus, I am the accensus to the traitor Ballista, and thus privy to all his secrets. He is very sorry he left your father to rot in Persia and that he is now leading the armies of your sworn enemies. He was forced into it. Now his family are dead, he has no intention of returning to the fold but intends to kill Persians until he is dropped by a stray arrow.

And then there was the Maximinus Thrax problem. Most of, if not all, the other twelve conspirators were dead. They had all had good reason to keep quiet. Ballista had told only four people of his role in killing that emperor. There was Maximus himself and Calgacus; the other two, Julia and Turpio, were dead. Recently, in his ravings, Ballista had spoken of it twice in front of Demetrius. Unlike the others, the boy had not been sworn to secrecy. He would not want to tell, but he was not tough. Even his pleasures were womanish. Under pressure, he would talk. It was not that Gallienus was likely to have any fondness for the memory of the long-dead tyrant, but a track record of killing emperors was unlikely to endear anyone to the man on the throne of the Caesars. It would seem a nasty precedent.

'You wanted to see me.' Ballista spoke conversationally, apparently unaware of the oddity of the scene: a northern barbarian in a stained tunic sitting on the throne of the King of Kings, bits of armour scattered around, a sobbing, half-naked girl, and two dead eunuchs in a pool of blood.

'Indeed.' Clarus tried to rally himself. 'Yes, indeed.' He cleared his throat, as if about to address the senate or recite a poem.

Well, well, thought Maximus, you are scared of my boy. And so you fucking should be, especially as he is now.

Clarus produced an ivory and gold codicil. He glanced at Rutilus for reassurance. The big red-headed officer nodded.

Shame, thought Maximus, I rather liked you, Ginger. But you are obviously a cunt like the rest of Macrianus's boys.

'Marcus Clodius Ballista,' intoned Clarus, 'I give you joy of your victory.'

Ballista took a drink.

'In recognition of your success,' Clarus ploughed on, 'our noble emperors show you the great honour of appointing you joint Praetorian Prefect with Maeonius Astyanax. Henceforth your status is raised from Vir Perfectissimus to that of Vir Eminentissimus.'

Ballista raised his glass almost mockingly.

'With your new dignitas come new mandata.' Clarus seemed about to pass the codicil to Ballista then thought better of it. 'Some three thousand of the Sassanids have fled west towards Sebaste. You are to take the entire fleet and a thousand infantry and prevent these reptiles effecting a union with the Sassanid force which we understand is returning via the hills from Selinus in the west.'

Ballista made no comment.

'The emperors have shown me the honour,' Clarus continued, 'of appointing me to your old post of Prefect of Cavalry. I am to assume command of the remaining troops here at Soli. Once joined by five thousand cavalry making their way from Syria, I am to march north after the bulk of Shapur's horde. While the enemy still has some nine thousand horsemen, the gods willing, Demosthenes will hold the Cilician Gates against them, and I will bring them to battle on the plains south of the Taurus mountains.'

Oh fucking great, thought Maximus. Clarus gets an equivalent force to fight Shapur, while we get just a thousand men and a few marines to take on three thousand reptiles at Sebaste, maybe six thousand if the ones from Selinus join with them before we do. Fucking great. Just as well Ballista has decided he is devotus.

'Soli today, Sebaste next; it is all the same to me,' said Ballista. 'Maybe we should all have a drink. Roxanne?'

As the girl, sniffing once or twice, got up and busied herself, Maximus looked at the luxury all around in the inner sanctum of the King of Kings. It took him a while to realize why it bothered him. The only man he knew that had seen it before was old Turpio. And look how it had ended for him. Defying the fates, Maximus picked up a discarded necklace and hung it around his neck.

The headland of Sebaste was low but solid in the dark night. The little boat rode the gentle swell. Ballista had commandeered the fishing smack from Soli. They had sailed down to Sebaste at last light and started their fishing. Ballista worked it with the old fisherman. They used a dragnet with floats here. The boat was square-rigged, nothing too different from the fishing boats of Ballista's childhood.

Maximus, Calgacus and two marines huddled in the bottom of the boat. Sounds can carry a long way over water at night, so they did not complain.

Ballista had watched the Great Bear circle and pale. It had been a long night, but soon it would be over. He yawned, stretched and gazed up at the eastern sky. No sign of it lightening yet.

It was the old man who first saw the signal. Tapping Ballista's arm, he pointed to the shore. There it was. A solitary beacon to the east of Sebaste, on the road from Soli. The first part of Ballista's plan had worked. The land forces, even though only an inadequate thousand men, were in position.

Ballista unshuttered and hoisted the lantern. As the old man hurriedly pulled in his nets, Ballista scanned the dark sea to the south. Nothing. No sign that the second, crucial element of his plan was in place. He could not wait. There was no time.

With the old man at the steering oar, Ballista brought the sail round. It was far too early for the morning breeze from the sea, but the hint of the prevailing westerly should bring them in to the beach west of Sebaste.

As the low headland slid past to their right, the old man talked inaudibly to himself. Mastering an urge to look south, Ballista stared at the sky. Now there was a faint but definite pink tinge above the black outline of the town. Maximus started to get up. With a hand on his friend's arm, Ballista indicated it was too soon.

Sudden and clear a trumpet rang out from the town. Before its echo had faded, it was answered by others. Torches flared along the wall. Some of them were moving. One or two shouts floated across the water. The Sassanids were aware of the Roman troops to the east. So far so good — providing the dark-painted ships of the fleet, their oars muffled, were gliding in out of sight behind the fishing boat. Ballista did not think what would happen if it were not so. In many ways, he did not care. Soon there would be more blood for the ghosts. For those whom fate has cursed Music itself sings but one note — Unending miseries, torment and wrong!

A word of warning from the old man, and he ran the boat up on to the beach.

Ballista swung himself over the side. He landed knee-deep in the water. Maximus passed him his sword belt. Ballista buckled it on. Then he pulled the floppy cap from his belt. Scooping his long hair under it, he crammed it over his brows.

Maximus was beside him, fiddling with his own eastern cap. Calgacus and the two marines jumped out of the boat. While they readied themselves, Ballista and Maximus pushed the boat off. The old man just waved as he unshipped the oars.

