Warrior of Rome III

by Harry Sidebottom

  The old woman on the stage stopped mid-line. She pointed to the rear of the seats.

  ‘Am I dreaming, or are the Persians here?’

  Heads began to turn. First one or two, then everyone looked back. There was muttering, then shouts of consternation, screams. Dark figures could be seen on the roofs of the houses towards Mount Silpius. With a terrible whistling, the first flight of arrows rained down. More screams, accompanied by yells of pain. Pandemonium.

  Julia scooped up Dernhelm, grabbed Isangrim by the hand. ‘Come,’ she said.

  The two maids stared, open-mouthed.

  ‘Come,’ Julia shouted again.

  The maids sat on in moronic immobility. Stupid girls.

  Julia set off. The nearest entrance was only a few paces away. Some of the audience sat, stunned. Others, as if woken from sleep, were getting to their feet. The more acute were scrambling over the seats already. More arrows sliced through the air.

  The stairwell was full of terrified people. They tore down the steps. Isangrim stumbled. As he started to fall, Julia felt his hand slipping through hers. Go down now and he would be trampled. With unrecognizable strength, she gripped his damp fingers, hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Run, boy.’ Her fear for him made her snap at him.

  At the bottom of the stairs they ran into the backs of a stationary knot of people. More bodies thumped in behind them. In a moment everyone was crushed together. The pressure was increasing. Up on her shoulders, Dernhelm was all right. But Isangrim was in trouble. She was finding it hard to breathe. All matronly restraint gone, she braced her legs, arched her back, pushed out with her free elbow; anything to make a space. Isangrim, arms wrapped around her waist, looked up with huge, frightened eyes. She went to speak, to reassure. The pressure surged. The words were cut off. Her face was pressed into the tunic of the man in front.

  They were moving. Gripping her children, Julia prayed. Like the liquid when a stopper is taken out of a flask, the crowd burst free of the doorway. Julia felt something soft under her sandals. A woman, bloodied on the threshold.

  For a while they went with the crowd: down the street, away from Mount Silpius, away from the Sassanids. An eddy in the mob carried them to the far side of the street. Julia pulled Isangrim into the shelter of a porch. Putting Dernhelm down, she hugged her sons to her. There was an angry red weal where she had grasped Isangrim’s wrist. She kissed them both. She was crying. They were not.

  More and more people were streaming past, down towards the river, down towards the potential safety of the palace on the island and its remaining garrison. Julia had to think. Not the palace. The mob would block the bridges. Not the island. Home. She must get her sons home. Julia looked out. There was a sidestreet to the left, about thirty paces away. Hoisting Dernhelm back on her shoulder, taking a firm grip of Isangrim’s hand, she set off again.

  Around the corner it was quieter. Julia knew the Epiphania district like the back of her hand. Instinctively turning left or right, she began to cross it. Within a few streets, they were in a different world. All was peace. Citizens strolled, hawkers called out their wares, pack animals plodded. Thrown by the normality of it all, Julia stopped. In a portico, she set Dernhelm down, tried to get her breath back, make sense of what was happening.

  A sharp cry. A thunder of hooves. More cries, then screams. Three Persian horsemen were spurring down the street. Bows in hand, they were shooting at anyone who took their fancy. They were laughing.

  Sweeping up the children, Julia pushed them to the back of the portico. Bundling them close together, she covered them with her body. The noise of the hooves grew louder. Her face buried in the boys’ hair, Julia waited for an arrow to rip into her back.

  The horsemen passed. Julia looked up. The Persians had gone. A few steps away, a bread-seller was on his knees, curled around the arrow in his guts. Not sparing him another glance, Julia got the boys and ran on.

  Between its two pillars of imported marble, the door to their house was open. The porter must have fled. The news must be all through the town by now. The street was completely empty. Julia put Dernhelm down. Together they stepped over the mosaic of the improbably endowed hunchback. As if even a superstitious fool could think that would avert evil. Inside, it was dark. The door to the porter’s lodge was open, too. They set off down the long corridor.

  Behind them, someone stepped out of the lodge. Julia whirled round. A Sassanid. His drawn sword was wet. Dernhelm wailed. The Sassanid raised his weapon to silence the child. Julia stepped in front of him. The Sassanid altered his aim to cut her down. She knew what she had to do – what Helen had done to get Menelaus to spare her life.

  With trembling fingers, she tore at her clothes, pulling her stola open, her tunic down, letting her breasts spill free. The man grinned. With a hand at her throat, he slammed her against the wall.

  ‘Run, take your brother, hide,’ Julia said quietly to Isangrim, who was out of sight behind the man.

  The man released her neck. He sheathed his sword. With both hands, he grabbed her breasts. He fondled them roughly, grunting something in his language. One hand still pulling at her nipples, with the other he fumbled with his belt, pushed his trousers down.

  Julia reached up to let her hair down, working the long hairpin free. The man was slobbering on her breasts. He stank: a feral reek of unwashed male lust. His hand hauled her tunic up over her thighs. He lurched back, screaming.

  Isangrim’s miniature sword was embedded in the man’s left leg. The Sassanid doubled up, gripping the hilt. As he pulled it free, he screamed again. And Julia plunged the hairpin into the side of his throat.

  The man was on his knees in a spreading pool of blood. His fingers clutched the end of the hairpin. Julia slid away from him along the wall. She held out her hand. Isangrim led his brother to her.

  Harsh noises echoed around the atrium. Towards the back of the house, things – expensive things – were being smashed in the family’s rooms. To the left, a group of Sassanids had gathered behind the columns. They were laughing and joking but intent on what they were doing – drinking. And there was a servant girl in their midst – suffering what her mistress had just escaped.

  With her children, Julia slipped into a door to the right leading to the servants’ quarters. Little to loot there. Apart from rape, little reason for the Sassanids to be there. Gods below, gods above, by all the gods, let them not be there. Diligent in her cura of the household, Julia knew every twist and turn of the rabbit warren of tiny cells and confusing corridors. Flitting through dark corners and in the shadows of the walls, she led the boys to the stables at the right of the house.

  The tack room was locked. Julia struggled to get the keys from her girdle, find the right one. Shutting the door behind them, she locked and bolted it. Intended to prevent pilfering, it would not stand for long under a determined assault. But it was something.

  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 array
ed 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 about 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 be
loved, 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.’