Lion of the Sun wor-3 Page 6

  'So Valerian wants our embassy to fail?'

  Cledonius shook his head in mock-wonder at Ballista's obtuseness. 'That is the general idea. Thanks to you, Valerian knows he was betrayed by Macrianus. But only a few know it. And those now within the imperium might find it hard to be believed. So Valerian has created a public spectacle where the lame one must break his oath to value the safety of the emperor above everything. At the very least, such despicable lack of loyalty and flagrant disregard of the gods will give a very poor start to Macrianus's campaign if he intends to elevate his odious sons to the throne. At best, it gives Gallienus in the west a just cause for war: revenge on the oath-breaker who betrayed his father, Valerian.'

  Ballista thought for a moment. 'Why has Shapur agreed to the embassy?'

  'Harder to say.' Cledonius shrugged. 'The King of Kings has not chosen to confide in me. But it seems he is equally well served by our success or failure.'

  Now it was Ballista's turn to shrug. Immediately, he wished he had not. It hurt. 'Explain.'

  Cledonius waited for a servant, who had come to tell them that their tents were ready, to move out of earshot. 'If, as expected, Macrianus rejects the demand to ransom Valerian, then Shapur has an excellent cause for the war to carry on. But on the other side of the coin, if, by some divine intervention, we get Macrianus to give up what is demanded, then Shapur gets a huge amount of gold and silver and certain other things which make his glory all the greater and, I feel sure, Mazda will guide him to another good and just reason for the fighting to continue.'

  'Either way, we end up back on our bellies before the Sassanid throne.' Ballista sounded depressed. 'And then…'

  'There is a lot of talk around Shapur of using the expertise of the Roman prisoners: building towns, dams, bridges, fortifications. As a trained siege engineer, you might end up doing that. It might not be too bad.'

  Having agreed, in the most half-hearted way, Ballista said goodnight to Cledonius and went to his tent. The northerner was very tired.

  It was long into the night, possibly around the end of the third watch, when Ballista woke with a feeling of profound dread. The wind had risen. He could hear nothing over its howling and snapping around the tent. It was not the noise that scared him, though, it was the smell: the thick, lanolin smell of waxed canvas.

  Although he knew what he would see, a tiny part of Ballista hoped he was wrong. He forced himself to look. He was not mistaken. The faint glow of the torches outside illuminated the figure. It was standing, the tip of its hood touching the roof of the tent. As every time before, it was waiting.

  Ballista got a double bridle on his fear. 'Speak,' he commanded.

  The figure spoke, a deep, grating sound: 'I will see you again at Aquileia.'

  'I will see you then,' Ballista replied.

  The figure did not move. Under the hood, its eyes glittered. It hissed another word: 'Oath-breaker,' then turned and left.

  Ballista did not call out for the guards. There was no point. On no previous occasion had anyone else seen the daemon of the emperor Maximinus Thrax.

  Twenty-two years before, Ballista had sworn the military oath to Maximinus Thrax. By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the emperor's commands, never desert the standards or shirk death, to value the safety of the emperor above everything. Ballista had not kept the sacramentum. Instead, at the siege of Aquileia, he had killed Maximinus Thrax, plunging a stylus into his throat. The other conspirators had beheaded the emperor, desecrated his body. Denying him burial, they had condemned his daemon to walk the earth for eternity.

  Ballista had only told four people about the daemon: his wife Julia, bodyguard Maximus, body servant Calgacus and Turpio — and Turpio was dead. Julia, brought up by an Epicurean father, had tried to comfort her husband by rationalizing it. Maximinus only appeared when Ballista was tired, under great stress. It was just a figment of his overheated imagination. Ballista sniffed the air — waxed canvas. He did not think bad dreams left a smell.

  It had been four years since the last apparition, the night Arete fell. Never before had the daemon said 'Oath-breaker'. He was a long way from Aquileia, but Ballista knew the daemon's words foretold something bad.

  Demetrius sat on the hard-packed earth floor, his back against the rough stone wall. It was almost completely dark. There was just one tiny slit of a window, high up. It had admitted little light during the day and, when the sun went down, next to none.