Ballista pulled Isangrim's little blade on his right hip an inch or two out of its sheath, snapped it back, drew the big sword on his left a little, pushed it back, touched the healing stone tied to the scabbard. He was glad Calgacus had retrieved his sword from the body of Garshasp. At moments like this, Ballista was painfully aware that, much of the time, he was not thinking clearly. My heart would burst, My sick head beats and burns, Till passion pleads to ease its pain.

Ballista checked the others.

'Time to go.'

The sand crunched under their boots. The town wall was black off to the right. The west gate was hidden in shadow. It was, Ballista thought, a good job they had been here before and knew the layout. The noise from the town seemed to have faded.

A couple of trees grew in front of the gate. The land smelled hot away from the sea. The heavy doors were shut. Ballista looked back at the sea. Was there a line of white — not a wave — out there?

Ballista unsheathed his sword. With the pommel he beat loudly on the gate.

'Open the gate,' he called in Persian. 'Open the gate. The country is alive with Romans.'

From inside came a babble of talk.

'Open.' Ballista beat on the gate again. 'I am Vardan, son of Nashbad. I have an order from Shapur.'

A bonneted head popped up over the battlements.

'Open the gate now,' roared Ballista. 'The man who delays the command of the King of Kings will suffer.'

The head disappeared.

A few moments later there was a scraping sound — the gate opened.

Ballista pushed past the first Persian. There were two more inside. He killed one with a thrust to the stomach, the second with a blow to the back of the neck. Maximus was sawing his blade into the throat of the first one. It had all taken about four seconds.

'Calgacus, take the marines and get up on the wall walk. Maximus, you stay with me.'

Ballista took stock. He had hoped there might be something, say a cart or some barrels, anything really, to wedge the gate open. There was nothing obvious. Still, it should not be for long.

'Maximus, help me drag the bodies to block the gates.'

No sooner had they finished than figures appeared in the street.

'Shut the gate,' a voice shouted.

'We cannot — orders,' Ballista replied in Persian.

The men walked up. There were four of them.

'Shut the gate, now.'

Ballista waited until they were close then stabbed the leader in the guts. Maximus cut down another. The two remaining Sassanids went for their swords. Their yells were cut short before their blades were free of their scabbards.

'They will be all over us now, like a cheap toga,' Maximus grunted as he helped pull the fresh corpses to add to the obstruction in the gateway.

'Not for long,' said Ballista, searching through the dead for things of use. 'You could have left with Demetrius.'

'Yes, I could have.'

The two men equipped themselves with small Persian shields, bows and arrows. Maximus added a helmet. Ballista did not. Better no helmet than an ill-fitting one that might slip down over your eyes, impede your movement. There was no time to take any armour.

As Maximus ran up to the wall walk, his arms full of bows, quivers and shields for the others, Ballista studied the town. The sun was not up yet, but it was quite light. To the right was another gate leading to the peninsula. It was open. Through it could be seen a curved portico stretching along the south-west of the enclosed main harbour. Ahead the street ran straight, becoming the north-western dock of the harbour. Off to the left, the theatre rose above the exercise ground of the gymnasium.

The streets were deserted. Down by the empty docks a cat stalked a pigeon. A confused noise came from the east, beyond the far walls. Inside the town all was deathly quiet. Sebaste had fallen twice, first to the Sassanid force that had gone on to Selinus, now to these easterners who had escaped west from the battle of Soli. Those inhabitants who had not fled or been killed would be hiding. It was not surprising there were no civilians, but it was wonderful there were no Persians. Ballista's plan had worked. Seeing just a meagre thousand Roman soldiers advancing from the east, the Persians must have issued out to confront them.

Maximus came back down the steps. He was blowing hard.

'You are out of condition,' Ballista muttered. 'Your wind has gone.'

Before Maximus could answer, an arrow whipped between them. Hunched down, shields up, they stepped back into the shelter of the gateway. More arrows came from under the arch of the gate to the peninsula. They snicked off the stonework.

'Fuck,' said Maximus. 'They did not all fall for it then. Fuck a vestal.'

'Nicely put,' Ballista replied. He peeked out from behind the gate then jerked his head back as three or four arrows sliced towards him. One missed his ear by an inch or so. 'Fuck, indeed.'

'Unless there are enough of them to rush us, we are safe enough here until the boys from the fleet come,' Maximus said.

There was the sound of running feet.

'Fuck,' said Maximus.

Without a word, both men stepped out, drawing their bows. At least half a dozen Persians were coming. Ballista and Maximus released. They dropped the bows, drew their swords. Only one Persian had fallen. More were issuing from the peninsula.

They heard the twang of bows above their heads. The arrows of Calgacus and the marines dropped another easterner. Not enough. The charge did not falter.

The Sassanids were on them. At the last moment, Ballista sidestepped the first one. Too close to use his sword, he stuck his arm out. The straight-arm tackle caught the Persian under the chin. The man's legs shot out from under him. He crashed on to his back, armour clattering on the roadway.

The next Sassanid thrust towards Ballista's middle. The northerner blocked it with his blade, forcing his enemy's weapon wide. He kicked the man's kneecap. Howling, the Sassanid doubled up. Ballista jumped back.

For a moment, the men on the ground impeded the others. To Ballista's left, out of his vision, steel was ringing. Maximus was not down yet.

Two Persians came for Ballista. They stepped carefully, swords ready. They knew what they were about. There were more behind them.

There was no berserk madness upon Ballista this morning, no battle calm. Instead, nothing but cold, sinking fear. His devotion to death had left him. This could only end one way.

The Sassanids struck. Ballista parried one blow, took the other on his shield. The light buckler splintered. One Sassanid aimed high, the other scythed his blade low at Ballista's shins. Somehow the northerner ducked one blade, got the shield in the way of the second. A big chunk flew out of the light shield. It was useless. Ballista threw the thing into the face of the opponent to his left. He thrust at the easterner to his right. The man stepped back out of range.

The Sassanids pressed forward. Shieldless, Ballista relied on his years of training, the memory in his muscle. He acted without conscious thought. His blade weaved fast. Sparks flew. But he could not keep them out for long. Blow by blow, step by step, he was driven back.

