The Caspian Gates

by Harry Sidebottom

  Any number of men, charlatans or otherwise, might have any number of theories. How did you trick someone into eating a stone, in a gilded box or not? Gallienus suspended his judgement. He suspected that Demetrius’s predilection was innate. Whether it was or not, for years, the boy had had no choice about the physical aspect. Demetrius said he had been born into slavery. Although very vague about his early life, once he had become an intimate of the imperial bedchamber he had spoken about the succession of brutal masters through whose hands he had passed. Gallienus had been moved to tears. The youth’s degradation ended when he was purchased to be secretary to Ballista.

  Ballista had treated Demetrius well. In the end, he had granted him his freedom and, although Demetrius did not realize that Gallienus knew, he had given the boy a share of the loot from the camp of the Persian King of Kings. Ballista had never taken the youth to his bed. In a Greek or a Roman, that would argue for strict self-control, but in a northern barbarian probably it was something else altogether.

  Gallienus gazed at Demetrius. The emperor had never shunned Aphrodite. The gifts of the goddess of love should be honoured. There was nothing of the priggish and boorish virgin Hippolytus about Gallienus. Rather, he knew, there was a gadfly in his eyes. No sooner had it alighted on a beauty – boy or girl – than it wanted to fly again. His pleasure in Demetrius would not last. Beside anything else, the youth was shaving, using depilatories. Demetrius was getting too old.

  Slowly, Gallienus pulled back the cover. Demetrius stirred, but did not wake. The boy was still beautiful. The well-formed back, the delicate moulding of the buttocks; neither too thin nor too fleshy. The straight thighs. The ringlets of dark, hyacinth hair.

  Ballista had been a fool, misguided by his barbarian upbringing. The northerner was quite wrong: there was nothing unmanly about loving a boy. Gallienus had little time for the specious and hypocritical posturings of Platonic love. The noble duty of a philosophic spirit is to worship but not to touch: what nonsense. Nothing but a regime for frustration or guilt, or an unhealthy combination of the two.

  No, there was nothing to be frowned at in physical pleasure for the erastes with his eromenos, as long as the older lover did not continue when the beloved became a man, bearded and tough. The very briefness of the time, from the first down to the full beard, added poignancy.

  Hercules, Gallienus’s particular divine companion, had not been less manly for loving Hylas. Hercules had also loved many, many women. Indeed, it had been a woman, Omphale, who had for a time enslaved him; love of a woman that had briefly unmanned him.

  Demetrius woke, opened dark eyes. His cheeks shone like amber or Sidonian crystal. The boy smiled. ‘You remember your promise?’ he murmured.

  Gallienus kissed his lips. ‘I remember.’ For a moment he felt a pang of jealousy. Then it was overcome by affection. The boy was nothing if not loyal. Gallienus would keep the promise Demetrius had requested. Gallienus would not execute Ballista. Something must be done, but not that.

  XI

  Ballista knew Hippothous had not been happy at leaving Miletus – not happy at all.

  Why, the Greek had complained, why had Ballista decided to do such a thing? The gods knew, said Hippothous, he was no coward but, largely by their own efforts, the northerner and his familia had saved Miletus. So, why – just two days after the Goths had been repulsed – why leave the relative safety of its walls and ride to Didyma: a place that meant nothing to them, which may well be indefensible, and to which the Goths could easily follow them? It was completely irrational; it was barbaric.

  Maximus, who knew, had looked dubious, but said nothing.

  Ballista, who had spent the hours before leaving closeted with Macarius, the asiarch of Miletus, had not felt like explaining.

  For the journey, Ballista, Maximus and Hippothous had been accompanied by ten mounted soldiers and three able-bodied slaves: one Ballista’s, the others belonging to the soldiers. Yet even so, it had not been without its tensions. Having left Miletus through the Sacred Gate in the southern wall, they had not long passed the tomb of Neileus, the founder of the city, when they had seen the Goths. There were small groups of the raiders scattered here and there, looting and defiling the suburban villas and temples. The Goths had not attacked, but ceased from their pleasures to stand and watch the cavalcade.

