'I cannot say. The previous Dux Ripae did not encourage – actually, he specifically forbade – practice shooting. He said that it was a waste of expensive ammunition, a danger to passers-by and would damage the tombs out on the plain. My men have never been allowed to shoot before.'
'How many trained ballistarii are there?'
'Two in each century, just twenty-four,' replied Acilius Glabrio, making a brave show of things.
Ballista grinned. 'All that is going to change.'
The party, now augmented by Acilius Glabrio, set off south on their tour of inspection. They halted to consider the walls, the two architects to the fore. Built directly on to the bedrock, the walls were about thirty-five feet high, with crenellations on top. They were broad, with wall walks of about five paces across. The towers reached up some ten feet above them and extended out both front and back. The crenellations of the towers extended to the sides, interdicting easy movement along the wall walk by any enemy who had managed to scale the walls.
The local architects were as one in assuring their audience that the walls were in good repair; probably there were no finer walls in the imperium, none behind which one could rest more secure.
Ballista thanked them. A century of Cohors XX marching out to drill on the campus martius caught his eye. Turpio was taking his orders seriously. Ballista returned his attention to the walls.
'The walls are good,' continued Ballista, 'but they are not enough on their own. We must dig a ditch in front of the western wall to prevent rams or siege towers having an easy run up.' He glanced at Demetrius, who was already making notes. 'The spoil from the ditch can form part of the glacis, the earth bank we need to cushion the walls from both rams and artillery.' He paused to consider how he would phrase the next bit. 'If there is a glacis, there has to be a counter-glacis on the reverse of the wall. Otherwise, the pressure of the earth bank on the outside will collapse the wall.' He looked at the architects, who both nodded.
One of the architects gazed over the wall, imagining the ditch and glacis. 'The ditch would have to be superhumanly deep to provide enough material for a glacis on one side, let alone both,' he ventured. 'And where else can the material come from?'
'Do not worry about that.' Ballista smiled enigmatically. 'I have a plan.'
By mid-afternoon of the second day Ballista had finished off his inspection with a lengthy tour of the artillery magazine, a large complex in the open ground south of the palace where new machines were built, old ones repaired, spare parts kept and missiles created – stones chipped to the right weight and near-perfect roundness, the evil iron points of the bolts forged and fitted to their wooden shafts.
It was only then that Demetrius found time finally to pursue his guilty secret passion: oneiromanteia, divining the future through dreams. He slipped out of the servants' door and into the streets. The grid plan of the town and broad daylight should have made things easy, but the young Greek still managed to get lost on the four-block walk to the agora.
It was surprisingly small for a town of this size and it was easy for Demetrius to find what he wanted: an oneiroskopos, a dream-scout. He was sitting in the far corner, by the entrance to the alley where the prostitutes stood. Despite the chill in the wind he was clad in just a ragged cloak and a loincloth. His milky eyes gazed unseeingly upwards. His neck was emaciated, the veins standing up; pulsing through the almost translucent skin. He could be nothing but.
At Demetrius's footfall the unnerving white eyes moved in his direction.
'You have a dream that may reveal the future,' the old man said in Greek, his voice a hoarse croak. The dream-diviner asked for three antoniniani to unveil its meaning, and settled for one. 'First I need to know you. What is your name, the name of your father, your home town?'
'Dio, son of Pasicrates of Prusa,' Demetrius lied. His fluency came from always using the same name.
The aged head tipped to one side, as if considering whether to make some comment. He decided against it. Instead he rattled out a series of further questions: slave or free? Occupation? Financial status? State of health? Age?
'I am a slave, a secretary. I have some savings. My health is good. I am nineteen.' Demetrius answered truthfully.
'When did you have the dream?'
'Six nights ago,' Demetrius answered, counting inclusively, as everyone did.
'At what hour of the night?'
'In the eleventh hour of darkness. The effects of the previous evening's wine had long since passed off. It was well after midnight when the door of ivory through which the gods send false dreams shuts and the door of horn through which pass true dreams opens.'