  After their arrest, the four Dalmatian troopers had been marched off straight away to the military cantonment. Ballista's three freedmen had been kept waiting at the gate until well past midday. When Maximus asked for food, the centurion had hit him hard across the back with his vine stick.

  At long last, they had been ordered to their feet. Under heavy guard, they were led through the squared-off streets to the bridge over the Euphrates which gave the twin towns of Apamea on the eastern bank and Zeugma on the west a reason to exist.

  At the bridgehead, the party had been brought to a halt. The approaches, narrowed anyway by bales of merchandise, were completely blocked by a mass of men, camels, mules and horses. Amid a fearful noise, the crush had surged up to the barrier, where a lone telones backed by some club-wielding members of the watch attempted to extract the custom dues rightly owed to both the imperium and the city. Demetrius wondered whether it had always been like that or if refugees from the east had made things worse.

  When the Moorish auxiliaries laid about them, trying to force a way through, initially it had merely exacerbated the situation. Men had cursed, mules brayed, horses lashed out, and some camels had sunk to their knees, roaring. The centurion snapped an order. Swords were unsheathed. The men, if not the animals, in the crush scrambled to get out of the way.

  Having told the telones and the civic watch to go fuck themselves, the soldiers had marched the prisoners across the pontoon bridge. The river was busy with boats and barges coming downstream from Samosata. Half a dozen big barges, piled high with produce, were moored, waiting for a gap to be opened in the pontoon so they could continue on south.

  There had been another pause at a military checkpoint on the western bridgehead. It had been quieter there. The slop, slop sound of screws raising water from the river floated up. To one side, Demetrius noticed a massive iron chain coiled with vines and ivy growing through the unrusted links, the remains of the original bridge constructed by the god Dionysus on his way to the east to conquer India.

  The formalities conducted, they moved on through what had until recently been a rich residential area. The majority of the houses showed signs of having been burnt. Only some had been repaired, and those hastily. After that, the land rising, they passed a theatre and crossed an agora, which brought them to the foot of the citadel. The path up was stepped and ran between dwellings that clung to the vertiginous slope. The tall terraced houses seemed to be built on top of each other and the path between them like the bottom of a ravine.

  They entered through a gate in a low, rough wall and climbed on up through an orchard of fruit trees. At length, out of breath, they reached the summit. To their left was the great temple of the Tyche of Zeugma; a statue of the seated goddess could be glimpsed through the open doors. The guards turned them sharply to the right, towards the palace complex. From there they were taken to a side entrance, frogmarched down a flight of steps, along a corridor and unceremoniously pushed into a cell. The door slammed behind them, and they heard bolts being pushed home.

  Demetrius had slumped to the floor. From there he watched Maximus and Calgacus carefully inspecting every inch of the gloomy, bare cell. They tried the door, stood on each other's shoulders to check the narrow window, tapped the walls, scraped at the floor. Eventually, frustrated, they hunkered down next to the young Greek. The older men talked in low voices. If they could get out, they would need horses, or they could try to make it to one of the barges waiting at the bridge, hide themselves among the produce, or maybe overpower the bo
atmen and take their place.

  At some point in the afternoon, they heard the bolts drawn back, and the door swung open. Watchful guards covered them with drawn swords as a tray of food was put on the floor. The door was shut again.

  There was some stale bread, a few handfuls of raisins and a big pitcher of water. Demetrius and Maximus fell on it. Calgacus used some of his share of the water to wash his wounded arm. When everything had gone, they were still hungry.

  When the light faded, Maximus and Calgacus both fell fast asleep. There was no furniture, so they slept on the floor, their heads on their arms.

