It must have taken generations to build them all, thought Ballista, and we have three months to pull them down. Left standing, they could shelter an attacker from missiles from the walls, act as observation posts, be converted into artillery towers or destroyed by the Persians to provide materials for siege works. The citizens of Arete would hate it, but the eternal resting place of their ancestors had to be razed to the ground.
‘Demetrius’ - as he started to speak, Ballista saw that his secretary had his stylus poised - ‘we will need cranes with wrecking balls. We will need haulage - lots of ox carts for the bigger debris, donkeys for the smaller.’ Ballista paused to make sure that the Greek could keep up. ‘And lots of labour. There are said to be 10,000 slaves in the town. We will requisition every able-bodied male - that should give us at least 2,500. Then we will impress citizens and employ the troops - hard work, but the soldiers do enjoy knocking things down. In areas where no one is working at the time the ballistae can use the tombs for target practice.’ The northerner detected a qualm on his secretary’s part. ‘Oh, of course, we will let the families remove their loved ones first.’
Ballista played with Pale Horse’s ears. ‘And would you make a note about security at the gates? The northern and southern postern gates are to be closed unless I order them opened. The guards at the Palmyrene Gate and the Water Gate are to be doubled. Everyone entering or leaving is to be searched, not just for weapons but for messages. I want the searches to be thorough: shoes, seams of tunics and cloaks, bandages, horse furniture - messages can be stitched into bridles as easily as into the sole of a sandal. Let Acilius Glabrio know that I hold him responsible for carrying out these orders.’
Demetrius stole a glance at his kyrios. He seemed to draw energy from violent action, from physical danger. Fighting the Borani in the Aegean, rushing into the burning magazine yesterday - after both, the northerner had seemed invigorated, more purposeful, somehow more fully alive. Long may it stay that way. Gods hold your hands over him.
Demetrius could not stop his thoughts returning to the dream-diviner. The encounter had shaken him. Was the old man a fraud? He could have worked out that he was Ballista’s secretary logically. Demetrius had given away the fact that he habitually used dream-diviners when he talked of the doors of ivory and horn through which the gods send false and true dreams. As Demetrius had never consulted the old man before, it could be assumed that he was new to town - and who but Ballista had recently arrived in town with a young well-spoken Greek secretary in tow?
The old man had predicted tumult and confusion, treachery and plotting, possible death. Were the dreams divinely inspired, or was their interpretation more prosaic - a warning, designed to unsettle and undermine? Was it in some way connected to the sabotage of the magazine? Should he tell Ballista? But Demetrius felt obscurely guilty about the whole episode and, more than that, he feared Ballista’s laughter.
Yet at that moment Ballista’s thoughts were also of treachery; he was also trying to divine the future. If he went over to the Persians and were appointed general, what would be his plan of attack?
He would pitch camp about here; five hundred paces out, just beyond artillery range. In his imagination, Ballista removed all the tombs from the approach, saw the defences as they would be that coming April. He would launch an assault straight away. It would go in across the flat plain - no cover of any sort. From four hundred paces out, artillery bolts and stones would start to fall, his men would begin to die. In the last two hundred, arrows and slingshots would kill many more. There would be traps underfoot, pits, stakes. Then a ditch, more stakes, more traps. The men would have to climb the steep glacis, ghastly things hurled and tipped on to them from the battlements, crushing, blinding, burning. Once the ladders were against the wall, the survivors would climb, hoping against hope that the ladders would neither break nor be pushed over, that they would not be hurled to the bone-breaking ground. And then the final few would fight hand to hand against desperate men. The assault might succeed. More likely, it would fail. Either way, thousands of the attacking warriors would die.
A plain covered in dead and dying men, a failed assault - what would Shapur do? Ballista thought of everything Bagoas had told him about the Sassanid. It was vital to understand your enemy, to try and think like him. Shapur would not be deterred. He was king by the will of Mazda; it was his duty to bring the bahram fires to be worshipped by the whole world. This town had played him false before, opened its gates then massacred his garrison. This latest rebuff would be but another sign of the evil nature of its inhabitants. He was Shapur, King of Kings, not some northern barbarian warlord little better than the warriors he led, not some Roman general terrified of the emperors’ disapproval. Casualties would not be an issue: the men who died would be blessed, their place in heaven assured. Shapur would not desist. He would not rest until everyone in the town was dead or in chains, until only wild beasts slunk through the ruined streets of Arete.