Ballista's right heel felt the wall behind him. Nowhere to go. Time nearly up. He was half aware of other easterners jostling behind his opponents. If there was an afterlife — Valhalla, whatever — he would soon be with his boys.

The Persians closed for the kill. One jabbed at his face, one his groin. Ballista chopped down at the lower blade. Instinctively, eyes shut, he jerked his head to one side. Splinters of limestone cut his cheek. There was a sharp pain in his left thigh.

The momentum of the Sassanids had driven them against Ballista. He could smell their sweat, the spicy food on their breath.

The one to his left gasped. His body twisted, fell back. Without thought, Ballista rammed the fingers of his left hand into the other's face, clawing at his eyes. The man swayed back, then reeled. Calgacus's ugly face appeared. The Caledonian drove his blade into the Persian's chest.

Pandemonium. The Sassanids were running back the way they had come. Ballista looked wildly around. There was Maximus. Allfather, Death-blinder, Deep Hood, they were alive. More figures were crowding into the gateway from outside.

Ballista caught his breath. The cut to his leg stung, but it looked superficial. All around, Romans were finishing off the Sassanids on the ground.

'Thank you,' Ballista said.

'Hercules' big hairy arse, I thought it was too late that time. I thought you were fucked.' Calgacus smiled a horrible smile.

'Me too.' Ballista laughed. He had to pull himself together. The job was not yet half done.

'You' — Ballista pointed at an optio — 'take the first thirty marines through the gate. Follow the Sassanids. Secure the gate to the citadel. If you can, work through and clear the peninsula.'

The optio shouted. The marines jostled and pushed. More were crowding in from outside.

Ballista stepped out from the gate to the more open space in the street. He had to take charge. This could easily degenerate into chaos.

'Everyone but the detailed marines, stay where you are.' Some of the confusion stilled.

'Officers, to me,' Ballista shouted. 'Where the fuck is Rutilus?'

'Here, Dominus.' The tall redhead calmly stepped out of the throng.

Ragonius Clarus had insisted Ballista have Rutilus as his second-in-command. It was the emperors' explicit wish. Ballista had not wanted him, but there was no denying he was a competent officer.

'Rutilus, you know the plan. Take the main body of marines straight down this road past the docks. Seize the gate at the far end. Draw your men up in line outside — two deep, open order.'

With a minimum of fuss, Rutilus got on with it. The marines, nearly three hundred and fifty of them, began to rattle past.

The trierarch elevated to Ballista's deputy for the next part of the plan appeared. What was his name? Ballista was about to ask Demetrius, then he remembered the boy had gone. He hoped he was all right.

'Trierarch, are your men ready?'

The trierarch shrugged. 'As ready as they will ever be.'

Ballista had armed around a thousand rowers with a mixture of captured Persian weapons and antique arms from the temples of Soli. The trierarch, like all his kind a long-service centurion, had little but contempt for his men's fighting abilities. Unfortunately enough, Ballista thought he was probably right. Still, if it all worked, they might not actually have to fight.

The last of the marines passed.

'Time to go,' said Ballista. With Maximus, Calgacus and the trierarch flanking him and Gratius carrying his personal white draco behind, Ballista set off.

At first they followed the retreating backs of the marines. Then Ballista led them into a sideroad to the left. Now he quickened the pace to a jog.

It was hard going. The street twisted, twice turning back on itself. Past the theatre it began to climb steeply. Ballista's wounded leg hurt. It was getting harder to get his breath.

About five hundred yards of this, and they reached the north-eastern gate out on to the main road to Soli. The whole way, they had not seen a single Persian.

Emerging from under the archway, Ballista realized the sun was up. Still low, it cast long shadows but illuminated the scene. The yellow-green slopes of the mountain rose to the left. The sparkling sea lay to the right. And between, about half a mile ahead, the battle.

Perfectly to plan, Castricius had arrayed his thousand infantry from the necropolis on the lower slopes to fill the four hundred or so yards down to the shore.

The Persians, their backs to Ballista, wheeled in front of Castricius's position. Arrows flew, but the rough going and the innumerable tombs badly hindered their evolutions.

Away to Ballista's right, Rutilus's marines were already mainly in line.

Ballista roared orders, waved and gesticulated. The ragtag mob of armed rowers started off to link with the marines.

The Persians had seen the threat to their rear. Officers, bright figures in silk flashing steel, rode here and there, regrouping the horsemen. They knew they were in a trap. It remained to be seen if they would realize how weak one side of the trap was.

Ballista looked at his men. Rutilus's marines, in reasonable order, filled about half the space. In the other half the rowers, although clumped up, were in some approximation of a line.

'Signal the advance. Slow walk. Keep together.'

The line shuffled forward. From the start, some of the rowers were hanging back. Their part of the line bowed.

Ahead, Sassanid banners waved, trumpets called. The Persians — there must still be nearly three thousand of them, formed into a deep phalanx.

Allfather, Grey Beard, Fulfiller of Desire. The Persians were facing Castricius's men. The deep boom of a Sassanid war drum sounded. The horsemen accelerated away from Ballista. They charged Castricius's line.

Through the fresh dust, Ballista could not see clearly what was happening. A roar like a thousand trees being felled at once echoed back from the mountain slopes.

Most of the Sassanids had come to a halt. But in one place they still moved forward. From the flanks, others began to funnel after them.

All the horsemen stopped. The gap that had opened in Castricius's line must have clogged with men and horses. It would not have taken much — maybe just one horse going down in the rough terrain.

Panic gripped the Sassanids. Like animals before a forest fire, individuals darted this way and that, seeking an unattainable safety. Some must have broken through. But for those left, there was no way out. What remained was not fighting but slaughter. Ballista sat with his back to the tomb. He was in the shade and facing the mountains, away from the killing field. The Sassanid custom of carrying much of their wealth on their person probably put an edge on the Romans despoiling the enemy corpses, but they would have done it anyway.

The battle won, Ballista had ordered Rutilus to keep a couple of hundred marines in hand to secure the town and Castricius to hold back about the same number of legionaries on the road. That the Sassanids who had escaped would rally and launch a surprise attack was highly unlikely. The liburnian galleys had tracked them up the coast. About three miles to the north-east, the Sassanids had turned off inland. But better safe than sorry.

