The oddly garbed man took Valens by the shoulders, sat him on a bench. The big hands checked him over, solicitously, like a mother with her son.
‘You will have a black eye, but your nose is not even broken.’
The man bent and scooped up the wallet, handed it over.
Valens took it dumbly.
‘You must forgive them.’ The cherubic face beamed. ‘They are unenlightened. It was their idea of playing a joke on our new officer.’
‘You mean they are . . .’ Valens did not say the word.
‘I am afraid so. Our profession calls for the crudest of recruits.’
‘And the stevedores?’
‘As far as I know, they were just stevedores.’ The grey eyes smiled. ‘Come, Marcus Aelius Valens, let me take you to your lodgings around the corner. We must be on parade early tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 4
The Euphrates
VALENS WALKED UP THROUGH THE streets of the town. It was the second hour of daylight. This early it was no hotter than a spring day in Rome, yet Valens was sweating, and his head ached. He was unsure how much of the pain was due to the wine, how much to the fight. The barber who had shaved him had commented on his black eye.
The military camp at Zeugma, like most in the eastern provinces, occupied a quarter within the town. It was separated from the civilian settlement by no more than a low wall. In the west, legions, even detached units of auxiliaries, tended to be based in purpose-built fortresses on the frontiers. Civilian communities always sprang up outside their defences, but the troops were not exposed to the temptations of a big city. Baths and brothels, hippodromes and theatres, the seductive luxuries of urban life, were bad for discipline. No wonder the soldiers who kept watch along the Rhine and Danube had nothing but contempt for the fighting qualities of the eastern armies.
Of course, Valens thought, the troops in the north are just as disparaging about my own kind. The pampered officers and men who served the imperial household in the city of Rome. That the Praetorians and Horse Guards received extra pay exacerbated the dislike.
Valens puffed up to the open gate. Four soldiers stood at ease in the shade under the arch. The Capricorn symbol of the Fourth Scythian Legion was carved above their heads. The legion had been based at Zeugma as long as anyone could remember. The vast majority of its recruits were drawn from Syria. The climate and lifestyle of the east had never been conducive to martial virtue.
The indolent and offhand manner of the sentries confirmed all the western prejudices of Valens. After he had stated his business, he was told that those merchants who were putting in a tender to supply hay were to report to the disused barracks, third row on the left, second building along. The sentries asked for no proof of identity, and no one was detailed to accompany Valens.
Inside, the bright sunshine hurt Valens’s eyes as he crossed the open space of the parade ground. The altars at one end were garlanded, dark blood drying in the earth at their bases. From somewhere out of sight came the smell of roasting meat. It was the Kalends of August. For the birthday of the divine Claudius and the divine Pertinax, to the divine Claudius an ox, to the divine Pertinax an ox. The time-hallowed festival would be held in every military camp in the empire. That Claudius had been a stammering fool murdered by his wife, or that the aged Pertinax’s fleeting tenure of the throne had been ended by the swords of his own soldiers, made little difference. Anyway, few under the standards knew anything about the long-dead Emperors being honoured. A festival was a day of leisure, one of its keenly anticipated pleasures a communal feast. On such a day, with the promise of plentiful wine and beef, the sketchy discipline of the Fourth Scythian Legion would be further relaxed. It had to be granted that Severus had chosen a good date to avoid anyone taking an interest in the rendezvous.
Valens found the building easily enough. Outside he took a few deep breaths, and hitched his belt. Last night he had been a fool, but this morning he would make the best impression that he could.
The outer door gave onto a long corridor. It smelt of mice and long disuse. Motes of dust floated in the shafts of sunlight from the windows. A voice summoned him from a room at the far end.
Severus was standing with his back to the end wall of the sleeping quarters. Three men sat side by side on the lower tier of each of the bare wooden frames of the bunk beds on either side. To the right was Iudex. He grinned at Valens. His baby-like features looked unnaturally small set in his vast, hairless head. With him were Zabda and the other ruffian from the night before. They did not smile. To the left were three strangers.