The party moved on to the entrance to the southern ravine. Here they dismounted and led their horses down the stony slope. Ballista went first, boots sliding on loose stones, slipping in the mud. At the bottom it was wider and they could remount and descend further. By the time the walls of Arete loomed high on the left they were deep indeed.
It was obvious at a glance that no one in their right mind would try and storm the southern wall of the town. It would take an age to ascend for the slope was long and steep and, apart from the occasional small thorny shrub, the side of the ravine was completely bare. Open to any missiles from above, it was a perfect killing ground.
Not that the side of the ravine could not be climbed at all. There was a postern gate at the top, and it was crisscrossed with paths or goat tracks. A guard would have to be kept. Many towns had fallen because the attackers had climbed difficult places that the defenders had neglected to watch. But only surprise or treachery could get the enemy into the town here.
As they rode on, the ravine opened out in front of them. From this distance, the city walls were invulnerable to attack by ballistae. Ballista noticed a large number of caves high up the slope just under the walls. Several vertiginous paths led to them.
‘They are tombs, Dominus,’ one of the cavalrymen said, ‘Christian catacombs.’ He spat. ‘They don’t want to be buried with the rest of us in our necropolis, and we don’t want their corpses there.’ He spat again. ‘If you ask me, they are the cause of all our problems. The gods have looked after us, held their hands over the imperium for centuries. Then along come these Christians. They deny the gods exist, will not offer sacrifice. The gods are annoyed, withdraw their protection, and you get the time of troubles. Stands to reason.’ Thumb between index and forefinger, he averted the evil eye.
‘I know little of them,’ said Ballista.
‘May the gods keep it that way, Dominus,’ replied the trooper, getting into his stride. ‘As for their “Thou shall not kill” bollocks, I would like to see how they feel about that when a bloody great barbarian has his prick up their arse - begging your pardon, Dominus.’
Ballista made a negating gesture as if to say, Think nothing of it, I am often of a mind to inflict anal rape on members of minority religious sects.
The ravine narrowed somewhat, then opened out as it reached the floodplain of the Euphrates. Away to the right were thick groves of tamarisk, the occasional poplar and wild date palm. Turning left, they came to a gate set into a wall in such a way that it was necessary to turn to the left to enter, thus exposing one’s right, unshielded side. The gate was a simple affair, and the wall a feeble enough thing, not more than twelve foot high but Ballista was not at all worried by the paucity of these defences. To approach them, the Persians would either have to come from the river - unlikely, given that the defenders would have requisitioned or sunk every boat on the middle Euphrates - or follow the route Ballista’s party had just used - and that would be foolhardy as it would mean marching over poor going for several hundred yards, continua
lly exposed to missiles from the town.
‘Demetrius, please make a note: we will position heavy rocks on the lip of the southern ravine, to be released on any Persians foolish enough to approach from there.’
The gate sprang open, and a contubernium of legionaries saluted. Ballista and his men dismounted and chatted to them. Inside the wall at the foot of the cliffs more legionaries were tearing open the entrance to one of the boarded-up tunnels. Ballista looked up at the cliff face. It was closely stratified, line after close line of rock ruled across like a ledger. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of what lay behind, of the dripping dark tunnel he had edged down anxiously two days earlier.
They continued north along the water’s edge. Everywhere was bustle and activity. Skins of water were raised from the river by means of ropes running over rickety-looking wooden frames and pulled by donkeys. Donkeys and men then carried the skins up the steep steps to the Porta Aquaria. Boats pulled in from the rich fields across the river, their decks full of figs, dates and trussed and indignant chickens. Farmers carrying or driving their wares added to the jostling on the steps to the town. The smell of grilling fish drifted from the market.
It was some time past midday, well past lunchtime. Ballista’s party made its way over and one of the troopers ordered their meal.
