It was a suggestion that Ballista could not ignore. But even the briefest and most superficial investigation — by Demetrius in the houses of the councillors of Sebaste and by Maximus and Calgacus in the bars of the waterfront — had revealed much to bring disquiet. Not least that Trebellianus was commonly referred to as 'the Arch-pirate'. Given the nature of the inhabitants of Cilicia Tracheia, it was little surprise that the title was most often given with respect.
'Here they come,' said Maximus.
Ballista saw the small party leaving the gate from the island. They had expected Ballista would see them there, in the old royal palace. Now they had to toil across town up to the theatre. But as far as Ballista was concerned, if they were put out, it was no bad thing.
As he waited, Ballista regarded his fleet, moored in the main harbour. They were all there except the seven little war galleys, which were shuttling back and forth monitoring the enemy force at Zephyrion. The quays were crowded: twenty-five transport vessels, ten big triremes and the other three little liburnians not at sea. The sword of Damocles may have been hanging by a thread over the heads of the citizens of Sebaste, but those who ran the bars, brothels and baths down by the port had never had a more profitable time, with a fleet and four and a half thousand soldiers to service.
Ragonius Clarus entered the theatre. He was followed by a big man in a toga. He in turn was followed by two tall men wearing what looked like goatskin cloaks. It was a mild summer day, but their choice of clothing was strange. In single file, they began to climb the stairs.
Ballista sat down on the top row of seats. The man in the toga must be Trebellianus. He was a powerful-looking individual in middle age, broad-shouldered, with a shock of black hair; restrainedly good-looking. The two trailing him were younger. They had the same black hair but looked thinner and hungrier. Both wore swords at their hip.
As they reached the top, Ragonius Clarus stepped aside. The other three passed him and halted. They said nothing. None of them was blowing after the steep climb. Together, they exuded menace. Ballista felt Demetrius, standing to his left, shrink back. Maximus, on his right, drew himself up to his full, not over-tall height. Calgacus and Castricius remained lounging a little way off. Ballista wondered what impression he and his followers must convey.
Unexpectedly, the northerner found himself thinking how many men these three Cilicians had killed. Come to that — how many men had he himself killed? And then there were those killed by Maximus, Calgacus and Castricius. That must make a legion of souls, flitting and shrieking across the dark meadows of Hades.
'Gaius Terentius Trebellianus?' Ballista pronounced it as a question.
'Yes.' He had a soft, pleasant speaking voice.
'You have brought bodyguards.'
'Not at all.' Trebellianus's smile went nowhere near his eyes. 'These are my young friends Palfuerius and Lydius.'
'It is illegal for a civilian to carry arms in the imperium.'
'Not if the weapons are necessary for a man's profession, are inherited, or are carried for self-defence.' Trebellianus's smooth cheeks had the sheen of good living.
Ballista nodded. It was so. The Arch-pirate knew the law.
'I am told you have influence with the people of Cilicia Tracheia.'
'Some of my fellow citizens are kind enough to come to me for advice.'
One of the young men smirked. Ballista ignored him. 'On what subjects do you advise them?'
Trebellianus gestured to the mountains. 'Our country is a poor one. What little livelihood we have comes from the humble goat. In summer he must go to the high pastures. In winter he comes down to the coastal lowlands. Moving many animals and men up and down, across other people's land, through different communities, always involves difficulties. I make these difficulties go away. I help my friends.'
And what do you do to those who are not your friends, wondered Ballista. 'And your friends, what do they do for you?'
A smooth smile crossed Trebellianus's face. 'They are good enough to show me honour.'
'What town is your patria?'
'My family estates are up country around Germanicopolis. I have been fortunate enough to acquire others on the coast at Korakesion and Charadna.'
So, Ballista thought, your lands lie at either end of the trail, and your armed toughs escort the herds up and down. Your 'influence' rests on violence and intimidation. He remembered his friend Iarhai at the desert city of Arete. Trebellianus was a small-scale version of that caravan protector. A strong man provides 'protection', and those he protects give him 'gifts'. And just as Iarhai had rivals at Arete, so would Trebellianus here in Cilicia Tracheia. The gods knew what misfortunes would be heading their way now that Macrianus the Lame had decided that this Arch-pirate was to become a senior official with the weight of the imperium behind him.
Ballista held out his hand and Demetrius placed an ivory and gold codicil in it. Standing, Ballista passed the imperial codicil to the Cilician. 'Gaius Terentius Trebellianus, you are hereby appointed acting governor of the province of Cilicia.'
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' The answer came back blandly.
'Your first task, in the face of which nothing else matters, must be to block the coast road to the west. I take it you can call on armed men?'
Trebellianus did not speak, but inclined his head.
Ballista went on, 'I have collected what detached troops were to be found in the ports between Aegeae and here. These stationarii only amount to just over three hundred, but they are at your command. The eirenarch I have left in each town, along with his armed men of the watch. These officers and their diogmitai are locals. They should fight to defend their homes, but may well desert if we attempt to move them somewhere else. Where do you propose to close the road to the Persians?'
