Fire in the East

by Harry Sidebottom

  She smiled. ‘No, I thought it better to bring others this time. Men whose discretion I think I can trust.’

  Ballista stared at her. He could think of nothing to say.

  Bathshiba took off her cap. As she shook out her long, tumbling black hair, her breasts swayed, heavy, full, inviting. ‘Are you not going to offer a girl who is risking her reputation so much as a drink?’

  ‘I am sorry. Of course. I will get Calgacus to bring some more wine.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’ She stepped round Ballista, just out of arm’s reach, and picked up his cup from the wall. ‘Do you mind?’ She lifted the cup to her lips and drank.

  ‘Why are you here?’ He knew that his behaviour was awkward, even unwelcoming. He was unsure what he wanted, what he would do.

  ‘As I said, in part because of my father. He did not go to the walls today. He stayed in the house, locked in his private rooms. I think he was praying. He has not been himself for some time. In part I am here to apologize.’ She took another drink.

  ‘There is no need. One more man would never have made a difference. He left his men in the hands of Haddudad. He is capable.’

  She poured what remained in the jug and handed the cup to Ballista. He took it and drank. She was closer now. He could smell her perfume, her skin. Her long hair curled black round the olive skin of her neck, down over her tunic, over the swell of her breasts. ‘Your soldiers know how to celebrate a victory. Do you?’ She looked up at him. Her eyes were very black, knowing, full of promise. He said nothing. He did not move. ‘Tell me, do you think that Shapur and his nobles would have restrained themselves had they taken the town?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ His voice was thick.

  ‘Should the saviour of a town enjoy the same rights as a conqueror?’

  Allfather, Ballista thought, if ever a woman has offered herself to me this is it. He was breathing hard. Her scent was strong in his nostrils. He could feel himself starting to get an erection. He wanted her. He wanted to rip the neck of that tunic, to expose her breasts. He wanted to pull down those trousers, lift her up on to the low wall, spread her legs and enter her. He wanted to take her there and then, her bottom on the wall, him standing in front of her, thrusting into her.

  He did not move. Something stopped him. The fierce, smothering morality of his northern upbringing, the thought of his wife, the superstition that had grown in him about infidelity and battle - he did not know what, but something stopped him. He did not move.

  Bathshiba stepped back offended. Her eyes were hard and angry. ‘You fool. You may know how to defend a town, but I doubt that you could take one.’ She swept up her cap, turned and walked furiously back across the terrace.

  For a time after Bathshiba left Ballista stood by the wall. His desire slipped away and he was left with a feeling of frustration and an ill-defined sense of foreboding. The cup was still in his hand. He finished the wine.

  At length he walked back into the palace. He called for Maximus. The Hibernian came clattering down the stairs from the flat roof.

  ‘What were you doing up there?’

  ‘I do not know to be sure. Certain, I was not spying on you. As always these days, fuck all to see there. I was just looking around. Sure, I cannot put my finger on it, but something is not right.’

  ‘For once I know what you mean. Fetch a cloak. Tell Calgacus we are going out. We will walk the defences.’

  The orders of the Dux Ripae had been obeyed to the letter. All along the wall walks and at every tower were twice the usual number of sentries. Blue warning lanterns hung ready on every tower. Looking mulish, the sentries paced slowly or leant against the parapets feeling resentful at their enforced sobriety and envious of their fellow soldiers’ celebrations. From within the town came the noise of the celebrations: bursts of laughter, indecipherable shouts, girls’ squeals, the sounds of running feet and cups being smashed - the distinctive cacophany of Roman soldiers baying for alcohol and women.

  The sentries saluted Ballista and Maximus as they walked south along the desert wall. ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ There was unhappy resignation, sometimes bordering on insubordination, in their voices. Ballista shook their hands, praised their disciplina, promised them three days’ leave and a carefully unspecified sum of money as a donative. It did not seem to do an iota of good.

  To the west the great dark plain stretched away. Beyond it were the lights of the Persian camp. There were men awake there. Lights flickered as they passed in front of the torches or fires. Yet it was strangely quiet. There was none of the keening mourning, the plaintive music and high-pitched wailing Ballista had expected. The silence of the Sassanids was unnerving. It added to Ballista’s feeling of foreboding.