Their horses fed, watered and tethered in the shade, the five men sat and drank wine and ate pistachios. The winter sun was as warm as a June day in Ballista’s childhood home. Men busied themselves preparing the meal. The gutted fish were grilled in a metal cage hung over the fire from the branch of a tree. Juices spat and sizzled and smoke eddied.
At the foot of the steps, a goat escaped its owner and a furious burst of shouting in Aramaic ensued. Ballista couldn’t understand a word. The irony struck him that he could speak the languages of these people’s conquerors, the Romans, and of their would-be conquerors, the Persians, but not that of those whose freedom had been entrusted to him.
The sunlight glinted off the Euphrates as they rode on, full of goodwill. Ballista wondered how firm was the footing on the nearest island. If the Persians did not acquire boats, it might make a refuge, if the city fell, albeit a transient one. It was vital to have some form of exit strategy. He would do everything in his power to defend this town, but he had no intention of Arete being the scene of his last stand.
Having paused for a few words with the guards, the party rode out through the gate to the north, a twin to its southern counterpart. The slopes of the northern ravine were also steep but there were no paths on its bare flanks. The figures far away and high up on the battlements above the postern gate were tiny.
The rains had brought down a section of the cliff under the town walls and the fallen rock and earth stretched out into the ravine like a poorly made siege ramp. It looked unstable, its surface treacherous. Some attackers could climb it but, with use, it would most likely soon give way and resume its temporarily halted descent into the floor of the ravine. Still in high spirits, Ballista knew that had he been at the top he would have been sorely tempted to set Pale Horse at it, just to see if they could make it down in one piece.
‘Onager,’ said one of the troopers quietly.
The wild ass was grazing about a hundred paces further up the ravine. Its head was down, its white muzzle searching out camel thorn.
One of the troopers passed Ballista his spear. Ballista had never hunted onager. The cornel-wood shaft of the spear felt smooth and solid in his hand. A gentle pressure of his thighs, and Pale Horse walked slowly forward. The ass looked up. With a rear hoof, it scratched one of its long ears. It stared at the approaching horseman, then spun round and, gathering its quarters under it, sprang away. Ballista pushed his mount into a canter. While nowhere near full gallop, the onager was moving fast, supremely confident on the rough going of the partially dried-out bed of the torrent. Its yellow-brown back with its distinctive black-edged white stripe was pulling ahead. Ballista moved Pale Horse into a gentle gallop. Sure-footed as the gelding was, Ballista did not want to risk his mount flat out on shaky ground. There was plenty of time. This would be a long chase. There was nowhere for them to go except up the ravine.
The ravine closed in around them. Ballista could sense Maximus and the others falling behind. The onager came to a fork. With no hesitation, it bounded into the right-hand passage. Easing Pale Horse, Ballista looked around. The sides of the cliffs were sheer here. He must be about level with the western defences but he was out of sight of the walls of the town and the plain. A bend in the path hid him from those following. On his own initiative, Pale Horse followed the ass into the right-hand passage.
Down here, the heat of the summer still seemed to reflect out of the rocks. Clouds of gnats, washed by the rains out of the air up above, stung Ballista’s face, got in his eyes, invaded his mouth. On and on, up and up the path climbed. The onager’s hoofs raised puffs of mud as it bounded tirelessly on. Pale Horse was tiring. Ballista steadied his pace.
Suddenly, Pale Horse shied violently. Hooves fighting for purchase, he stopped dead and dived to the left. Given no warning, Ballista was thrown forward. All that stopped him disappearing over the gelding’s right shoulder was his stomach punching into the front right-hand horn of the saddle. The horse, eyes wide with panic, was spinning in fast, tight circles. The motion was forcing Ballista ever further out, pushing him beyond the point of no return where he must fall. Instinctively, he still gripped the spear in his right hand, its point banging and clattering over the stones. Clinging with all the strength in his thighs, Ballista reached out and caught the nearest saddle horn with his left hand. With a convulsive effort born of desperation he began to haul himself back on. He felt the saddle slip, the girth coming loose.
Nothing else for it: Ballista threw the spear clear, let go his grip on the saddle and kicked hard with his legs. With a sickening wrench, his left boot caught on the horns. As the horse turned, Ballista was spun almost horizontally through the air. He tried to kick his leg free. His head was inches from the sharp stones. Fighting against the centrifugal force, he kicked again. His foot came out of the boot and he crashed, rolling to the unyielding ground.