Ballista shifted his position. The blank wall of well-dressed stone soared above him to a cloudless blue sky. A lot of money had gone into these tombs, which were built like affluent houses. The citizen of Sebaste who could afford one of them would have a townhouse and a residence in the country. Every time they rode from one to the other, they would pass this third house, the one in which they would spend eternity. Ballista wondered what they would feel. A warm glow of reassurance? Their social standing would transcend death. Did they fondly imagine they would gaze out from their final resting place and watch their sons ride past?

It was hard to say. Certainly Greeks and Romans, at least some of them, believed in ghosts. But their afterlife, except for a lucky few who made it to the Isles of the Blessed, consisted of flitting and shrieking like bats in the dark halls of Tartarus. Perhaps they would hope to return, their shades more substantial, when blood offerings were made.

Inexorably, Ballista's thoughts turned back to where he did not want them to go, to the fight at the gate. He had not wanted to die, he had wanted to live. So much for his being devotus. True, his thoughts had not been worked out. There had been no understanding of why. But something had changed. He had desperately wanted to live.

Perhaps, too late for his family, the curse had been lifted. He had sworn to return to the throne of Shapur. In the sacked camp outside Soli, he had returned. No, this was shallow sophistry of the worst sort. When he took that terrible oath, it had been in the thoughts of neither gods nor man that he should return bloodied, to defile the sacred fire, kill his defenceless servants and take Shapur's favourite concubine over the ornate throne of the house of Sasan.

He had been maddened then. Now he felt sanity returning. Now, almost against his conscious wishes, he wanted to live. Was this disloyalty to Julia and his darling boys? He would harrow hell to bring them back. But that could not happen. Should he persist as devotus — take what revenge he could then, falling, join them?

But would they be reunited? Julia's Epicureanism precluded an afterlife — all returned to quiet and sleep. And what of Isangrim and Dernhelm? What did eternity hold for innocent children? He had always half entertained the hope that, in the natural way, dying before them, the Allfather would accept him into gold-bright Valhalla. There, having proved his courage day on day in the fight in the courtyard, having shown his good companionship night on night in the feasting in the hall, he would intercede with the Hooded One. His boys would be allowed to pass through the western door and join him under the roof of shields. Woden's power and longevity aside, the Allfather was a northern chieftain. He understood love and grief. He had lost his son Balder. At the end of time, at Ragnarok, the Hooded One himself would die, torn by the jaws of Fenrir the wolf.

Perhaps I am still mad, thought Ballista. Perhaps my grief and the terrible things I have done for revenge have corroded, deformed my soul. And he had done terrible things. He thought of the teaching of Aesop. Man is born with two wallets tied round his neck. The one at his front contains the sins and crimes of other people — easy to take out and examine. The one on your back, open to everyone except yourself, holds your own — hard to see, painful to think about.

The approach of Maximus broke into Ballista's thoughts. With the Hibernian was a tall, thin young man wearing a goatskin cloak. It was one of Trebellianus's dagger-boys, Palfuerius or Lydius — Ballista had no idea which.

'Ave, Prefect.' The youth did not wait for permission to speak. 'I have good news from the governor of Cilicia.' His pronunciation of Greek was atrocious. 'Those Persians who evaded you' — the stress sounded deliberately offensive — 'have been captured by Gaius Terentius Trebellianus. The Vir Egregius suggests that you might like to see how we deal with poisonous reptiles here in Cilicia Tracheia.'

'Where?'

'They are at the town of Kanytelis — for the moment.'

The young Cilician gestured for Ballista to accompany him right away.

Ballista did not move. 'You can guide us, when we are ready.'

Calgacus jerked his thumb and, after holding Ballista's gaze a moment too long, Trebellianus's man moved out of earshot.

Good job for you, goat-boy, that something of my self-control has returned, thought Ballista. If you had turned up a few days ago, things might have been rather different, even if your patronus is Trebellianus. Now there is a dangerous man; not sitting quiet in Korakesion but roaming the hills miles to the east.

'It might be a trap,' said Maximus.

'Trebellianus may be a brigand in a toga, but he is unlikely to have deserted to the Sassanids.'

'But he is a brigand,' Maximus persisted. 'We should at least arm ourselves.' He pointed to the pile of their equipment, which, far too late, had been brought up from the triremes.

'You are right,' Ballista conceded. 'And get Castricius to find about twenty legionaries who can ride. There are plenty of Persian horses about. We might do with the company.'

The road meandered up the coast. To the left were the bare, banded rocks of the foothills; a thickish scatter of scrub and little patches of cultivatable soil, terraces cut with heartbreaking labour. To the right was the lovely blue of the sea.

Seeing the small party of horsemen, one of the liburnians rowed close to the shore. Three more were further out. Recognizing Ballista's white draco standard and the big figure in the distinctive horned helmet under it, the little galley sheered away.

As they turned inland, the road became worse. Bare and dusty, it zigzagged wildly as it took on the climb. On either side of the narrow track were jagged, piled rocks and sharp thorns. Nothing apart from a goat could move there, certainly not a man on horseback. The true Cilicia Tracheia began the moment you left the coast road.

Soon Ballista ordered the men to dismount and lead the horses. Loose stones scrunched under boots and hooves. The sun was near its zenith. It was incredibly hot. Occasionally the path would dip, only to resume its strength-sapping climb. All around was a wilderness of rocks. The crests in the distance were hazed with heat.

A long black snake slithered across the road in front of them. They waited for it to pass. Beside him, Ballista heard Maximus muttering — prayers or threats. Pity the poor Persians who had come this way: an early-morning alarm, no breakfast for man nor horse, a desperate battle, the enemy at their rear, cutting a way clear, then this hellish climb — forcing their spent mounts forward, fear riding hard at their backs. At the end of this they would have surrendered to anyone, let alone a gang of Trebellianus's murderous highlanders.

At last they were there. Mounting up, they rode through another city of the dead. This necropolis was far less elaborate than the ones at Sebaste, fewer expensive house or temple tombs, mainly undecorated sarcophagi. The three miles or so they had covered from the sea made all the difference to the wealth of a community.

