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 abou
t 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 the
ir 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.
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