Later in the morning, when the sun had broken through, it revealed range after range of hills, stretching into the far distance, fading from green to grey to blue. They rode through grassy meadows, dotted with purple flowers on tall, delicate stems, and crossed shallow upland streams, where bright water foamed over smoothed stones. The sun shone from a pale blue sky. Spring had come to the mountains, but snow still clung on some of the higher ridges. Timesitheus thought about the remote bleakness of winter.
The gate was open, but minded by two watchful, armed guards. The three riders clattered under a low, rounded arch, and into a dark tunnel that ran through the thickness of the wall. They emerged into a small square, faced with buildings that backed onto the outer walls. The red-tiled roofs were steeply pitched, and the chimneys were covered with raised slabs. Timesitheus noted that nothing obstructed the wall walk. A grim place to stand watch in winter, worse to assault at any season.
Stable-hands held the heads of their horses. These men too were armed. The travellers dismounted. Timesitheus stretched. He was weary to the bone. Three days from Rome to Aquileia, eating and sleeping with Menophilus in the carriage, only stopping to change horses. A further long night to Ad Pirum, and then the trek to Arcia. It would be worse for Narcissus, who had ridden the entire way. Still, it would have done the gladiator good. They were all overfed, stuffed full of beans. Every one of them carried too much weight.
‘Corvinus said to take you to the hall.’ The speaker made no show of deference. He was a tall man, wearing check tunic and trousers, and a long sword on his hip. He spoke Latin, but it was easy to picture him in a distant age, tattooed and screaming barbaric war cries, hurtling down a hillside with his kinsmen as they ambushed a Roman legion in some remote pass. It was not beyond imagining that, if chance offered, he might do the same nowadays.
A great table ran the length of the hall, from the doors to a massive, barbaric fireplace. Yet the room was plastered and painted, and old bronzes and fine statues stood on plinths. Timesitheus went and pretended to warm himself by the low fire. Inexplicably a lone boot stood on that end of the table. It was enormous, unworn and dyed scarlet.
Corvinus had known they were coming. It gave credence to his supposition there was a more direct route. Timesitheus yawned, and rubbed his eyes. It would have been good to wash. He was dirty, and he very much needed to be alert.
The governor’s palace in Ephesus, on the hill above the theatre, had the most luxurious private bath. He thought of the afternoons there, the servants sent away, Tranquillina naked, laughing, telling him exactly what she wanted him to do. Crouched between her thighs, all dignitas cast aside, abandoning himself to a pleasure, all the keener for its very degradation.
‘Health and great joy.’
Corvinus was a tall, well built man in middle age. His face had the deep tan of a life spent outdoors. He wore a crisp linen tunic, but, like the six men at his back, he had a sword hanging from his belt.
‘Health and great joy.’
Thucydides considered that only primitives carried weapons in peacetime. Yet, of course, Timesitheus came with a gladiator, and was himself armed; a sword and dagger, and a hidden blade in his boot. O tempora, o mores, as the more pretentious Romans often said.
‘Marcus Julius Corvinus, I am—’
‘Gaius Furius Sabinius Aquila Timesitheus, Prefect of the Grain Supply.’
Timesitheus produced the letter that Menophilus had given him. ‘In the names of our noble Emperors, Gordian the Elder and Gordian the Younger, the Board of Twenty elected to defend the Res Publica, has entrusted me to deliver this message.’
He waited in silence as Corvinus broke the seal, opened the block, and read.
‘Events give these lonely mountains an unexpected importance. Suddenly my remote refuge plays host to guests of the highest rank.’ Corvinus closed the writing block.
Timesitheus waited. Guests was plural. He had been offered no hospitality. Visions of a closed carriage rushing him to Maximinus came into his mind. He heard the rat-like scuttle of his own fear.
At last, Corvinus spoke. ‘Whether he marches by the Dravus or the Savus, Maximinus must come to Emona. Only two roads from there are practicable for an army to cross the Alps into Italy. One is the road you left at Ad Pirum. The other is longer, and runs to the north, through Virunum and Santicum. There are old fortifications on both, which, given time, could be repaired. With regular troops both could be defended. But, there is no time, and, while I have loyal tenants and clients, you know that I possess no soldiers.’