The noise came to them as they entered the city of the living, the ugliest noise in the world — a mob baying for blood. The mob was at the foot of a tall tower. On horseback Ballista could see over their heads. Surrounded, huddled and cowed were a few hundred Sassanids on foot. Amidst them, one or two still stood proud. Ballista recognized a slim figure in a lilac tunic: a Persian noble — Demetrius could have told him the man's name.

'Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista, I am honoured you could come.' The mob quietened as Trebellianus called out. He stood on the battlements of the tower — lord of all he surveyed.

Now the Persians had seen Ballista in his ram-horned helmet. A murmur ran through the prisoners: 'Nasu, Nasu.' They seemed no more frightened; if anything, more resigned.

'Come close,' Trebellianus urged. 'See the men of Cilicia Tracheia take their revenge.'

At a sign from their governor, a group of armed toughs dragged ten Persians out of the mass. Prodding them with the points of javelins, they forced them beyond the tower. Two of the Persians fell to their knees, arms behind their backs in supplication. One was kicked and jabbed back on to his feet. The other threw himself full length in the dirt and was finished where he lay. His companions were made to lift the corpse.

Ballista and his group moved after them. Then they saw what awaited the eastern prisoners.

The earth disappeared. There was a huge hole. Roughly oval, it had to be sixty, seventy paces across, fifty deep. Its sides were raw pinkish-white rock. There were vertical streaks of white, stalactites at the bottom where it caverned out. And now there were darker streaks and splashes.

'Behold,' called Trebellianus, 'the place of blood.'

The Sassanids were forced over the edge. Their screams were cut short as they smashed into the side wall, went tumbling, broken, to the floor.

'You have to stop this.' Maximus was speaking in his native Celtic tongue. Apart from Ballista, only Calgacus could understand.

Another ten were being herded forward.

Ballista looked over the edge. At the bottom, in the pile, one or two of the bodies were faintly moving. He could see an arm or a leg shifting in agony.

The next batch was forced over the edge. Some way down the rock, Ballista saw a relief sculpture, a family group in Greek dress, the father and mother seated, the grown children standing. All held a hand to their chin in uniform thoughtfulness as the shrieking men fell past.

'Trebellianus,' called Ballista, 'that Persian there.' He pointed. 'I need to question him.'

Up on the tower, Trebellianus nodded.

The Sassanid was hauled before Ballista. There were tigers or some other big cats embroidered on his torn tunic. Ballista had seen him before, more than once. Demetrius undoubtedly could have named him straightaway.

'We were promised our lives if we surrendered.' Behind the dust-stained beard, the young man addressed Ballista in Persian, his face angry and desperate.

'You were fools to trust these Cilicians,' Ballista replied in Persian. 'You have killed and raped their kin.'

The Sassanid made a gesture of contempt. 'You are no better than them. The superstitious among my men think you are Nasu. But you are no daemon of death. I know you — from Arete, from your surrender outside Edessa. I saw you swear an oath in Carrhae. You are Ballista — the oath-breaker.'

'I swore to return to the throne of Shapur. At Soli, I did.'

'Just twisted words — you Romans lie and cheat as soon as you can crawl.'

'And everyone knows Persians never lie. It is against your religion. Yet your priests flay men alive, pour boiling oil in their eyes.'

The Sassanid spat. 'And your men here are far less cruel.'

'I know you now,' said Ballista. 'You are Valash, son of the King of Kings, the joy of Shapur.'

The Sassanid sneered. 'And like your kind, you see a way of making a profit. You think my father will pay a ransom for me.'

'I am sure he would. But I am not going to ask him for one. Although you killed my friend Turpio, left his severed head on a pike, I am going to return you to your father for nothing. Pick six of your men. They can go with you.'

The Persian looked horrified. 'How can I make such a choice?'

'War is a harsh teacher. Make the choice, or they will all die.'

Once it was explained to him, Trebellianus acceded to this turn of events with outward good grace, but the throng of Cilicians were not so politic. They were clearly unhappy.

As the selected Persians were bundled towards them, Maximus again spoke softly in his native language. 'This is wrong. You cannot leave the other fuckers to this mob. I thought you were back to your old self.'

'Maybe I am.' Ballista's face was set, impassive. 'But, as I told the Persian, war is a harsh teacher. These Cilicians outnumber us — twenty to one or more. They will follow Trebellianus, not me.'

Maximus looked round then nodded reluctantly.

'Anyway, even if we could save all the Persians, we do not have troops to guard them all. And there are another three thousand of the bastards still to fight to the west at Corycus.'

About three miles down the coast west from Sebaste was the town of Corycus. The most notable thing about it was the island lying offshore. It shared a name with other islets: Crambusa, the dry or parched one. It was indeed waterless, small — no more than two hundred paces by one hundred — and the majority of its shore was rocky. But when the mainland was in enemy hands, its utility to a fleet was immense.

Ballista's flotilla had sailed down from Sebaste the day before. Arriving, the ships had made a martial display close in to the walls of Corycus — nine triremes, ten liburnians and twenty transport vessels. The latter, to aid the bellicose impression, had been tricked out with military standards, and their decks had been covered with marines seconded from the warships. With luck, the Persians in the town would not realize the roundships were empty except for food and water but would think them packed with troops.

Now, in full sight of the city, the ships were moored off Crambusa. The bare islet gave the rowers of the warships a chance to get away from their cramped benches, to stretch their legs, to cook, eat and sleep ashore. Admittedly, if a storm got up, the fleet would have to run for shelter, either east to Sebaste or west to the delta of the Calycadnus river. But the summer weather looked set fair.

Indeed it was a beautiful night. High, benign clouds, backlit by the full moon. The sea was calm as a millpond, silvered by the moonlight. The ships, black silhouettes, rode easily at anchor.

Ballista stood at the prow of the Lupa, the trireme that carried his standard. He gazed up at the sky. The clouds moving across the face of the moon made it look infinitely distant. In the face of such immensity, mankind seemed very small. It was the trick of most consolations to emphasize the so-called smallness of grief against the enormity of something else. Ballista thought with repugnance of Sulpicius Rufus's famous letter on the death of Cicero's daughter. Do not be profoundly affected by your private sorrow when men like us have lost everything we value: our honourable name, patria, dignitas, all our honours. Cicero had written back saying it had helped. How could even the narrow-minded leaders of a failing oligarchy have thought in such disgusting terms?