The blind man nodded. 'Now tell me your dream. You must tell me the truth. You must add nothing, nor must you omit anything. If you do, the prophecy will be false. The fault will not be mine, but your own.'
Demetrius nodded in turn. When he had finished recounting his dream the oneiroskopos held up a hand for silence. The hand trembled slightly and was marked with the liver spots of age. Time stretched on. The agora was emptying fast.
Suddenly, the old man began to speak. 'There are no male vultures; all are female. They are impregnated by the breath of the east wind. As vultures do not experience the frenzy of sexual desire, they are calm and steadfast. In a dream they signify the truth, the certainty of the prophecy. This is a dream from the gods.'
He paused before asking, 'Does your kyrios inhabit the agora?' On being told that he did not, the old man sighed. Just so. A pity. A busy agora would have been an auspicious sign but, as it is…' he shrugged, 'it is not good. It is a symbol of confusion and tumult because of the crowds that flock there. There are Greeks, Romans and barbarians in your dream. There will be confusion and tumult caused by all these, experienced by all these.
'At the heart of it is the statue.' He winced slightly as if in discomfort. 'Did the statue move?' Demetrius murmured that he did not think so. The aged man's hand shot out and, with a bony, hard grip, grabbed the youth's arm. 'Think! Think very carefully. It is of the greatest importance.'
'No – no, I am certain it did not.'
'That, at least, is something.' A drool of saliva hung from the dream-diviner's lips. 'The statue was of gold. If your kyrios were a poor man, it would have indicated future riches, but your kyrios is not a poor man, he is a wealthy and powerful man. The golden statue indicates that he will be surrounded by treachery and plotting, for everything about gold incites designing people.'
Without warning, the old man rose. Standing, he was surprisingly big. Peremptorily he croaked that the session was over. He was sorry the prophecy had not been better. He started to shuffle off towards the alley.
'Wait,' called Demetrius. 'Wait. Is there not anything else? Something you are not telling me?'
The old man turned at the entrance to the alley. 'Was the statue larger than life?'
'I am not sure. I… do not think it was.'
The old man laughed a horrible laugh. 'You had better hope that you are right, boy. If it was, it spells death for your beloved kyrios Ballista.'
Once again it was being brought home to Maximus that, natural fighter though he was, he would never make an officer. It was the boredom, the sheer grinding bloody boredom of it. The last two days had been bad enough. Watching the artillery shoot had been all right, if a bit repetitive. Undoubtedly it was more fun when there was someone on the receiving end. But looking at them making the missiles had been insufferable. And, as for the walls, if you've seen one big wall you've seen them all. Yet all that had been as nothing compared with this morning.
As every good Roman commander with something on his mind should, Ballista had summoned his consilium, his council. It consisted of just Mamurra, Acilius Glabrio and Turpio, with Demetrius and Maximus in attendance. In a way fitting to antique Roman virtue, they had met very early in the morning, at the first hour of daylight. Since then, they had been discussing the size of the population of Arete. At great length. At the last census there had be
en 40,000 men, women and children registered in the city and, of these, 10,000 were slaves. But could these figures be trusted? The census had been taken before the Sassanids seized the town and since then many would have died or fled. Some would have returned, and with the invasion next spring, many would flood in from the villages. Perhaps it all balanced out.
Just when Maximus thought he might scream, Ballista said they would have to assume this and use the figures as a guide. 'Now, the real question. How do we feed everyone from March to November when we are besieged? Let us start with existing food reserves.' He looked at Acilius Glabrio.
'Legio IIII has stockpiled grain and oil to last our thousand men twelve months.' The young aristocrat was careful not to look smug. There was no need.
'Things are far from so good with the nearly thousand men of Cohors XX,' said Turpio with a wry smile. 'There are dry supplies for three months and wet for just two.'
Ballista looked at Demetrius. The youth's eyes were unfocussed, his mind elsewhere. 'Demetrius, the figures for the municipal reserves and those of the three caravan protectors.'