‘This is Marcus Aelius Valens, second in command of the mission.’ Severus spoke without warmth.
None of the men said anything.
Valens remained standing.
Severus addressed him. ‘I understand that you have already made the acquaintance of Iudex, Zabda and Narses the Persian.’
Valens nodded, keeping his eyes on Severus.
‘These are Clemens the armourer, Quintus the navigator, and Aulus, our quartermaster.’
Valens glanced to his left. The eyes that met his held no warmth.
‘Decimus, the horse master, is guarding the animals and the baggage at the inn of Antiochus by the bridge, where we will meet tomorrow one hour before dawn. The last member of the squad has not reported. Do any of you know the whereabouts of Hairan?’
A great sadness passed across the face of Iudex. He shook his domed head with sorrow. ‘The man of Hatra is a slave to base appetites. Yesterday evening he went to waste the divine light, with which the Lord God entrusted him, on whores. Perhaps he is exhausted, perhaps he is dead.’
‘Humour is out of place,’ Severus snapped.
‘I was not joking,’ Iudex replied.
Severus stepped forward, dominating all the seated men and towering over Valens. ‘Listen to me, and mark my words. You are frumentarii. I do not trust you, and I do not like you. Frumentarii forget they are nothing but common soldiers. I am here to remind you of that fact. By the authority of our Emperor Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus Augustus, you are under my command. I have the power of life and death over each and every one of you. I will not hesitate to use it.’
Severus looked hard at first Valens, then the two easterners. ‘There will be no fighting under my command. In future, if there is, the punishment will be death.’
Valens felt the colour rushing to his cheeks. He nodded.
‘Do I make myself clear?’
Zabda and Narses dipped their heads in sullen acknowledgment.
‘If Hairan is not dead, he will be punished.’
Severus stepped back. The tension relaxed.
‘You all know our goal,’ Severus said, ‘but not our route.’
He unrolled a map. It showed the usual cobweb of roads linking pictograms of settlements, with scant indication of topography, and, away from the roads, only an inexact relationship with geography.
‘We will take the road across Mesopotamia through Batnae and Carrhae. Beyond Resaina, we will leave the path and cross the desert directly into Persian territory.’ Severus pointed to an ochre-coloured section of the map, completely empty except for the word ‘Arbayestan’. ‘Quintus will plot our course. He served with the fleet in the Mediterranean at Ravenna, and on the Rhine along the German border. He can navigate by the stars.’
For some reason that Valens could not guess, Iudex looked far from happy.
‘When we reach Adiabene and the mountains of Matiane, Narses will act as our guide to the shores of the Caspian Sea, and on to the Castle of Silence.’
‘Is that wise?’ said Clemens.
Severus looked at the armourer.
‘Orientals are not to be trusted. I should know, I served in the east for years. As for this Persian, is it wise to entrust ourselves to a renegade to lead us into the realm of the King of Kings? Blood is thicker than water. He will return to his own kind, and deliver us, hands bound, to their tortures.’
Narses leant forwa
rd, his dark eyes glittering above his beard. ‘It is true I served the King of Kings Shapur faithfully. After the battle of Corycus, my lord Zik Zabrigan released me from my oath. At that place I took the sacrametum to Gallienus. For five years I have fought for Rome.’
Clemens snorted. ‘You were trapped by the Roman forces under Ballista. You had no choice. Anyway, a man who has changed sides once finds it easy to do so again. Oaths are just words to you Persians. Deceit is in your nature.’
The Persian was half out of his seat. ‘I was raised in the clan Suren; taught to ride, shoot the bow, and tell the truth. The god Mazda instructs us to abhor the Lie.’
Like a stern Roman of old, the lined and careworn face of Clemens expressed nothing but contempt for such foreign concepts. ‘You fuck your own mothers, let the beasts eat the corpses of your fathers. The gods themselves avert their eyes from your crimes.’
‘Enough!’ Severus snapped. ‘Every people follow their own customs. Our chances of success are slim enough. If we are divided among ourselves, we are doomed to failure. No matter the origins of a soldier, nothing is more sacred than the military oath. Here and now, before each other and the gods, you will reaffirm your vows.’