'Korakesion.' The answer came without hesitation.
'A long way to the west.'
'Indeed, and it will leave my own estates at Charadna at the mercy of the Sassanids. But, at Korakesion, the mountains come down to the sea, and the town itself is fortified by nature as well as by man.'
Ballista was more than suspicious that some private motive was behind the choice. Korakesion was at the western extremity of the province. Perhaps Trebellianus was sacrificing some of his own estates in the knowledge that his rivals would suffer worse. But there was nothing to be done. The Cilician knew the country. Macrianus the Lame wanted him as governor.
'So be it,' Ballista said, as if he had the power to decide. 'I am going to base the fleet and army on Cyprus, at the port of Kyreneia. The liburnians will keep me in communication. You will submit written reports of all your actions.'
Again Trebellianus wordlessly inclined his head.
'I am afraid I cannot spare you any transport ships. You will have to march the stationarii from here.'
Trebellianus smiled his smooth smile. 'Forewarned by Ragonius Clarus, I took the liberty of requisitioning some merchant ships at Corycus. We can sail from there.'
Ballista kept his face expressionless. 'So be it. I will not detain you further.'
Trebellianus sketched a salute. He and his young followers, both of them smirking now, turned and set off down the steps.
Took the liberty… requisitioning ships. Ballista was fuming. Come what may, the owners would never see them again.
Ragonius Clarus was mouthing some platitudes. Ballista was too angry to pretend to listen. How much suffering would he spare this province if he just killed Trebellianus now? A word to Maximus and Castricius. He could do it with his own hand. And those two evil-eyed goatboys. Nothing here could stop him. The troops would not care. They would follow Ballista, not Ragonius Clarus. Nothing to stop him — except what would happen to Julia and the boys at the hands of Macrianus and his repulsive sons in Antioch?
Ballista drew a big breath and calmed himself. What were these Cilicians to him anyway? And if he killed Trebellianus, it would only leave a space for his equally murderous rivals
to fight over. Fuck them all.
Mind you, The Allfather willing, one day it would be good to send Trebellianus to meet Charon. And that sniggering pair of young strong-arm boys. Palfuerius and Lydius. Which was which? Fuck it, they could cross the Styx together. Julia sat in the seating reserved for respectable matrons. It was pleasant in the great theatre of Antioch, with the afternoon breeze blowing up the Orontes valley. She felt more relaxed than she had for a long time. Macrianus the Lame and Quietus had taken the army south to Emesa in an attempt to overawe Odenathus of Palmyra and secure his allegiance. Since the arrival at Antioch of the new imperial court, Julia had largely kept to her house. But when Quietus chose to visit, it was impossible to refuse entry to a man who, however unworthily, wore the purple. It was not as if she could not deal with his oily innuendoes. And while Macrianus the Elder needed the services of Ballista, Quietus was too scared of his father to attempt force. But his presence was deeply unwelcome.
It was a pity Quietus did not follow the example of his brother, Macrianus the Younger, and remain in the palace indulging a passion for making small wooden toys. Imagine, a grown man, an emperor, indulging in such a childish pastime, doing the menial work of a slave or paid pleb. It was less harmful, but almost more demeaning than Nero singing or Commodus fighting as a gladiator.
Imagine a man such as Ballista fiddling with glue and little saws. As she framed the thought, suddenly she found she could imagine it all too easily. Men never really grew up. Not that her husband would be enjoying any such fripperies in his present mood. Before he sailed, Julia had discovered what was troubling Ballista: the ridiculous oath he had made to Shapur; the fear that breaking it endangered their sons. He had not lost the superstitions of the dark forests of his childhood. Part of him would always remain a barbarian.
The actors reappeared on stage. It was a domestic mime, and Julia was enjoying it. The wife was running rings around her old miser of a husband. Julia had checked the programme before bringing her boys. Nothing too untoward. Nothing like the striptease of the Floralia or the naked whores of the Maiuma. The husband and wife who ran the troupe had a reputation for a more moral sort of mime.
Isangrim was bored. Julia fished in the purse tied to her girdle and gave some coins to the custos who attended her. The elderly manservant shuffled off to buy a sweet for Isangrim and something suitable for two-year-old Dernhelm. For once, Julia was in such a good mood that being saddled with the custos and two maids — the minimum that custom dictated should accompany a married woman of her status in public — did not bother her. A sticky treat would cheer Isangrim up, and the next mime was about the bandit Selurus, the Son of Etna. Apart from Tillorobus, the terror of Mysia and Mount Ida, there was no legendary outlaw the boy liked more. The hiding in a cave, the daring escapes, the cunning disguises and tricking of the centurion, even the poignant death scene — all captivated him.
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 pull
ing 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.
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