Timesitheus was too weary to think what to say.
‘The sonorous phrase of this letter – give all aid to the defence of the Res Publica – I take it means your masters wish me to harass Maximinus, raid and delay his baggage train.’
‘Yes,’ Timesitheus said.
‘You see that.’ Corvinus pointed at the oversize boot on the table. ‘Last winter a small convoy was taking supplies to Maximinus. It met with disaster. The mountains are dangerous. There were no survivors. Among the goods – incense, silk and papyrus, the types of things an Emperor might require – was that boot. Oddly, my men only recovered the one. The wagon had gone over a cliff. It is a very big boot. Not the sort I would wish to have stand on me. The boot was destined for Maximinus.’
Now, Timesitheus had to speak. ‘The noble Gordiani are generous, and will remember their friends.’
Corvinus interrupted. ‘The noble Gordiani are a long way away, and, I am assured, that Maximinus will be here within days.’
Timesitheus could feel the rodent breath hot on his neck, the teeth sharp, questing. ‘The Emperors believe that a man of courage, one who performed dangerous service, should have a place in the Senate. The property qualification of a million sesterces would be a gift.’
‘What status would such a man hold in the Senate?’
‘There would be no onus to attend, but he would sit among the ex-Consuls. Anything less would be beneath his dignitas.’
‘You have the authority to make good this promise?’
‘Yes.’
Corvinus smiled. ‘That is what the envoy of Maximinus said.’
Timesitheus forced his fear down out of the daylight. ‘The Gordiani are still distant, but Rome has declared for them. Maximinus is a tyrant, and he is doomed. Even if he is not struck down in his own camp, everyone will turn against him. The East is in revolt. His army will not get beyond Aquileia. The Danube will rise behind him.’
Again Corvinus smiled. ‘The East may rise, so may the Danubian armies. But you ask a great deal.’ He went and picked up the boot, turned it in his hands. ‘My ancestors were here long before Maximinus. Our citizenship was awarded seven generations ago by Augustus. We were here before Rome. I would have us here when Rome has fallen. The idea of an eternal city strikes me as improbable. The likeliest way to achieve such longevity for my family was to avoid imperial politics. But since I have no choice, my intervention should be well rewarded.’
‘What would you need?’ Timesitheus pushed down a surge of hope. If false, it would be too crushing.
‘The Consulship, the million sesterces, tax exemption for me and my descendants in perpetuity. And it is time I took a wife. For the woman I have in mind, I would need a house in Rome, a villa on the Bay of Naples, and an estate, perhaps in Sicily.’
‘Who?’
‘I would marry a great-granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius, the wife of the Caesar Maximus, the soon to be widowed, Iunia Fadilla.’
‘An excellent choice.’
‘Splendid,’ Corvinus said. ‘Let us have some wine. And I will give you something. The envoy of Maximinus left this house at first light today. With four guards and a slave, he is travelling one of the less frequented paths down to the Italian plain. From his own lips, I understand that there is a particular enmity between you and the Prefect of the Camp, Domitius.’
‘I have only one man.’
Corvinus shifted the boot from one hand to the
other. ‘You can have a guide, but this is your own affair, and my men will be occupied on imperial business, preparing a reception for Maximinus. I told Domitius that I would dedicate this boot at the shrine at Archimea. I still think I should. One must honour the gods.’
Chapter 35
The East
Carrhae,
Four Days after the Ides of March, AD238
‘What are the reptiles doing?’
Priscus did not like the look of this.
The Mobads had lit the fire at dawn. It was about four hundred paces out from the Nisibis Gate, at the very limit of the range of a ballista. They had hung a cauldron over the flames. They had fed the fire all morning. Whatever was in the cauldron would be white hot or boiling.
Yesterday, after the Persians had recovered the body of Geliman of Demavend, they had built a high tribunal in front of the royal pavilion, and placed a throne on top. It looked down on the fire, and three wooden crosses. Holes had been dug for the bases of these, but for now they lay flat on the earth.