Narses was on his feet before the others. Right hand flat on his chest, in the Latin of the camp, he recited the sacramentum. ‘By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the Emperor’s commands, never desert the standards or shirk death, to value the safety of the Emperor above everything.’
One by one, the mismatched assortment of soldiers repeated the oath.
‘Now you will give me the tokens that identify you as secret soldiers.’
Silently, the metal disks carrying the words MILES ARCANUS were handed over to Severus.
‘Until tomorrow morning at the inn of Antiochus,’ Severus said. ‘Remember, from now on we have nothing but each other.’
CHAPTER 5
The Euphrates
BY THE BRIDGE WAS COILED a large chain, ivy and vines growing through its links. It was said to be very old, from the original crossing of the river by Alexander the Great, or even the god Dionysus on his way to India. Whichever, the queue waiting to cross to the east bank had given Valens far too much time to contemplate its supposed antiquity.
‘Not long now,’ Iudex said. ‘The ships have gone through, and the pontoons will soon be back in place.’
Valens studied the chain. It was remarkably free of rust for something claimed to be so ancient. Evidently the Persians had not thought it worth looting when they sacked Zeugma.
‘This delay is nothing.’ Hairan sat in the shade, his elegantly trousered legs crossed. ‘Before the fall of Hatra, the street would have been solid with caravans. The warriors of my city kept the routes through Mesopotamia safe. The land between the two rivers was full of camel trains. Silks and spices, lapis lazuli and turquoise, transported from the distant east; sweet white wine and unguents in delicate alabaster from the west; the most beautiful concubines from across the world – all the good things in life flowed through Zeugma.’ The young Hatrene gestured dismissively at those waiting to clear the customs post. ‘These are no more than peddlers, or peasants bringing things to market.’
‘How many years since Hatra fell?’ Iudex asked.
‘Twenty-five years since the evil fell across the land.’
Iudex was smiling. ‘And you are how old?’
Hairan stretched like a cat. ‘I was a child, but it is like yesterday. We men of Hatra have long memories. One day we will have our vengeance.’
For a time they sat without talking, listening to the slop slop sound of screws raising water into the town from the river.
Severus had crossed over before dawn, before the pontoon bridge had been opened to let the boats downriver. He would meet them at the first milestone beyond Apamea. It was beneath the dignity of a prosperous merchant to wait with the rabble in the street. He had left his nephew in charge of the caravan.
There was nothing to do but wait. The men had largely ignored Valens. The two easterners with whom he had fought – Narses the Persian, and Zabda from Palmyra – had looked at him with open malevolence. Only Iudex and Hairan had offered their company.
‘Severus docked your next two months’ pay for not reporting yesterday,’ Iudex said.
Hairan snapped his fingers. ‘That is all money means.’
‘Yet you needed it to pay your whores. I thought you had a sterner morality. Do you Arabs not put to death those even suspected of adultery?’
‘That may be the case among the primitive tent-dwellers.’ Hairan twirled the ends of his luxurious moustache. ‘We men of Hatra take full enjoyment of the pleasures of the flesh. We pride ourselves on our prowess. Not that we lack morals. Among us there is a law that anyone who steals a trifle, if only water, is punished with stoning.’
Valens glanced over at Zabda, the long-faced man from the bar.
‘Yes,’ Hairan said, ‘that Palmyrene needs watching.’
‘And boys?’ Iudex had his notebook out.
‘Never!’ Hairan looked outraged. ‘Be careful, brother. Beyond the Euphrates, if a man is accused of such intercourse he will take revenge, and not shrink from murder.’
Iudex wrote quickly. His head was bent over the hinged wooden blocks, the stylus, tiny in his big fingers, pressing neat characters in the wax.
‘We do not share the tastes of ugly old Aulus.’ Hairan nodded to where the quartermaster was fussing over the loads of the mules. ‘Gauls like him are terrible pederasts. They see no shame at all in their infamy.’