'Sorry, Kyrios.' In his confusion, the boy lapsed momentarily into Greek, before continuing in Latin. 'Sorry, Dominus.' He consulted his notes. 'The caravan protectors all say the same, that they have enough supplies for their dependants, including their mercenaries, for twelve months. Incidentally, all three claim to have about three hundred mercenaries. The municipal reserves hold enough grain, oil and wine for the whole population for two months.'
'Obviously we have to make sure all our troops are supplied. And while the civilians must ultimately take responsibility for themselves, I think that we should try to provide a half ration to them throughout the siege,' said Ballista. Forestalling the expected objection from Acilius Glabrio, he continued, 'No law says we must feed them, but we will want volunteers to fight. We will press others into work gangs. Starving, desperate men are liable to turn traitor and open the gates. And of course there is basic humanity.'
'Could we not arrange for supplies to be shipped to us downriver?' Mamurra asked.
'A good point. Yes, we should try that. But that relies on others, and on the Persians neither getting any boats nor besieging the places upriver that would be sending us supplies. I would rather keep our fate in our own hands.' Everyone agreed. 'Anyway, let us think about it as we inspect the storehouses.'
At least they were close, just by the palace in the north-east corner of the city. Seen one Roman army granary, seen them all, thought Maximus. Raised on a farm, the Hibernian rather admired the practicality of the great, long buildings. The Romans had taken the risk of fire, the need to keep rain and damp away from the walls and the need for air to circulate into account in their design. But he had never understood why they always built granaries in pairs.
A contubernium of ten legionaries under the eye of a centurion was unloading a wagon at the adjacent loading bay. As Ballista and his consilium climbed the steps into the first granary, two of the legionaries quietly but perfectly audibly howled like wolves.
'Silence in the ranks,' yelled Acilius Glabrio. 'Centurion, put those men on a charge.' The young patrician gave Ballista an odd look. The northerner glowered back.
The cool, airy dark of one granary succeeded another and another, and Maximus drifted off into thoughts of the woman who had given birth to a monkey. It was still occupying his mind after they had left the army granaries and arrived at the great caravanserai near the Palmyrene Gate which housed the municipal supplies. It was unlikely to be any form of portent or warning from the gods, he thought. Either she had looked at a monkey, or possibly a picture of one, at the moment of conception, or she had actually fucked a monkey. The idea that she had given birth to a very hairy baby that happened to look a bit like a monkey never occurred to the Hibernian.
'Right,' said Ballista, 'here is what we are going to do. We commandeer this caravanserai and everything in it. We place guards both here and on the military granaries. We issue an edict of maximum prices for foodstuffs – Demetrius, can you find out a list of reasonable prices in this town? Anyone selling for more will be fined and what they are selling confiscated. We will announce that the Dux will buy foodstuffs at ten per cent over the fixed price. We keep on buying, using promissory notes if necessary, until we have enough to feed a full ration to our troops, plus however many militia we raise, and a half ration for the rest of the inhabitants for nine months.'
Ballista was livid, so furiously angry he found it hard to concentrate. That little bastard Acilius Glabrio had not wasted any time telling the story of the barbarian Dux's werewolf father. He had grabbed the opportunity to undermine Ballista in the legionaries' minds.
He forced his mind to focus on the matter of water supply. Almost every building with any pretensions to size in the city of Arete boasted a cistern into which the carefully collected rainwater was channelled. This was all very good as a reserve but, on its own, it would never hold out for more than a few weeks. High on its plateau, the town was way too far above the water table for wells of any sort. Its main supply of water had always arrived, and would always arrive, on the backs of donkeys and men, via the steep steps that led from the banks of the Euphrates to the Porta Aquaria or a series of winding passages and tunnels cut into the living rock. While the eastern walls were held, those that reached out into the Euphrates from the foot of the cliff, this supply could not be denied. These walls were short, each either side of a hundred paces. The approaches to them, along the floors of the ravines, were difficult and completely open to missiles from the main walls of the town. It should be safe enough, but it was to inspect it all that the angry northerner now set his feet.