  Far from slipping out unnoticed, Ballista had openly courted attention. He had had a white draco hurriedly made. His personal standard, its roughly hammered metal jaws snarling, had hissed and snapped as they rode. The trooper carrying it had flourished it proudly. Ballista had wondered if the man, an auxiliary called Patavinus, would have been quite so happy if he had known what had happened to most of his predecessors. Romulus, Antigonus: they had been good men, but it had not saved them. So many violent deaths. Ballista had not chosen his trade; he often thought he would have been happier in a quieter, more sedentary life.

  They had ridden easily, keeping the horses in hand. There had been no danger of losing their path. The Sacred Way ran, broad and paved, up into the hills. Punctuated with milestones and rest places, it crossed the scrubby high country of laurel, box and stunted evergreen oak. Sheep and goats, abandoned by their shepherds, had looked up from their rough grazing. Once, in the distance, a pack of wild dogs loped away.

  After some nine miles, the Sacred Way had dipped down to the sea at Panormos. There was no settlement there. But, in better times, boats would have been tied up to the jetties, disembarking pilgrims bound for the oracle at Didyma. There would have been a bustle of guides and hucksters vying for their money. Panormos had been deserted.

  Ballista and the others had sat their horses, high on a bluff. The wind had tugged at their clothes, the smell of the sea in their nostrils. They had gazed out into the Aegean. Sure enough, across the shimmering surface, hazy, but at no great distance to the north, had been the distinctive double-prowed shapes. The Gothic longboats were no more than an hour behind.

  They had ridden the last two and a bit miles south-east flanked by seated gods and priests in marble, by great crouching lions. The weathered faces of the statues, man-like and bestial, expressed the complete indifference of antiquity.

  At Didyma, there was an arch with a gate across the Sacred Way. But there were no walls. The holy site was delineated merely by boundary stones. The god had not protected it from Persians or Gauls: Ballista doubted he would make a better fist of it with the Goths.

  A strange deputation was waiting under the arch; a mix of robed priests and locals with makeshift weapons.

  ‘Health and great joy.’ The leader wore a wreath of bay leaves bound with white cloth. He carried a wand.

  ‘Health and great joy.’ Ballista dismounted, handed the reins to his slave. ‘I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, and I have come with my amici and these soldiers to help you against the Goths.’

  The priest beamed – an unusual reaction for a civilian encountering soldiers, a certain sign of the terrible fear abroad. ‘Welcome, Marcus Clodius Ballista. Welcome indeed.’ Perhaps he was partly reassured by Ballista’s equestrian gold ring and his excellent Attic Greek, or it could be simply that a small party of Roman soldiers was indeed welcome in the face of a large horde of barbarian warriors.

  ‘I am the prophetes of the Lord Apollo at Didyma. My name is Selandros, son of Hermias, of the Euangelidai.’ The annual high priest was from one of the oldest and most prestigious families of Miletus. ‘This is the hydrophor of Artemis, my daughter, Alexandra.’ The virgin priestess was not veiled, but she kept her eyes demurely down. She was beautiful. Well, thought Ballista, the prophetes will fight – his worst fear would be a gang of hairy barbarians taking turns on top of his daughter. Pausanias’s description of the Gauls sacking Delphi came into Ballista’s mind. Worse even than the Persians, they had raped women, girls and boys to death. In one of those very rare flashes of total insight, Ballista knew that Selandros had read the same passage, that it had been in his thoughts also – poor bastard. Ballista fel
t a sudden quickening, his mind running back to his youth and the girl in the village of the Rugii when he was in his father’s war band, back a couple of years to Roxanne, the Persian king’s concubine at Soli. He savagely suppressed the atavistic urge. Years before, in Arelate, he had known a woman, a Corinthian whore, who had claimed that all men were rapists. He had thought her mad; now he was not so sure. Possibly the Greeks and Romans were not totally wrong endlessly to preach self-control. Ballista knew he had done bad things, had condoned many others, but a man can change. He was not tied to his nature or his fate like a dog to a cart.

  ‘And this is the hypochrestes, and the paraphylax.’ The former, Selandros’s aide, smiled ingratiatingly. He was nothing but a frightened boy. The latter, the head of the temple guards, was older. He looked at Ballista as if he had been expecting someone else, someone better. Ballista instantly dismissed him as of no account.