Ard-a-shir! Ard-a-shir!
Five Mobads hoisted the Drafsh-i-Kavyan over the tribunal. The sun flashed off the jewels set in its crossbar, off the golden orb at its top.
Ard-a-shir! Ard-a-shir!
The King of Kings sat on the throne under the standard of his house.
Whatever the Sassanids were about to do, it was not part of the funeral rites for either Geliman killed the previous day or the Lord of Andegan the day before that. Priscus had been told the Persians merely exposed the corpses of their dead on a high place for the birds to tear and devour. Abgar Prince-in-waiting said sometimes they did not wait for the old, ill, or unloved to stop breathing. Abgar hated the Sassanids, perhaps even more than did Ma’na of Hatra. The Sassanids had killed the elder brother of Ma’na.
A-hura-mazda! A-hura-mazda!
A group of three roped prisoners were dragged forth from the Persian lines. They struggled and fought. Their guards beat them with the butts of their spears, the flats of their blades. The prisoners wore normal eastern clothing; loose tunics, baggy breeches. Their long hair was unbound, falling over their faces. One was very tall and thin.
‘Shalamallath,’ said Iarhai.
So the Synodiarch had not betrayed them. As good as his word, he had led his chosen two warriors through the darkness into the heart of the Persian camp. Blade in hand, murder in his heart, he had failed to kill the Persian King. Somehow they had been caught. Now they would pay the price.
‘A man of honour, a hard man of the desert, a noble enemy.’ Iarhai sounded moved. ‘He deserves better than this slave or Christian death.’
One by one the captives were forced down, tied to the crosses.
Priscus took note of that. Some crucified men could live for days, longer if bound not nailed to the cross. If cut down, they might survive. But after one night raid, the Sassanids would be more on guard.
Although ropes and labourers were ready, the crosses were not raised at once. Mobads busied themselves around the fire.
‘The cruelty of the vipers knows no limits,’ Abgar said.
With long tongs, a Mobad used a metal pot to scoop something from the cauldron. Walking with care, he went over to Shalamallath. Two other priests held the head of the caravan-guard, so he could not move at all. The pot tipped, liquid poured down onto his face. Shalamallath screamed.
‘Olive oil,’ Abgar said. ‘They have blinded him with boiling olive oil.’
The Mobad with the tongs moved on to the other prisoners. Men hauled on ropes, put their shoulders to the wood, and Shalamallath’s cross jerked upright. The other prisoners screamed.
‘We should try and finish them off with the ballistae,’ Abgar said.
Priscus thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘The range is very long, and it would tell the snakes that their theatre had disturbed us. They must suffer.’
Tears ran down Iarhai’s cheeks, his lips moved as he muttered. A prayer, a curse? Perhaps both. Priscus put a consoling hand on the shoulder of the young Synodiarch. Unfortunately, the King of Kings was still alive, but the dilemma of which caravan-guard would get the contract to provide mercenaries was solved. He gave Iarhai’s shoulder a squeeze. From the start, he had liked him better than the more loquacious Shalamallath.
‘Prefect, you promised an audience to a delegation from the Boule of Carrhae.’ The governor might be his brother, but Philip was always very correct.
Priscus nodded. ‘Let the fires on the walls be lit. Now, we will go to the citadel.’
By the time he had descended the stairs and swung up onto his horse, Priscus had dismissed the horror from his mind. Pragmatism was his great virtue. One problem at a time. The Sassanids had to attack. Ardashir could not ride away now he had killed two of his great lords, and a large number of the warriors sent to retrieve their bodies, now he had made an attempt on Ardashir’s own life, It was but fourteen years since the Persian had killed his predecessor Artabanus the Arsacid. In the eyes of many across the east, he was still no King of Kings, but a pretender. Only continued military success might keep him secure on the throne. A failed attack on the city of Hatra a few years ago had provoked a wave of unrest across the Sassanid empire.
Ardashir had to attack today or tomorrow, the day after at the latest. He had twenty-five thousand warriors with him, all mounted, and no supply train. It was early spring; neither the grass nor the crops were ready. They must move on before all the food and forage was consumed.
