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 internal 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?’
It was a suggestion that Ballista could not ignore. But even the briefest and most superficial investigation – by Demetrius in the houses of the councillors of Sebaste and by Maximus and Calgacus in the bars of the waterfront – had revealed much to bring disquiet. Not least that Trebellianus was commonly referred to as ‘the Arch-pirate’. Given the nature of the inhabitants of Cilicia Tracheia, it was little surprise that the title was most often given with respect.
‘Here they come,’ said Maximus.
Ballista saw the small party leaving the gate from the island. They had expected Ballista would see them there, in the old royal palace. Now they had to toil across town up to the theatre. But as far as Ballista was concerned
, if they were put out, it was no bad thing.
As he waited, Ballista regarded his fleet, moored in the main harbour. They were all there except the seven little war galleys, which were shuttling back and forth monitoring the enemy force at Zephyrion. The quays were crowded: twenty-five transport vessels, ten big triremes and the other three little liburnians not at sea. The sword of Damocles may have been hanging by a thread over the heads of the citizens of Sebaste, but those who ran the bars, brothels and baths down by the port had never had a more profitable time, with a fleet and four and a half thousand soldiers to service.
Ragonius Clarus entered the theatre. He was followed by a big man in a toga. He in turn was followed by two tall men wearing what looked like goatskin cloaks. It was a mild summer day, but their choice of clothing was strange. In single file, they began to climb the stairs.
Ballista sat down on the top row of seats. The man in the toga must be Trebellianus. He was a powerful-looking individual in middle age, broad-shouldered, with a shock of black hair; restrainedly good-looking. The two trailing him were younger. They had the same black hair but looked thinner and hungrier. Both wore swords at their hip.
As they reached the top, Ragonius Clarus stepped aside. The other three passed him and halted. They said nothing. None of them was blowing after the steep climb. Together, they exuded menace. Ballista felt Demetrius, standing to his left, shrink back. Maximus, on his right, drew himself up to his full, not over-tall height. Calgacus and Castricius remained lounging a little way off. Ballista wondered what impression he and his followers must convey.
Unexpectedly, the northerner found himself thinking how many men these three Cilicians had killed. Come to that – how many men had he himself killed? And then there were those killed by Maximus, Calgacus and Castricius. That must make a legion of souls, flitting and shrieking across the dark meadows of Hades.
‘Gaius Terentius Trebellianus?’ Ballista pronounced it as a question.
‘Yes.’ He had a soft, pleasant speaking voice.
‘You have brought bodyguards.’
‘Not at all.’ Trebellianus’s smile went nowhere near his eyes. ‘These are my young friends Palfuerius and Lydius.’
‘It is illegal for a civilian to carry arms in the imperium.’
‘Not if the weapons are necessary for a man’s profession, are inherited, or are carried for self-defence.’ Trebellianus’s smooth cheeks had the sheen of good living.
Ballista nodded. It was so. The Arch-pirate knew the law.
‘I am told you have influence with the people of Cilicia Tracheia.’
‘Some of my fellow citizens are kind enough to come to me for advice.’
One of the young men smirked. Ballista ignored him. ‘On what subjects do you advise them?’
Trebellianus gestured to the mountains. ‘Our country is a poor one. What little livelihood we have comes from the humble goat. In summer he must go to the high pastures. In winter he comes down to the coastal lowlands. Moving many animals and men up and down, across other people’s land, through different communities, always involves difficulties. I make these difficulties go away. I help my friends.’
And what do you do to those who are not your friends, wondered Ballista. ‘And your friends, what do they do for you?’
A smooth smile crossed Trebellianus’s face. ‘They are good enough to show me honour.’
‘What town is your patria?’
‘My family estates are up country around Germanicopolis. I have been fortunate enough to acquire others on the coast at Korakesion and Charadna.’
So, Ballista thought, your lands lie at either end of the trail, and your armed toughs escort the herds up and down. Your ‘influence’ rests on violence and intimidation. He remembered his friend Iarhai at the desert city of Arete. Trebellianus was a small-scale version of that caravan protector. A strong man provides ‘protection’, and those he protects give him ‘gifts’. And just as Iarhai had rivals at Arete, so would Trebellianus here in Cilicia Tracheia. The gods knew what misfortunes would be heading their way now that Macrianus the Lame had decided that this Arch-pirate was to become a senior official with the weight of the imperium behind him.
Ballista held out his hand and Demetrius placed an ivory and gold codicil in it. Standing, Ballista passed the imperial codicil to the Cilician. ‘Gaius Terentius Trebellianus, you are hereby appointed acting governor of the province of Cilicia.’
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The answer came back blandly.
‘Your first task, in the face of which nothing else matters, must be to block the coast road to the west. I take it you can call on armed men?’
Trebellianus did not speak, but inclined his head.