Much better Plutarch's consolation to his wife. Despite the tiresome repetition of the necessity of self-control, despite peddling the evident untruth that giving way to grief was as bad as giving way to pleasure, between all the philosophic platitudes, there was the true grief of a father for his lost child: the most delightful thing in the world to embrace, to see, to hear.

Time is a great healer. Every one of them said it. All the great minds — Plutarch, Seneca, all the rest — reduced to the soothing of a nursemaid: there, there, time will make it better. And the sad thing was, it was partly true.

Ballista was beginning to feel a little better. Julia and his sons were no longer in his thoughts all the time. Now he woke with just an unfocused sense of something wrong, before the loss of his wife and boys filled his mind. Here and there in the day, he did not think of them at all. Then he remembered, and felt guilty of neglect.

At least he was not raving any more. His thoughts were no longer a seething, incoherent riot of pain, revenge and Euripidean tragedy. At Sebaste, Ballista had shaved, bathed, had his hair cut. Old Plutarch had written something along the lines of looking after the externals helping the inner man. Ballista wondered if it was possible to feel any emotion that was not filtered through the thoughts of others. Did the things one had read or heard just give words to one's feelings, or did they shape them, twist them into different forms? Whatever, did it make the emotion less real?

Behind Ballista came a stage cough. Calgacus had the Persian prince, Valash, with him. So far it could not be said that the King of King's son seemed over-grateful for having his life spared. Perhaps, Ballista thought uncharitably, it had also occurred to the joy of Shapur that being returned to his father, with or without ransom, might not prove to be all that easy. Or it could just be that he did not trust the man his troops — his troops who now lay massacred at the bottom of a chasm called the place of blood — had thought the daemon of death.

'The Persians in Corycus are commanded by a framadar called Zik Zabrigan,' Ballista said in Persian. 'His position is untenable. In the morning we will go and talk to him.'

Valash smiled in a superior way. 'Now I see why you were keen to save me. You think I will help you persuade Zik Zabrigan to surrender. I will not.'

'You mistake me.' Ballista was not going to admit that he would have rescued all Valash's men if he had felt able. 'I do not give a fuck if you talk to him or not. And I do not give a fuck if his men lay down their arms or they all die.'

Valash glowered silently.

'But I thought,' Ballista continued, 'you might prefer them not to fall into the hands of Trebellianus and his rough Cilicians.'

Valash made the sign to avert the evil eye. 'You may not be Nasu, but you are a lover of the lie, a true follower of Drug. One day Mazda will deliver you again into the hands of the righteous.'

Ballista was too tired, not physically but emotionally, to have the energy to be angry.

Maximus stepped out of the shadows and did it for him. 'You owe him your life. If you have any honour, you should keep a civil tongue in your head.'

The tall, thin figure swung round, reaching for the long sword that was not on his hip. The sons of the house of Sasan were not reminded of their honour by others, never by non-Aryans. Valash mastered himself. 'You are right.' He turned back to Ballista. 'Although I did not ask you, I owe you a debt.' With an innate grace he performed proskynesis: a small, elegant bow, fingers brushing his lips. 'But I will not seek to persuade framadar Zik Zabrigan to surrender. I know your transports contain no soldiers. I will not lie to him.'

Ballista smiled. 'To ride, shoot the bow and avoid the lie.'

Valash nodded gravely. 'Just so.' In the morning, there was a slight choppy swell running from the west, nothing bad, but enough to make the ships fret at their anchors. Ballista had them all move into the shelter of Crambusa, as far as that was possible. Orders were given that no more than one-third of the rowers from each ship, one bank of a trireme, were to be disembarked on the islet at any one time.

Ballista and his comites spent the time looking over at the hills to the north-east of Corycus. Nothing moved on the scrub-covered slopes. The coast road was empty. A lone cormorant worked a patch of water. As he watched the long-necked bird, Ballista noticed the lack of gulls. Back home in the north, the air would have been thick with them, wheeling and screaming around the fleet.

Back home. Now Julia and the boys were dead there was nothing to stop him returning to Germania. Except, of course, when it became known, a messenger would come from the imperium demanding his father hand him over. And his father, the good of his people always coming first, would have to agree. The cost of non-compliance would be too high — the end of subsidies, the strong likelihood of a Roman-sponsored revolt — failing that, even armed intervention by the legions.

Anyway, what would Ballista find in the north? It was twenty-two years since he had left. Much would have changed. Would he still be welcome in the halls of the Angles? It was unlikely that his half-brother, Morcar, his father's heir, would be overjoyed to see him. And Ballista knew that he himself had changed. Twenty-two years in the imperium, five years of high command. He was now Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Ementissimus, Praetorian Prefect, no longer Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. Maybe the smoke in the halls, the parochial concerns, would stifle him. The imperium changed everything it touched.

'There.' Maximus pointed.

Around the headland, about three hundred paces from the town walls, were the standards. Below them, a line of legionaries. Castricius, dependable as ever, had come.

'Time to go.'

The Lupa won her anchor. Oars dipped as one, its ram sliced through the swell. Spray flicked back into Ballista's face.

There was no artillery in Corycus. The trierarch had his orders to take them right into the western harbour. Beyond the mole, the water was nearly still. The great galley came to a halt about a stone's throw from the dock.

A short wait, and a tall standard appeared: an abstract shape in red, a little like a sword, on a yellow cloth. Below it stood a man in steel and silk, with long black hair.

'I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, Praetorian Prefect. Draw me a bath and prepare me a meal. I have come to offer terms of surrender to the framadar Zik Zabrigan.'

'Fuck you, and your terms,' the Persian on the wall jeered. 'Oath-breaker. You will not wash or eat here, you arse-fucking cunt.'

Things were thrown from the wall. Ballista and the men on the prow ducked behind their shields. The missiles fell short. Some splashed in the water; others exploded on the dock. Clouds of white powder puffed up: flour, or salt.

'You have your answer,' Zik Zabrigan shouted.

The Lupa backed water, turned and left.

'Arse-fucking cunt,' said Maximus.

'Anatomically interesting, but certainly inventive,' conceded Ballista.

'Sure, but they were quick to reach a good judgement.'

Calgacus ushered Valash forward.

'Joy of Shapur,' said Ballista, 'we need your explanation.'