  Demetrius could not sleep. It was not his hunger. Desperate though it was, the prison-stench of unwashed bodies, shit and fear took the edge off it, made him feel nauseous. He envied the calm, natural fatalism of his companions. Gods below, they had travelled so far, come through so much — and for it to come to this. Confined in this filthy cell — if he still lived, could Ballista himself be worse off? And the centurion had said that Ballista was now declared a hostis. Falsely accused of having led the old emperor Valerian into the trap that had cost his freedom, Demetrius's kyrios was now an outlaw to be killed on sight by any Roman citizen. The true traitor, that scheming bastard Macrianus the Lame, had seized the moment and was now the master of the eastern provinces of the imperium. Was there no such thing as divine justice? Did the gods even exist?

  Demetrius lay down in the darkness. To steady himself, he turned to philosophy and the teachings of the Stoic masters. Everything that lies outside the inner man is an irrelevance. The things over which we have no choice — illness, bereavement, exile and imprisonment, death itself — all are irrelevant. Throw them aside. When enslaved, Diogenes was a free man. The King of Persia on his gilded throne may be a slave. Iron bars and stone walls cannot make a prison. A little comforted, he fell asleep.

  A while later, a gentle pressure behind his left ear brought Demetrius awake. He jerked up. A hand clamped over his mouth. A faint light came from the open door. A figure stood there.

  'Come.' The figure spoke in Greek with a heavy eastern accent. 'You come now.'

  Maximus removed his hand.

  'It could be a trap,' Demetrius whispered.

  'Then we will swap one for another.' Maximus grinned.

  The figure went in front of them along the corridor and up the steps. He stopped, looked about and led them out. Quickly and quietly, they moved through a maze of alleys until they emerged on the far side of the citadel to that through which they had come in.

  The figure stopped again to look and listen, then waved them to follow him down into the orchard. The slope was steep, the soil underfoot crumbling and dry. Slithering and sliding, they went down, grabbing tree trunks to slow their momentum. The pale light of the young moon shone through the branches.

  They came to a low wall. Demetrius realized that it must be the one that encircled the citadel. Without a word, the figure climbed it like a lizard. He dropped out of sight down the other side. Maximus and Calgacus followed, the latter protecting his wounded arm as he did so. Now that he was alone, a wave of panic threatened to overwhelm Demetrius. He started to climb. The wall was made of irregular stones. There was no mortar. Even so, Demetrius found it difficult. He grazed his knees, felt a fingernail tear. Lying on the top, he looked down. There was a drop, something over a man's height, on to the roof of the first of the terraced houses. Nervously, he swung himself over, hung for a moment and let go. He landed awkwardly. Hands steadied him.

  The figure put a finger to his lips then gestured for them to follow. In single file, Calgacus, then Demetrius, Maximus bringing up the rear, they set off.

  At first they went to the right. They were sheltered there, between the wall and the gentle pitch of the roof. Demetrius walked carefully, one hand on the wall, watching where he put his feet, afraid a tile would shift or give way.

  They turned left into a ridged dip where the roofs of two houses came together. At the end was another drop, a bit deeper this time. One by one, they turned round, lay down flat, pushed their legs out, wriggled backwards, hung by their hands for a second and let go. The landing site was the apex of a roof.

  The figure indicated they were again to go to the right. Demetrius felt his heart shrink. The pitch of this roof was steeper, and it ran down to the black, square opening of an atrium. Slip here, and there was nothing to stop you sliding all the way down, over the edge and out into emptiness; a fall of two storeys to a shattering impact on a concrete impluvium. Demetrius imagined his smashed body lying there, his blood staining black the waters of the shallow raintank.

  Their mysterious guide climbed down, fingers hooked into the gutter at the top, legs spread wide, and edged crabwise along the horrible slope. Calgacus followed. Demetrius stared at the gutter. It looked so fragile: his existence would hang by an insubstantial piece of fired clay.

  'No choice, boy,' Maximus whispered in his ear. 'Don't look down.'

  Fumbling, clumsy with fear, Demetrius lowered himself. He could feel the heat of the day's sun still in the tiles under his body. Tentatively, he began to edge along. Athene, Artemis, all the gods hold your hands over me. Inch by inch he crept. Great Zeus, Hermes, protector of travellers. His palms were slick with sweat. He crept further. Fear sent little spasms of cramp running through his limbs. His breath was coming fast and shallow. He looked over his shoulder. The tiles went on and on, sickeningly steep, dropping into yawning black nothingness. His muscles locked. He could not move.