It was a pity Priscus had not been able to poison the wells. Something slow acting, painful and debilitating would have been best.
The Sassanids would have to try and storm the town. They had no siege engines, and neither the time nor expertise to assemble one. Yesterday they had built ladders, and felled trees to make primitive rams. They would die in droves beneath the walls and gates of the town.
As long as no Roman deserters tutored them, the Sassanids would never be better at siege warfare than the Parthians they had overthrown. Sophisticated poliorcetic endeavours would always remain beyond barbarians. It was one of the few certainties in life.
Priscus had not expected the arrival of Ardashir. Yet now the Sassanid was here, it was vital he be induced to make an attempt on the town. Of course, Priscus could not inflict a decisive defeat. There was nothing he could do to prevent Ardashir wheeling his cavalry and vanishing across the plain at any moment. But Priscus could bloody his nose; hold the town, slaughter thousands of his men, tarnish his image as a divinely favoured leader of men. When Ardashir had failed before Hatra, the much-vaunted love of Ahuramazda had been far from evident, and the eastern provinces of his empire had risen in revolt. The same could happen at Carrhae.
Ardashir had twenty-five thousand men, the defenders less than four and a half. Priscus had divided the walls into four commands. The north and north-west, from the Gate of Sin to beyond the Moon Gate, was held by the four hundred regular auxiliary infantry of 15th Arabum Cohort. With the same number, 2nd Eufratensis Cohort held the west and south-west, including the Euphrates Gate and the Mirage Postern. The latter named because, hidden in the corner of a tower, it was so hard to discern. The rest of the circuit was garrisoned by the thousand swords present under the eagle of the 1st Legion Parthica. They were assigned to two senior Centurions. The first was responsible for the Venus Gate and the Camp Postern in the south and south-east, the second the Nisibis and Lion Gates in the east and north-east. There were four ballistae in each section, and every command was supported by a hundred dismounted regular archers from the Equites Indigenae Sagittarii, and five hundred local levies.
There was no reserve beyond the hundred or so personal guards with the senior officers. These bucellarii, and their employers, would remain with Priscus on the citadel. It was a rigid, perimeter defence. It had no flexibility or depth. The walls of Carrhae doglegged, creating dead zones not covered by enfilading ballistae. It was very far from perfect, but it was the best Priscus could achieve wit
h what he had to hand. Pragmatism, always pragmatism.
The cavalcade clattered into the open courtyard of the governor’s palace. There was a fine view out over the eastern walls and the plain beyond, today somewhat spoiled by the smoke from the Persian fires. Above, the roof-garden commanded the entire city.
Priscus handed his reins to a stable boy, and used a dismounting block.
‘They are waiting for you in the Basilica, Prefect.’
Greeks, Syrians, Arabs, however they thought of themselves, Priscus had little time for the provincials under his command. Untrustworthy, cowardly, and they talked far too much. At least those who pretended to be Greek tended to be less judgemental about the pleasures of the flesh.
There were three of them. Long bearded, each clad in himation and tunic, very Hellenic. They would not have looked out of place in the ancient Athens of Demosthenes. The image seemed apposite. Demosthenes, there was another one long on words, short on courage.
Trying to suppress his irritation, Priscus sat down. The joints of the governor’s ivory chair creaked under the weight of his armour. With a gesture, he indicated their spokesman should say what they had come to say.
‘We owe very great thanks to our noble Emperor Maximinus Augustus, and to his noble Caesar Maximus, for their manifold labours on our behalf – but it would not be right to admit any greater gratitude than that for sending down to us for governor such a man as yourself.’
‘Very flattering,’ Priscus interrupted, ‘and I am as fond of rhetoric as the next soldier. But time is pressing. We are expecting a Persian attack.’
The orator rubbed his hands together. ‘As you say, Prefect, as you say.’ Brevity obviously did not come naturally.
‘What do you want?’
‘As you rightly have identified, Prefect, the Persians seem decided upon an attack. Even if it is repulsed, many citizens in the levies will die. And, despite your foresight and courage, despite the excellence of your strategies, the gods of war are fickle.’
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