  ‘Unfortunately, the tamias could not come. He has much to do.’ There was no surprise there, thought Ballista. The treasurer, who actually ran Didyma, would have his work cut out preparing the defence, if these were the other men of position at the sanctuary.

  ‘The Goths will not be long,’ said Ballista. ‘We should go.’

  Beyond the gate, there were buildings on both sides of the Sacred Way: minor temples, baths, porticos, shops and houses – all empty. Although only a village under the rule of Miletus, the settlement was of some extent. It stretched off to the right.

  After a distance, the road doglegged to the east. The buildings on the right gave way to a grove of bay trees, which curved around the western end of the main temple.

  The first sight of the temple of Apollo at Didyma was overwhelming: a towering phalanx of columns, a fitting home for one of the Olympians. Many had held it should have ranked as one of the seven wonders of the world.

  The horses were led away, and Selandros conducted Ballista around the temple. Set in a hollow but standing on a high, stepped podium, the building was an enormous rectangle, surrounded by a double line of columns. There was only one entrance, from the east. Selandros explained how, at the first news of the Goths at Ephesus, the tamias had ordered the Sacred Boys – the temple slaves – to build an extra wall to narrow access.

  It was a strong site. Just the one way in. There was open ground on all sides. Admittedly, if they got close, attackers would be sheltered by the partially finished roof over the columns, but the walls were at least sixty feet high and far too thick to breach except by prolonged siege works, and men in the eaves could drop tiles and stones, which would turn the space into a killing zone. The Goths might try to burn the defenders out of the temple, but that would probably destroy the plunder they were after, and the great stone building did not look particularly combustible. All in all, Ballista was relieved; it was much as Macarius had described it back in Miletus.

  Before going into the temple, Ballista studied the emergency wall. It was made of well-cut blocks of stone, presumably dismantled from some nearby building. The construction looked solid enough. It closed eight gaps between columns at the previously open eastern end of the temple. The one opening still remaining was only three or four long paces wide. At the top of fourteen steep stone steps, it should be possible to hold it with four determined men in close order, maybe with just two in open order, if they had the skills. Ballista posted six of the soldiers there.

  The first area inside was a forest of massive, fluted columns. Set in the inside wall was a strange big window or door, its base five or six feet off the ground. Selandros explained that it was from there that the prophetes gave the responses to those who consulted the oracle. ‘Come.’ The priest smiled. ‘We will follow the pilgrim way.’

  The temple was laid out like none Ballista had seen before. Selandros led them to a narrow passage against the right-hand wall. It was vaulted, dark and steep. At the far end, they emerged from the gloom into dazzling sunshine. There was a great square, open to the sky.

  At the further end was a small temple. Through its open doors could be seen Apollo in bronze, naked, a stag in one hand, a bow in the other. The priestess and the sacred spring whose waters inspired her must be inside as well. The deity and his shelter were dwarfed by the huge walls around them.

  Everywhere in the open were other statues: emperors, kings, priests, officials, men of honour. Hanging on the walls were innumerable desiccated wreaths of bay and, arranged below, other offerings: bowls, vases, censers, cups, pots, tripods, wine coolers – all manner of vessels cunningly wrought in precious metals. But what took Ballista aback, almost stultified his senses, were the people: men, women and children – hundreds of them – sitting, standing, a multitude of refugees, all silent and dejected.

  Selandros gestured to the square. ‘Usually only the servants of the temple set foot on the holy ground but, with the barbarians coming, the Lord Apollo in his love of mankind said to welcome the suppliants into his adyton. In settled times, those seeking divine guidance stand here and put their questions to the prophetes and he then consults the inspired priestess in the inner temple. Those wanting answers return the way we have come and wait at the front below the window. It is my honour to relay the divine words.’

  The priest turned and led them up to the room from which the window opened. All the weapons that could be found had been heaped there. Ballista and the men of war began to sort through them.