  Demetrius felt Maximus grip his right wrist, Calgacus his left. The mere touch of the other men made the young Greek feel a little calmer.

  'We will guide you,' Calgacus said in his ear. 'One hand at a time. Mine first.'

  Demetrius felt the increased pressure on his left wrist. Reluctantly but obediently, he unclenched his fingers and let Calgacus move his hand along. He grasped the next length of guttering. Maximus repeated the procedure with the other hand.

  Only once did Demetrius look to his left. The roof stretched away into the distance. A wave of panic rose in him. He fought it down. He kept his eyes on the tiles under his nose. Hand by hand, Maximus and Calgacus helped him along.

  Demetrius became aware that Calgacus was shifting his position. A moment later, his boot struck the roof that extended out to form the next side of the atrium. A jerky scramble and the Greek boy was on the ridge, legs either side, in no danger of a fall for the time being.

  On the far side of the ridge, a gentler slope ran down to a low wall. They slithered down. Past this was a drop to a stepped lane. No matter, they were safe where they were. In the shelter of the wall, they paused to get their breath back. Somewhere, not far away, a baby was crying. It had not struck Demetrius that the noise they were making could wake those sleeping in the houses below. At any moment, they might raise the alarm. Suddenly, he was eager to be moving again.

  Calgacus touched Demetrius's arm. They were off once more, crouching below the level of the parapet wall, using their hands, scurrying like monkeys. This uncomfortable but unthreatening way of moving lasted all too short a time. The wall on the right and the roof on the left were at an end. Demetrius was unhappy to see Calgacus get down on all fours. The Caledonian crawled out on to a free-standing wall.

  Great Athene of the Aegis, I can do this, thought Demetrius. On one side, there was a drop to the stepped street, on the other an equally awful fall to a paved courtyard. I can do this. Grey-eyed Athene, I can.

  Demetrius inched out. The top of the wall was a couple of feet across. No reason to fall. Just keep going. No earthly reason to fall.

  He was concentrating so hard on keeping his balance that he almost bumped into Calgacus. The Caledonian had stopped and was manoeuvring himself to lie down full length. Not knowing why, Demetrius did the same.

  The noise came from behind. The Greek boy peered anxiously over his right shoulder and down. Two watchmen were walking down the street. They carried lanterns, and each had a club over his shoulder.
As they drew nearer, Demetrius could hear one of them talking.

  'So the tribune says, "So, Centurion, is that how the men use the camel?" And the centurion says, "No, Tribune, they use it to ride to the nearest brothel."'

  The other watchman laughed briefly. 'That joke was old when Cronos was young,' he said. When he was level with Demetrius, he stopped. He held up his lantern and shone it into a small courtyard on the other side of the street. He went in and carefully looked all around a fountain in the middle. Gods below, he was far too diligent.

  The watchmen moved on. The humourist started up again. 'Do you know the one about the donkey and the murderess?'

  'Yes,' replied the other unencouragingly.

  Giving the impression that such rebuffs were not uncommon, his companion stopped and put his lantern down on a step. He retied his laces. Retrieving the lantern, he stood up and walked on. Then, without warning, he stopped again. He turned to look back the way they had come. Then he looked up.

  'Thieves! There up on the wall!'

  Calgacus was up, running fast. Without time for thought, Demetrius was doing the same.

  The slope of the roof loomed in front. Scrambling up it, boots slipping on the tiles, Demetrius glanced down. The first watchman had a bell in his hand. Demetrius saw him pull out the straw which held the clapper in place. Its clanging echoed across the sleeping city.

  Their unintroduced guide led the fugitives on. The pitch of the roofs here was gentle. Up and down they went, vaulting over ridges. Fear gave wings to Demetrius's feet. Below, the watchmen were chasing. Somewhere in front, another bell was ringing.

  'Alley ahead. No problem to jump.' In the stress, the guide's eastern accent had dropped away.