Ballista climbed down the steps from the Porta Aquaria. He looked around the narrow plain between the cliffs and the water. He studied the entrances to the tunnels: two had gates and three were boarded up as unsafe. He considered the short walls and was reassured to note how each was dominated by a tower overhead on the circuit wall. Finally, he ran his eye over the wharves and those boats present. Back at the top, puffing slightly, he issued his orders.
No one was to draw water from a cistern without official authorization. All water used was to come up from the Euphrates. Guards were to be set on all the major cisterns in military buildings, and also on those in the caravanserai and the major temples. A century of Legio IIII was to be based in the Porta Aquaria. Among other duties to be assigned later, its men were to oversee the bringing up of water and the security of the tunnels. Those deemed unsafe were either to be repaired or securely sealed.
It was to the tunnels that Ballista, with serious disquiet, now turned. Lamps were produced, bolts drawn and a gate to one of the supposedly safe tunnels opened. Hoping that his extreme reluctance was not obvious, Ballista stepped into the rectangle of darkness. He stopped for a moment just inside, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. A short flight of steps ran away from him. Each one dipped in the centre where generations of feet had worn it down. After about a dozen steps the passage turned sharp right. Ballista repeated the line that had got him through many bad things: do not think, just act.
Stepping carefully, he walked down the steps. Turning the corner, he was confronted by another short flight of steps and another right-hand bend. Past this things changed. Underfoot, the steps gave way to a slippery ramp which fell abruptly away. Putting out a hand to steady himself, Ballista found the walls rough and streaming with moisture. No light from the gate penetrated this far. Ballista held up his lamp, but the passage seemed to stretch on for ever. Out of sight something squeaked and scuttled away.
Ballista very much wanted to get out of this tunnel. But he knew that, if he turned round, by nightfall every man under his command would know that their new big tough barbarian Dux was afraid of confined places. Suddenly the air round the northerner's head was full of wheeling and flitting black shapes. As quickly as it had appeared the colony of bats vanished. Ballista wiped the sweat from his palms o
n his tunic. There was only one way that he could get out of this horrible tunnel. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on down into the cold, clammy darkness. It was like descending into Hades.
Ballista was tired, dog-tired. He was sitting on the steps of a temple at the end of Wall Street at the south-west corner of the town. Just Maximus and Demetrius were still with him but neither were talking. It was nearly dusk. It had been a long day.
Every day has been long since we got here, Ballista was thinking. We have been here only eight days, the work has barely started, and I am exhausted. What was it Bathshiba had said when he first saw this place? 'Is it worth it?', or something like that. Right now, the answer was no and it always had been in Ballista's mind. But he had been sent by the emperors, and no would lead to death or imprisonment.
Ballista missed his wife. He felt lonely. The only three people in this town whom he could call friends were also his property, and that created a barrier. He was very fond of Demetrius; years of shared dangers and pleasures had drawn Maximus and him close together; Calgacus had known him since he was a child. Yet still, even with these three, there was the constraint of servitude. He could not talk to them as he could to Julia.
He missed his son. He felt an almost overwhelming, almost unmanning ache when he thought of him: his blond curls, so unexpected given his mother's black hair, his green-brown eyes, the delicate curve of his cheekbone, the perfection of his mouth.
Allfather, Ballista wished he was at home. As he formed the thought he wished that he had not. As night follows day, the next insidious thought slid unwanted into his mind: where was home? Was it Sicily – the brick-built, marble-inlaid house high on the cliffs of Tauromenium? The elegant urban villa whose balconies and gardens gave views of the Bay of Naxos and the smoking summit of Aetna, the home that he and Julia had made and shared for the last four years? Or was home still far to the north? The big thatched longhouse, painted plaster over wattle and daub. The house of his father, built on rising ground just inland from the sand dunes and the tidal marshes where the grey plovers waded and the kleep kleep call of the oystercatchers sang through the reeds.
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