Unlike the others, the Persian was not laughing. 'Vulgar abuse. Unseemly in the mouth of a framadar but to be expected at a siege.'

'No, I meant the other thing — the bags of white powder.'

Still Valash did not smile. 'Salt. They condemn you as a perjurer. Persians swear on salt.'

'The oath I took to Shapur was in the Greek fashion.'

'They are Persians. They will assume you took the oath in the form they know. As your Herodotus said: everywhere, custom is king.'

'Just so,' said Ballista.

As the sun arced up across the sky, they took to waiting again. This time, their attention was on the hills directly behind Corycus.

Over his shoulder, Ballista heard Calgacus telling Maximus an unlikely story: 'When Archelaos of Cappadocia ruled Corycus, he had a beautiful daughter.'

'Did she have big tits?'

'Huge — anyway, there was a prophecy that she would be bitten by a snake and die. Now, worry almost drove the king out of his mind. So he built her a palace on this islet of Crambusa — not a snake in sight. Safe as you like.'

'Sure, she must have been lonely — a hot-blooded girl, all alone, in need of company.'

'Certainly. Now one of her admirers — a far better-looking, better-set-up man than you — sent her a present, a basket of fruit from the orchards below Mount Taurus. But hidden among the apricots was an asp.'

'Fuck you, and your stories. I am not in the least scared of snakes. Never have been. And, anyway, we are not on the island.'

The two men bickered on amiably.

When the sun was at its zenith, the hills shimmered with heat, and the white, limestone walls of Corycus were almost painful to look at. When it was time to eat, Ballista gave an order for Hippothous the Cilician to join them.

As they had left Sebaste, an insignificant fishing boat had smuggled Hippothous out to them. He had been desperate to avoid Trebellianus and, it seemed, with good reason. Hippothous, on his own account, was one of the leading men of the upland town of Dometiopolis. His story, if true, was alarming. When those Persians now in Corycus had ventured inland, he claimed, they had been guided by Lydius, one of Trebellianus's boys. They had passed by Germanicopolis, leaving Trebellianus's hometown untouched, and had fallen instead on Dometiopolis.

Hippothous was sandy-haired, more refined than the average rough Cilician. Yet Ballista had no doubt he was cut from the same cloth as Trebellianus. All these men were trying to turn the calamity to their own advantage.

'You have claimed that the Persians handed some of your fellow citizens over to Lydius,' said Ballista.

A look of distaste passed over Hippothous's face. 'Handed them over, and then watched, laughing, as the Cilicians carried out their disgusting sacrifices. They hang the victims, men and beasts, in a tree. They cast javelins at them. If they hit, the god Ares accepts the sacrifice.'

'And if they miss?'

'They get a second throw.'

'I take it you do not agree with your countrymen's religious practices.'

'Oh no,' said Hippothous. 'I am not Cilician by birth. Mine has been a long and tragic path. I was born in Perinthus, the noble city close by Byzantium. My father was on the Boule. When I was young, I fell desperately in love. Hyperanthes was nearly my age. Stripped for wrestling in the gymnasium, he was like a god. And his eyes — no sidelong glances or fearsome looks, no trace of villainy or dissembling.'

As they ate, Hippothous told them a tale of love, lust, subterfuge, murder, flight, shipwreck, loss and exile — a tale worthy of a Greek romance.

'Probably from a fucking Greek romance,' muttered Calgacus.

'Do you think Trebellianus will come?' Ballista asked.

'Oh yes,' said Hippothous. 'These Persians are witnesses to his treachery. He will want them dead.'

An hour or so after lunch, the trierarch called them. From the prow of the Lupa, they looked at the hills. Through the heat haze, the thin woods above Corycus seemed to be moving. Trebellianus and his men had come.

'Let us go and talk with Zik Zabrigan again.'

This time, the framadar offered no physically implausible abuse. Totally cut off by land and sea, aware that the main Persian army was far away, defeated and in retreat, he had to accept the game was up. Although suspicious, his attitude, as they stood between their forces on the seaward end of the mole, was reasonable.

'Lay down your arms, give up your booty and any prisoners, surrender yourselves into my hands and, despite your outrages, your lives will be spared.' Ballista sounded implacable.

'Spared for what?'

'I will give you better terms than are customary. The emperor Alexander Severus settled Persian prisoners as farmers in Phrygia. But your men do not strike me as suited for a bucolic life. If they will swear the sacramentum, they will be enrolled into the Roman army. They will be split up into different units, but I will give you my word they will not be called upon to fight against their own people.'

Given Ballista's record, it was quite commendable of the framadar to accede with no hesitation. The salt was produced, hands clasped, the right words spoken.

Up on the tower above the docks, the tension was getting to Ballista. So far, things had been reasonably smooth, but the handover was tricky. There were many things that could go wrong. Ordered to remain outside the town, Trebellianus had protested civilly enough, his men more truculently. At any moment they might swarm forward to get at the Persians, maybe even sack the town itself.

Ballista had hurried Castricius's soldiers up on to the walls. The legionaries were under military discipline, but they had no love of the Persians and civilians were always a tempting target. Estate guards could turn brigand; in fact they often did.

And then there were the problems posed by the Persians themselves. The easterners had been very reluctant to be parted from their horses. Now they were far from keen to be herded aboard the six big transports. They had no knowledge of the places to which they were being sent. One thousand of them were bound for Egypt — the Roman garrison there was large enough to keep a check on them. The others, in four units of five hundred, were to be shipped to Cyprus, Rhodes, Lesbos and Lemnos. They could be effectively contained on the islands. There were religious objections also. Magi were forbidden to travel by water. A solution had been found for the five priests in the Persian ranks. The root cause was the prohibition on Magi soiling water with human waste: they had been issued with big amphorae with stoppers. How they disposed of the contents at their destination was their own concern.

Some of Trebellianus's Cilicians had advanced down the hill. They were shouting, demanding admittance, hammering on the gate with the pommels of their swords. If more followed, it could be serious.

'Dominus, a liburnian has come from Antioch. There is a messenger.'

'Not now, Calgacus.'

'Yes, now. You need to hear him now.' The old Caledonian was grinning like an idiot.

Maximus shouldered Calgacus aside. Inexplicably, the Hibernian was crying.