His right arm was skinned, his shoulder jarred. He did not stop to check his injuries. He saw the spear and scrambled over to it, half on his knees. The weapon in both hands, he got into a crouch and turned warily around, looking for whatever had panicked the horse.
The great yellow eyes, blank yet cunning, looked at him from about twenty paces away. A lion. A male. Fully grown; it must have been eight foot long. Ballista could hear it breathing. He could smell its hot fur, thought he could smell its rank breath. The lion swished its tail, showed its teeth. It snarled: low, rumbling, terrifying - once, twice, three times.
Ballista had seen lions many times, safely confined in the arena. One had been despatched in the morning beast hunt in Arelate on the day he had first seen Maximus fight. Now would be a good time for the Hibernian to arrive and pay off his debt by saving my life, thought Ballista.
He had seen lions kill before - criminals, as well as a few beast-hunters in the arena. They used their momentum to knock the man down, pinned him with their weight and wide-spread, razor-sharp claws and sank their long, long teeth, almost delicately, into his windpipe.
Ballista knew he had just one chance. He assumed a side-on crouch and, gripping the shaft of the spear tightly in both hands, he wedged the butt under his still-booted right foot.
The lion moved, accelerating faster than Ballista thought possible. One bound, two, three, and it landed, front paws together, for the pounce. Head forward, it launched itself into the air at Ballista.
The spear took the lion in the chest. Its jaws opened. Its momentum forced the spear out of the northerner’s hands, out from under his boot. Ballista threw himself backwards. A paw caught him a glancing blow, claws raking his upper arm, and sent him spinning back.
The lion landed, paws together, chest moving down, driving the spear deep
er into its body. The shaft broke. The lion tipped over, slid on its back, legs splayed.
It got to its feet. Ballista pulled himself up, tugging his spatha free of its scabbard. The lion collapsed.
Maximus and the Christian-hating trooper clattered into view. ‘You are the man!’ The Hibernian was beaming. ‘You are the man!’
A group of some twenty peasants had appeared from nowhere. They formed a chattering circle around the body of the lion.
‘They may well want to worship you,’ Maximus called over. He was still beaming. ‘Your lion has been terrorizing their village.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘We’ve come all the way to the villages in the hills to the north-west of the city.’
Maximus having been set the tasks of seeing to the skinning of the lion and the transportation of the pelt into town, Ballista walked over to Demetrius, who was now standing with Pale Horse.
‘What is wrong?’ Ballista looked up from inspecting the gelding’s feet.
‘Possibly it may be unwise to make too much of killing the lion.’ The boy looked unhappy. ‘Back in the reign of the emperor Commodus, one of the ruling family of Emesa, one Julius Alexander, brought down a lion with his javelin from horseback. The emperor sent frumentarii to kill him.’
‘Commodus was mad. Valerian and Gallienus are not.’ He squeezed the boy’s shoulder. ‘You worry too much. It will be fine. And if I tried to keep it quiet and news got out, it might look suspicious.’ Ballista turned away, then stopped. ‘What happened to the man?’
‘He had to flee to the Euphrates, to the enemy.’
Demetrius did not add that Julius Alexander had fled with a young favourite. The boy could not keep up. The man had dismounted, cut the boy’s throat, then plunged the sword into his own stomach.
Four days had passed since he had killed the lion. It seemed to Ballista that every waking moment of those days had been devoted to meetings. The cast had varied - sometimes a small group, just his familia;at others more, when he had summoned his consilium. Once, he had asked the three caravan protectors larhai, Anamu and Ogelos to attend. The scene and the props had remained constant: a large plan of Arete spread out on the dining-room table in the palace of the Dux Ripae; the current general registers of Legio IIII and Cohors XX, both now accurate, propped open near by; writing blocks, styluses and sheets of papyri everywhere. Out of the endless talk and calculations, Ballista had formed his plan for the defence of Arete. Now it was time to tell it to the boule, the council, of the city - or at least as much of it as they needed to know.
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