Ballista went on, ‘I have collected what detached troops were to be found in the ports between Aegeae and here. These stationarii only amount to just over three hundred, but they are at your command. The eirenarch I have left in each town, along with his armed men of the watch. These officers and their diogmitai are locals. They should fight to defend their homes, but may well desert if we attempt to move them somewhere else. Where do you propose to close the road to the Persians?’
‘Korakesion.’ The answer came without hesitation.
‘A long way to the west.’
‘Indeed, and it will leave my own estates at Charadna at the mercy of the Sassanids. But, at Korakesion, the mountains come down to the sea, and the town itself is fortified by nature as well as by man.’
Ballista was more than suspicious that some private motive was behind the choice. Korakesion was at the western extremity of the province. Perhaps Trebellianus was sacrificing some of his own estates in the knowledge that his rivals would suffer worse. But there was nothing to be done. The Cilician knew the country. Macrianus the Lame wanted him as governor.
‘So be it,’ Ballista said, as if he had the power to decide. ‘I am going to base the fleet and army on Cyprus, at the port of Kyreneia. The liburnians will keep me in communication. You will submit written reports of all your actions.’
Again Trebellianus wordlessly inclined his head.
‘I am afraid I cannot spare you any transport ships. You will have to march the stationarii from here.’
Trebellianus smiled his smooth smile. ‘Forewarned by Ragonius Clarus, I took the liberty of requisitioning some merchant ships at Corycus. We can sail from there.’
Ballista kept his face expressionless. ‘So be it. I will not detain you further.’
Trebellianus sketched a salute. He and his young followers, both of them smirking now, turned and set off down the steps.
Took the liberty … requisitioning ships. Ballista was fuming. Come what may, the owners would never see them again.
Ragonius Clarus was mouthing some platitudes. Ballista was too angry to pretend to listen. How much suffering would he spare this province if he just killed Trebellianus now? A word to Maximus and Castricius. He could do it with his own hand. And those two evil-eyed goatboys. Nothing here could stop him. The troops would not care. They would follow Ballista, not Ragonius Clarus. Nothing to stop him – except what would happen to Julia and the boys at the hands of Macrianus and his repulsive sons in Antioch?
Ballista drew a big breath and calmed himself. What were these Cilicians to him anyway? And if he killed Trebellianus, it would only leave a space for his equally murderous rivals to fight over. Fuck them all.
Mind you, The Allfather willing, one day it would be good to send Trebellianus to meet Charon. And that sniggering pair of young strong-arm boys. Palfuerius and Lydius. Which was which? Fuck it, they could cross the Styx together.
Julia sat in the seating reserved for respectable matrons. It was pleasant in the great theatre of Antioch, with the afternoon breeze blowing up the Orontes valley. She felt more relaxed than she had for a long time. Macrianus the Lame and Quietus had taken the army south to Emesa in an attempt to overawe Odenathus of Palmyra and secure his allegiance. Sinc
e the arrival at Antioch of the new imperial court, Julia had largely kept to her house. But when Quietus chose to visit, it was impossible to refuse entry to a man who, however unworthily, wore the purple. It was not as if she could not deal with his oily innuendoes. And while Macrianus the Elder needed the services of Ballista, Quietus was too scared of his father to attempt force. But his presence was deeply unwelcome.
It was a pity Quietus did not follow the example of his brother, Macrianus the Younger, and remain in the palace indulging a passion for making small wooden toys. Imagine, a grown man, an emperor, indulging in such a childish pastime, doing the menial work of a slave or paid pleb. It was less harmful, but almost more demeaning than Nero singing or Commodus fighting as a gladiator.
Imagine a man such as Ballista fiddling with glue and little saws. As she framed the thought, suddenly she found she could imagine it all too easily. Men never really grew up. Not that her husband would be enjoying any such fripperies in his present mood. Before he sailed, Julia had discovered what was troubling Ballista: the ridiculous oath he had made to Shapur; the fear that breaking it endangered their sons. He had not lost the superstitions of the dark forests of his childhood. Part of him would always remain a barbarian.
The actors reappeared on stage. It was a domestic mime, and Julia was enjoying it. The wife was running rings around her old miser of a husband. Julia had checked the programme before bringing her boys. Nothing too untoward. Nothing like the striptease of the Floralia or the naked whores of the Maiuma. The husband and wife who ran the troupe had a reputation for a more moral sort of mime.
Isangrim was bored. Julia fished in the purse tied to her girdle and gave some coins to the custos who attended her. The elderly manservant shuffled off to buy a sweet for Isangrim and something suitable for two-year-old Dernhelm. For once, Julia was in such a good mood that being saddled with the custos and two maids – the minimum that custom dictated should accompany a married woman of her status in public – did not bother her. A sticky treat would cheer Isangrim up, and the next mime was about the bandit Selurus, the Son of Etna. Apart from Tillorobus, the terror of Mysia and Mount Ida, there was no legendary outlaw the boy liked more. The hiding in a cave, the daring escapes, the cunning disguises and tricking of the centurion, even the poignant death scene – all captivated him.
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