  ‘It should not be like this.’ The voice of the hypochrestes was plaintive. The youthful aide spoke to everyone and no one. ‘It is the fifth year, the year of the great festival. Athletes, musicians, singers, men from across the world – all should be coming to the Didymeia, coming in peace. Why has the god deserted us? Have we not offered enough wine and incense, enough hecatombs of shambly footed cattle? Why, despite our piety, has the god turned against us?’

  ‘Enough.’ The voice of the prophetes was firm. ‘Apollo has not deserted us. Just as at Troy in the ancient days, the gods are divided. Warlike Ares has brought this plague of Scythians. The Lord Apollo will not submit. He who rejoices in song will not abandon those who pray to him and offer him hymns with pure and open hearts.’

  The young aide seemed close to tears. ‘How can that be? Are not Apollo and Ares but parts of the eternal, uncreated, undying Supreme God? Why would the timeless, immovable being …’

  ‘Enough!’ The prophetes was commanding. ‘Enough of Plato, and the prattling of his foolish followers; this is a time for true religion, antique religion unsullied by speculation. Ares guided the barbarians here; the Lord Apollo will crush them.’

  Ballista had taken up a huge old shield. It had been set apart, some cobwebbed dedication from a forgotten time. He hid his smile behind it. The gods aside, multiple or singular, he knew what had brought the Goths here. Obviously, there was the well-founded rumour of wealth. The renegade Chrysogonus would have told them all about that. But there was something else, something much more specific and much sharper. Revenge and honour: the true soul of the north, the blood that bound together that unforgiving land. Ballista had killed Tharuaro to create a bloodfeud with the Tervingi. With the corpse still fresh, where he went the Tervingi would follow, and the Borani with them. Those two groups would be enough to sway the whole hansa of the Goths. He, Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the man the Romans knew as Ballista, had brought Scythian Ares after him, like a dog tied to a cart. And only Maximus and himself knew it, and only they knew why. If the Goths were at Didyma, they were not at Priene. Ballista’s sons, his wife, old Calgacus – all would be safe.

  Ballista noticed the silence. Both the prophetes and his aide were staring at him. He looked back blankly.

  ‘The shield,’ began the prophetes.

  Ballista turned the ungainly thing. Leather and bronze; one of the straps had rotted and come away.

  ‘You know who carried that shield?’ The priest was strangely hesitant.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Euphorbus, the Trojan hero who first wounded Patroclus. In revenge, Menela
us killed him, and dedicated his shield here.’

  ‘It is very old.’

  The prophetes gave him an odd look. ‘Euphorbus was reincarnated as the holy Pythagoras.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The sage recognized his shield from his former life. Later, the soul passed to the diviner Hermotimas. He also pointed to the shield in your hands.’

  Withdrawn into a corner, the aide was muttering, possibly a prayer.

  Ballista laughed. ‘I doubt a Trojan hero, having been one of the seven sages, would choose to be reborn as a warrior from Germania.’

  ‘The gods choose,’ said the prophetes. Inconspicuously, his aide warded off evil, with his thumb between his first two fingers.

  A shout rang out from somewhere above: fire – the Goths are here.

  Ballista pointed to the nearer of the two staircases set in the side walls. A roof terrace, Selandros told him. Ballista led the dash. The stairwell doubled and redoubled back on itself, replicating the labyrinth pattern on its ceiling.

  As they emerged into the bright light, a flock of sparrows took wing from a nearby roof. A thought, bird-like, fluttered just out of Ballista’s grasp. Sparrows, Didyma, a lesson in impiety … something like that. If they both lived, he would ask Hippothous. He was different, that Greek: a living encyclopaedia who enjoyed killing.

  A knot of men in a jumble of ill-fitting archaic armour was looking to the north-west. Ballista followed their gaze. There were men moving around the gate through which he had ridden, lots of men. They surged in and out of the surrounding buildings. As Ballista watched, the first thin tendrils of smoke writhed upwards. The temple of Artemis, someone muttered. Others took up the words, some started praying. The smoke bodied out as the east wind tugged it away.

  Sounds of commotion floated up from below, from the entrance of Apollo’s temple. A local, a man with an air of competence despite his ludicrous assemblage of outmoded armour, crossed the terrace and peered down. ‘Fuck,’ he said simply.