As if at a secret signal, everyone waiting in the street got to their feet, checked their belongings, and began to close up, shuffling towards the bridge.
Conscious that he should assert his authority, Valens went to the head of the caravan.
There were only two customs men at the post. Goats and sheep bound for slaughter were driven towards one. Produce – olive oil and grain, animal fat and pine cones – presented to the other. There was much delay and argument. Everything had to be taxed and tempers became frayed. Peasants from the villages in the territory of Zeugma were exempt, and traders in goods like salted fish and rock salt, items most unlikely to be local, volubly tried to claim the exemption.
When the caravan finally reached the customs, things went no quicker. Even when Valens had persuaded the official that only two of the mules carried trade goods, the remainder being loaded with personal provisions not for sale, the question arose if a mule should be taxed as if a donkey or a camel. Eventually Hairan intervened, speaking fast, in what Valens thought was Aramaic. Some coins changed hands, and the mules were rated as low-tax donkeys. Further coins, more openly given, settled the tariff, and they were free to proceed.
They crossed the wide brown river, the hoofs of their animals clattering on the boards that linked the pontoons, and rode down the straight streets of Apamea to the desert gate.
Severus was waiting, sitting in the shade of a tomb in the necropolis by the first milestone. The caravan halted to be inspected. The men dismounted. With Decimus, the horse master, Severus went first to the line of short, stocky mules.
‘You still think it was best not to use camels for the baggage?’ Severus asked. ‘Mules can never keep up with horses in a forced march.’
Decimus shook his head. ‘None of the westerners are accustomed to camels. Me included, I have never served in the east before. Well looked after, a mule can go twenty-five miles a day, sometimes thirty.’
Severus gestured to the mare with a bell on her harness at the head of the mules. ‘And that will announce our coming.’
The horse master smiled. No longer young, he was still a strikingly handsome man. A scar by his right eye added to his looks and his only disfigurement was a large wart below the scar. ‘Mules are harder to manage without a bell-mare to follow. If we did not have one, it would look strange, and draw attention.’
As they checked the loads, Valens tightened the girth of h
is mount. All the animals – the ridden horses and the spares, as well as the mules – had been purchased by Decimus. The chestnut gelding assigned to Valens was small, not much over thirteen hands, and it was not young. Growing up around the stables on his father’s villa, Valens knew horseflesh. He had checked its mouth, but after seven years the age of a horse can no longer be judged by its teeth. Valens was satisfied. A large horse needed more feed, and often lacked stamina, and a young horse could not take as much hard work. The only disadvantage of an older animal was the years made it less resilient to the cold and wet, and he could not imagine that they were going to be a problem in Mesopotamia.
The load on one of the mules had shifted. Severus, holding the beast’s halter, told Narses to remove the pack and the harness. The officer looked around.
‘Valens, help the Persian reload the baggage.’
For a moment Valens stood in disbelief. Was a man of the equestrian order to be treated like some common muleteer?
‘Every man in the column must be able to undertake every necessary task,’ Severus said.
By the time Valens had tethered his horse, Narses had stripped the packages and the rigging.The mule stood quietly. Narses placed the blind over its eyes and took his place on its off side.
Valens went to the nearside, abreast of the mule’s shoulder. Narses had left him as the main loader. Valens placed the woollen pad on the beast’s back, canvas side down, then put the saddle blanket on top. He aligned them carefully, a couple of inches further forward than the blanket would be on a cavalry horse.
Narses had placed the wooden and leather frame which would bear the weight the wrong way round. Valens turned it, so that the crupper was towards the rear of the mule. He hefted it above the mule, so that Narses could take the far side. Together they placed it several inches to the rear of its proper position. When Valens had bent the crupper, and fitted it beneath the mule’s tail, they slid the frame forward.
Together they set about lashing the rigging tight. Valens’s hands moved without thought. Cinch – take – break. If Severus had hoped to humiliate him with this task, the officer would be disappointed. There had been pack animals, as well as hunters, in the yard of Valens’s father.
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