  In the depth of the night Ballista and Maximus returned to the palace. They had a cup of warmed wine and Ballista retired to his sleeping quarters. He stripped off his clothes and lay down in the big, very empty bed. After a few moments’ regret, he fell asleep.

  It was well after midnight, maybe towards the end of the third watch, when Ballista heard the noise. Instinctively, his hand closed on the pommel of his sword. He knew it was pointless: somehow he knew what he would see. Ballista forced himself to look. There by the door was the big man, the great pale face under the deep hood of the shabby dark-red caracallus. The big man walked forward. He stood by the foot of the bed. The light of the oil lamp glittered on the thick golden torque and the eagle carved in the gem set in the heavy gold ring.

  ‘Speak,’ said Ballista.

  ‘I will see you again at Aquileia.’ The great grey eyes shone with malice and contempt.

  ‘I will see you then.’

  The big man laughed, a horrible grating sound. He turned and left the room.

  The smell of the wax that waterproofed the hooded cloak lingered.

  Ballista was sweating heavily. He threw back the covers, got out of bed and opened the window to let in the fresh night air. Naked, he stood by the window, letting the sweat dry on his skin. Outside, he saw the Pleiades low on the horizon.

  It would all fall out as the Allfather willed.

  Ballista went to the washbowl, splashed cold water on his face, towelled himself dry and got back into bed. After what seemed an eternity he fell into a deep sleep.

  ‘Wake up! Wake up!’

  Ballista struggled to the surface.

  ‘Wake up, you lazy little shit.’

  Ballista opened his eyes. Calgacus was standing by the bed shaking his shoulder.

  ‘What?’ Ballista felt drugged, stupid with sleep. Calgacus’s sour, thin mouth was more pinched than ever.

  ‘The Sassanids are in the town.’

  Ballista swung himself out of bed. Calgacus talked as he handed the northerner his clothes and he dressed.

  ‘I relieved Maximus up on the roof. I saw a blue warning lantern on one of the towers on the south wall. It shone for a moment, then went out. Pudens is raising the alarm. Castricius is turning out the guard. Maximus is saddling the horses. Demetrius and Bagoas are taking your armour down to the stables.’

  ‘Which tower?’

  ‘The one nearest the desert wall.’

  Dressed, Ballista picked up his sword belt. ‘Then we should go.’

  The stables, when they reached them, were in a state of just controlled chaos. Grooms ran here and there carrying saddles, bridles and other bits of tack. The horses shook their heads, stamped their feet and called out in indignation or excitement at being woken at this unusual hour. In one of the further stalls a horse was misbehaving, rearing up and plunging against its headstall. Calgacus went off to find what had become of Demetrius and Bagoas.

  Ballista stood still, a point of calm in the eye of the storm. He breathed in the familiar homely smell of the stables, the evocative mixture of horse, leather, saddle soap, liniment and hay. He was struck by the timelessness of the scene. Stables would always be much the same; the needs of horses did not change. Give or take the odd
marble manger or bit of fine wood panelling, stables were the same in the imperium as anywhere else. They were the same in his homeland as they were in Sassanid Persia. Horses were not much affected by the culture of the men who rode them.

  In the golden glow of the lamps Ballista saw Maximus making his way down the line of horses. The air was thick with dust raised from the straw by the boots of men and horses’ hooves.

  ‘I have saddled Pale Horse for you,’ Maximus said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Ballista thought for a few moments. ‘Thank you, but leave him in his stall-leave him saddled. I will ride the big bay gelding.’

  Maximus did not question the order but went off to carry it out.

  Calgacus appeared, chivvying along Demetrius and Bagoas, who were carrying Ballista’s war gear. Ballista was pleased to see that they had not brought the fancy Roman parade armour of earlier that day but his old war-worn mail shirt. Asking just Calgacus to attend him, Ballista stepped into an unoccupied stall. As the aged Caledonian helped him into his armour Ballista spoke, his voice low so no one else could hear.