'Ballista — your boys — Julia — they are alive — in Antioch.' Julia looked away across the atrium. From the corridor to the main door came the tap, tap, tapping of the mosaicist replacing the horrible image of the deformed dwarf which someone had defaced. Julia was not sure why she felt put out. It was not Ballista's reaction when reunited with his sons. Even a senator of the old Res Publica would have broken down and cried, would have gone first to them.

Surely it was not the children. Admittedly, Isangrim had continually interrupted her account of their escape. But the boy was rightly proud of his behaviour, above all of stabbing the Sassanid with his miniature sword. Carefully schooled by her, he had not mentioned her torn clothing. And it was not Dernhelm repeating words at random, squeaking intermittently with pleasure. However, she did have to admit to a flash of irritation when Isangrim pre-empted her telling of her ingenious ploy of scattering the gold from her purse to distract their pursuers by the postern gate. Ballista had made that worse, smiling and saying it was clever of her to remember his doing the same with his gold mural crown at the riot in the hippodrome the other year. Men, they always had to take the credit for themselves.

No, it was not the children. It was something about Ballista. He looked haunted, or maybe merely hangdog. No, not really either of those. It was more that he was distant, strange. He had even seemed reluctant to give Isangrim his little sword back.

Julia listened as Ballista finished his tale of what had happened to him and the armies. Like married men often do, he spoke to her through their children. She knew it gave him licence to edit the story.

So he had put the Persian prince and his companions ashore somewhere south of Tarsus. He had given them horses, arms, money and a letter of safe conduct. No, he did not know if they had made it, but it was quite likely. Shapur had forced the Cilician Gates. The Roman force under Ragonius Clarus had given up its pursuit almost before it had begun. North of the Taurus mountains, Tyana had been the first of many cities taken by the Persians. A group of them had split off to sack Cybistra, Barata, Laranda and Iconium. The main body of men under Shapur had gone on to seize Caesarea Masaca — a heroic defence by the retreating Demosthenes had come to nothing in the face of treachery. From there they had ridden to Comana. The two groups reunited at Sebasteia; the Persians had marched south. As they rode by the governor of Cappadocia, Pomponius Bassus had not stirred from behind the walls of Melitene. The governor of Osrhoene, Aurelius Dasius, had shown more spirit. But then, the King of Kings was said to have bribed him and his men to let them pass Edessa, back into the safety of Mesopotamia.

'It may not be as safe as Shapur thinks,' interjected Julia. 'Rumour has it that since you defeated the King of Kings, revolts have broken out in the east of the Sassanid empire, around the Caspian Sea and beyond. And, closer to home, Odenathus has marched north from Palmyra to oppose Shapur in Mesopotamia.'

Ballista looked up sharply. 'So the Lion of the Sun has finally declared for Macrianus and Quietus?'

'No,' said Julia. 'He has declared for Rome against Persia. But not for any emperor. Did you know the Sassanid still has Valerian with him?'

Yes, Ballista had seen the pathetic figure of the captive emperor at the battle of Soli.

'If Odenathus defeats Shapur, frees Valerian, or captures him…' She did not finish the sentence. There was no need. If he held Valerian, the Lion of the Sun could deal as an equal — more than an equal — with Macrianus's sons or Gallienus.

'My old friend Mamurra never trusted Odenathus.' Thinking out loud, Ballista had retreated into his distance.

Julia very much wanted to be alone with her husband. Imperiously, she dismissed the others and led him to their bedchamber.

Physically, he was fine, but even as they made love, his mind seemed somehow elsewhere. She decided to approach this indirectly.

'Where is Demetrius?'

For a time he was silent. 'I have a new secretary; a Greek called Hippothous. I sent Demetrius away. To the west.'

Again Ballista fell silent.

She waited.

'It was a bad time.'

She regarded him calmly. Of course it had been a bad time. You do not win two battles against the Sassanids at a symposium. He had thought his family slaughtered.

'It is over now,' she said.

'Is it? The oath I made to Shapur?' His voice was flat: 'Not to your face, no fear, not to any miscreant's Will Justice strike the fatal blow; but soft And slow of tread, she will, in her own season, Stalking the wicked, seize them unawares.'

'Euripides,' Julia said.

'I have been reading a lot of him; often his Medea. It is confused in my mind.' Again, he recited quietly: 'Soft and slow of tread… The sins of the parents on the children, the gods turn.'

Julia remained silent.

'Jason and me — both oath-breakers. Why were his sons killed and not mine? Or is the divine vengeance delayed? "Soft and slow…"' Ballista's voice trailed off.

'The gods do not exist.' Julia's voice was crisp, decisive. 'Even if they do, they are far away, and have no interest in mankind. They do not care.'

She paused for Ballista to respond. He did not.

'Even if they were real and did care, punishing the children of the wicked would be more ludicrous than a doctor administering medicine to the son of a sick man.'

Ballista appeared to be only half listening. 'There is the proverb: the mills of the gods are slow in grinding, but grind fine.'

Stubborn and superstitious as her barbarian husband could be, Julia had never seen him quite so given over to morbid, god-haunted introspection. 'Nonsense,' she snapped. 'Even if the gods existed and troubled themselves with the affairs of men, there would be no punishment on you or your children — because you have done nothing wrong. Jason was forced into his oath to Medea. If he had not taken it, she would not have helped him and he would not have won the golden fleece. You were forced into your oath to Shapur. If you had not taken it, you would have shared the fate of Turpio. Oaths under duress count for nothing.'

At last, Ballista seemed to have come back from wherever he had been. 'Then why did Jason's sons die?'

'Medea killed them because he abandoned her.' Julia smiled. 'There is a lesson there.'

Ballista also smiled, if grimly. Then he leant over and spoke close to her ear. 'I took another oath, a voluntary one to myself. Should I keep it?'

Despite herself Julia felt apprehensive. 'What?'

'To kill Quietus.'

Julia was very still, thinking hard. At length, she spoke. 'Yes. You will think yourself less of a man if you do not. And it may be the only route to safety.'

Ballista nodded.

'But,' whispered Julia, 'it will not be easy. You must wait your time.'

Again Ballista nodded.

'And, Quietus alone is not enough. You must kill the entire family.'