Lion of the Sun wor-3 Page 13

  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, b
ut 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 inte
rnal 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?'