  ‘Calgacus, old friend, I have a very bad feeling about this. When we are gone I want you to collect our essentials, saddle all the remaining horses, pack supplies on three of them: skins of water, army biscuit, dried meat. Wait here in the stables with Demetrius and the Persian boy. Have your sword drawn. Do not let anyone touch the horses. I will leave five of the equites singulares here in the palace. I will tell them to take their orders from you. Post one at each of the three gates, one on the terrace and one on the roof.’

  Outside in the narrow alley between the palace and the granaries, Ballista rapped out orders. He organized his little mounted column and told his staff, the house slaves and the five guardsmen who were staying behind to do as Calgacus instructed. The latter received the command with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  Ballista squeezed the big bay gelding with his thighs and set off, around the small temple of Jupiter Dolichenus and down the wide road that led to the campus martius. The small column rode at a loose canter in single file. They kept well closed up. After Ballista came Maximus, Castricius, Pudens and the five equites singulares.

  Trumpet calls echoed through the town. In the distance men were shouting. There were the sounds of crashing and banging. Yet the military quarter was strangely deserted. A few soldiers were running, some staggering, but not nearly the proper number were heading to their posts. In some doorways soldiers lay unconscious through drink. As he clattered past the military baths Ballista saw one soldier lying on the steps dead to the world, a half-naked girl next to him, one of her pale white legs across his. A large wine jar stood next to them.

  Emerging on to the campus martius, Ballista saw Antoninus Posterior standing in the centre of the broad open space. The centurion was bareheaded, his helmet in his hand. He was shouting at his men. There were but ten of them. One or two appeared none too steady on their feet. Ballista rode over.

  ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The irony in speaking the ritual phrase on behalf of his reduced company did not appear to have struck the centurion.

  ‘Is this it, Antoninus?’

  ‘Afraid so, Dominus. I have sent five others off to try and rouse more of the boys.’

  ‘It is as the gods will. As soon as you have a few more, I want you to lead them down to the tower on the south wall that is nearest the desert wall.’

  ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

  Ballista started to turn his horse.

  ‘Dux, wait.’ Out of the darkness from the north came Acilius Glabrio. The young patrician was riding a fine horse and wearing gilded armour. There was a sword on his hip. Ballista felt a jet of pure anger rising in himself, but before he could speak, demand to know how the young bastard dare break his house arrest, dare disobey another command and arm himself, Acilius Glabrio slid from his mount. The horse was well trained; it stood stock still. Acilius Glabrio walked up to Ballista, then knelt in the dust, arms up in the gesture of supplication.

  ‘Dux Ripae, I have disobeyed your commands. But I would not have you think that I am a coward. If the Sassanids are within the defences you will need every man. I ask your permission to accompany you as a private soldier.’

  Ballista did not like and did not trust the perfumed aristocrat at his feet, but he had never doubted that the loathsome young man was a fine soldier. ‘Get on your horse and come with us.’

  Ballista wheeled his mount and set off south. There was no gate in the wall that separated the campus martius from the civilian part of the town, so they had to backtrack. After three blocks they struck the main street which ran across town from the Palmyrene Gate to the Porta Aquaria. There were more people here, soldiers and civilians, but too many of the latter and not enough of the former. Ballista turned right and reined in outside the great caravanserai. Throwing his leg over the gelding’s neck, he jumped down and ran inside. In the light of guttering torches, the scene was much the same as on the campus martius. In the middle of the courtyard, bareheaded and exasperated, was Antoninus Prior. The centurion, since the disgrace of Acilius Glabrio the temporary commander of all the legionaries in Arete, was yelling at his men. Again there were only about ten of them. Again several looked the worse for wear. Ballista snapped out the same orders as before and ran back to his horse.

  This was all taking time. No one knew what was happening. There was as yet no sound of fighting. But all this was taking time.

  They rode towards the Palmyrene Gate for a block then left down the street that would bring them out near the tower where Calgacus had seen the blue warning lantern. There was a great deal of noise but still nothing that spoke unambiguously of fighting. It could be a false alarm. But Calgacus was not given to fancies. In all the years he had known him, Ballista had never seen the Caledonian give way to panic. The lantern could have been lit by mistake. Allfather, let that be the case. But if it was, why had no messenger come from the tower to explain and offer profuse apologies? Ballista kicked on, pushing his horse into something near a gallop.

  Apart from a drunken soldier who stepped out into their path then went reeling back, they reached the end of the street without incident. Ballista held up his right hand and reined in. The tower was about fifty yards away, just off to their right, across open ground.

  The tower was in darkness. Ballista thought he could see men up on the fighting platform. He sat, playing with the horse’s ears, thinking. A bend in the wall prevented him seeing the next tower to his left but, to his right, all looked normal on the southernmost tower on the desert wall. Torches burnt there, unlike on the tower in front of him.

  He indicated that they should move forward. Walking their horses on to the open ground, they fanned out into line. Maximus was on Ballista’s right, Pudens on his left. It seemed very quiet, the background noises very far away. The only sounds that Ballista could hear close to were the hooves of their horses on the hard-packed ground, the hiss of the breeze blowing through the jaws of the draco above his head and his own harsh breathing.

  Halfway across the open space Ballista called a halt. The horses stood in line, shifting their feet. It was very quiet. The inner wall of the tower was about twenty paces away. The door was shut. Ballista sucked air into his lungs to hail the tower.

  He heard the twang of the bows’ release, the wisp, wisp sound of the fletchings in the air. He caught just a glimpse of the arrow. He jerked his head to the left and took a jarring blow as the arrow ricocheted off the right shoulder of his mail coat, sparks flying. The bay gelding reared up. Already off balance, Ballista was thrown. He lost his shield as he landed heavily. He rolled to get clear of the gelding’s stamping hooves. The next horse was plunging, its hooves cracking down on the hard ground inches away. Ballista curled into a tight ball, his arms up covering his head.

  A strong grip under his armpit hauled him to his feet. ‘Run,’ said Maximus. Ballista ran.
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br />   They ran towards the desert wall, arrows skittering off the ground around them. They veered right to put a fallen horse, its legs flailing, between them and the bowmen on the tower. Head down Ballista ran.

  They reached the earth bank inside the desert wall. Running, scrambling on hands and knees, they reached the top. His back against the wall, Ballista crouched in the angle where the southern and desert walls met. Maximus covered both of them with his shield but no one was shooting at them now. Ballista looked around him. Acilius Glabrio and two of the equites singulares were still with him. There was no sign of Castricius, Pudens or the other guardsmen. He looked back the way they had come. A column of Sassanid warriors was pouring across the open ground. They seemed to erupt from the very ground beneath the wall on the near side of the tower.

  ‘Fuck, there was another mine,’ said Maximus.

  Ballista raised himself up and peered over the wall. Outside in the starlight a long column of Persian warriors snaked up the side of the southern ravine. Lights flared on the Sassanid-held tower. Torches were waved to signal. In the sudden light Ballista saw a familiar figure on top of the tower. ‘No, they are coming up through the Christian tombs cut in the wall of the ravine,’ he said.

  Bald head catching the torchlight, bushy beard thrust out, Theodotus, councillor of Arete and Christian priest, stood motionless on the tower amid the mayhem.

  ‘Never did trust the fuckers,’ said one of the guardsmen.

  The Persian column was streaming north into the town, up the street that, moments before, Ballista and his party had ridden down.

  There was a commotion on the wall walk to the north. Ballista drew his sword and, with the others, turned to the left to face the new threat. ‘Roma, Roma’: the newcomers shouted the night’s password. Turpio and half a dozen troopers of Cohors XX ran into view. ‘Salus, Salus,’ Ballista and his group shouted back.

  ‘More bad news,’ said Turpio. ‘Another group of Christians has overpowered the sentries on the Palmyrene Gate. They are letting down ropes for the Sassanids to climb. There are not enough sober men on the wall walks to dislodge them.’ Turpio smiled. ‘Who would have thought they had it in them?’ His manner suggested that he was merely making a light, throwaway comment on the social foibles of a group; who would have thought that they of all people would be so devoted to the baths or the circus? Nothing about him betrayed the fact that he had just announced the death sentence for the town of Arete and almost certainly for most of his listeners.