Lion of the Sun wor-3

by Harry Sidebottom

  The man face down in the mud had a cloak of pale blue with a fancy gilded clasp. It appealed to Maximus, so he put it on. He tried the man's helmet, but it did not fit. He spread out his own muddied cloak and dropped the helmet in the middle of it. He went back to the dead man and searched him. The reasonable sum of coins he added to his own purse. He drew the man's sword and tossed that on to his cloak as well. Then he dragged the corpse to the edge of the causeway and rolled it into the water.

  Maximus went over to the other man and — except for the cloak — repeated what he had done. When the water stilled, Maximus could see that this second corpse had settled partly on top, partly beside the other. They were not well hidden, but it was better than nothing.

  The unhobbled horse had remained with its companion. The soldiers' shields, with their unit identification, Maximus unhitched from their saddles. They were added to the pile on his abandoned cloak. He tied the corners together and threw it as far as he could. In the water, it darkened, settled, then sank.

  Maximus talked gently to the horses as he altered the hobble to a leading rein. Their breath was sweet on his face. He got into the saddle. He studied his work. The surface of the causeway was ploughed up and bloody. The mud would soon take care of that. The corpses were not deep enough to be invisible, but if you were not looking you might not notice them. It was a shame, more than a shame he had had to kill them. They had just been doing their duty. But then so was he. Turning the horses' heads, he trotted away towards the east and Palmyra. It was eight days since Quietus's court and army had arrived in Emesa. Time for Ballista to rent a house, for the familia to begin to settle in. Time for Ballista to begin to hope that Maximus had got away, that things would work out.

  The boots in the street woke Ballista. When they stopped, he slipped out of bed. It was very dark, probably well past midnight. His hand closed on the scabbard of his sword, hanging in its accustomed place.

  The pounding on the main door boomed dully through the house.

  Ballista pulled on a tunic and opened the door of the bedroom. Light came in from the corridor. Julia was sitting up in bed. She did not say anything, but her dark eyes looked frightened.

  There was more pounding on the door, a muffled shout.

  'It will be fine,' Ballista said.

  Actually, he had no idea. There were troops outside. Roman soldiers walked differently to anyone else. But it could be anything. Emperors, especially erratic ones like Quietus, could summon men to their consilium at any time of night or day. There, by lamplight, while the rest of the world slept, they might be called on to discuss anything from war in the east to the best way to cook a fish. Even under Quietus a nocturnal consilium was not necessarily something to fear, and it would be most strange if, as one of the two serving Praetorian Prefects, Ballista was not summoned. But there again, no one in the imperium would feel completely safe when the soldiers hammered on the door gone midnight. It could mean something altogether different.

  'It will be fine,' Ballista said again.

  Julia did not reply. There was something wrong with her, had been since he came back from Palestine. In the old days, she would not have looked frightened, even if she had been terrified. In the old days, she would have spoken to him. Mostly, she was the same, but something had changed. He did not know what.

  More pounding on the door. From the depths of the house came the wheezing voice of Calgacus in full peevish flow. 'Middle of the fucking night, fucking hold your fucking horses, you will have the fucking thing off its hinges.'

  Ballista went out on to the balcony that ran all around the atrium at the first floor. He walked to the stairs that faced the entrance and waited. He found he was shivering. Maybe, even in Syria in high summer, there was more of a chill to the night than he thought.

  Calgacus appeared, holding a lamp for a centurion. They were followed by about twenty Praetorians, who fanned out around the courtyard. Too many soldiers for anything but bad news. Ballista had known from the start but had failed to acknowledge it. He did not know what had caused this, but if Maximus had been caught, this was the end. Ballista battened down his fear.

  Ballista was puzzled to see a centurion that he did not recognize. In the reduced numbers of the Praetorian Guard of Quietus, there were not that many of them. Yet the centurion looked familiar. If Demetrius had been there, he could have put a name to him.

  'Dominus,' said Calgacus, 'this is Marcus Aurelius Jucundus.' The Caledonian's face was woeful.

  Ballista did not recognize the name either.

  'Dominus.' The centurion's tone was stiff, official. He read from a papyrus roll with a purple seal. 'The order of the most noble Caesar, Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus, Pius Felix, Pater Patriae, Restitutor Orbis, Invictus. Marcus Clodius Ballista is relieved of his command as Praetorian Prefect. Furthermore, he is to be placed under arrest immediately and conveyed to the central gaol under the palace of the kings of Emesa.' The centurion paused. Very quietly, he said, 'I am sorry, Dominus.' Presumably that was not written on the papyrus. He took a breath and continued. 'The barbarian is to be confined there at our pleasure… together with his wife and his sons.'

  The centurion was most kind, consideration personified: they could have time to collect some things, as much as they needed, could take what they wished. They roused the children. At two, Dernhelm was too young to understand. He smiled at the lights glittering and moving in the Praetorians' armour then fell asleep on his mother's shoulder. With Isangrim, a thoughtful nine-year-old, things were different. Ballista spoke to him alone. Isangrim must be brave as an example to his younger brother, and to his mother. Isangrim and Ballista must be brave for each other. The boy nodded. He stood, straight-backed, a slight tremble to his chin. Father and son embraced. Ballista told his freedman Calgacus that he was in charge of the remaining familia; the accensus Hippothous would help him supervise the porters, cooks, maids owned or employed in the house. Ballista and Calgacus embraced.

  As they walked through the darkened streets, Centurion Jucundus said he had been to see the gaoler before coming to Ballista's house. He had instructed the man that Ballista's family were to be allocated the outermost cell — it had a little natural light and ventilation. By now it should have been scrupulously cleaned and given furniture. The prefect and the domina could have their servants bring them any food or anything else they liked. Jucundus himself, or one of his men, would come every day to check that everything was as well as the circumstances permitted. It was notable that Jucundus still employed Ballista's title.

  Reaching the palace, passing through its dark, squat walls, under its fantastic, soaring towers, all was as the centurion had said. Lamps were lit in the cell. There was a bed, a table, a few chairs. The bare walls and floor were clean. It had been scented, although nothing could quite mask the underlying prison stench.

  Julia, her brisk, capable self again, was in constant motion, putting the children to bed, unpacking their hasty possessions, instilling order.

  At the door, Ballista thanked Centurion Jucundus for his trouble.

  'It is the least I could do, Dominus. The new prefect Rutilus — your replacement — promoted me into the Praetorians late yesterday. All my life, man and boy, I have been with Legio IIII Scythica. I served under you, in the ranks of Castricius's vexillatio, at Circesium. You never got the credit you deserved for that victory.'

  Ballista smiled. 'I thought you looked familiar.'

  Jucundus smiled ruefully. 'Castricius — a long time ago he was my contubernalis — has been appointed to replace Rutilus as Prefect of Cavalry. Not done badly, old Castricius, for a man who was once in the mines.'

  Ballista also smiled. 'He is a resourceful man.'

  'That is one word for him. I remember that night at Caeciliana — gods below, the two of you were drunk — when you burned that patrician officer's baggage. The boys and me could hardly stand for laughing. It was magnificent.'

  Ballista dropped his voice. 'Jucundus, has my freedman
Maximus been arrested?'

  Jucundus shook his head. 'Not that I have heard.'

  Ballista sighed. 'That is something at least.'

  'I will see you tomorrow.' Jucundus snapped a salute, incongruous in the degraded surroundings.

  Jucundus turned back. His eyes took in the small cell. 'Your wife and children too… Dominus, I am so very sorry.'

  The dead lived well in Palmyra. Maximus rode through the Valley of the Tombs; everywhere, the tall, well-built rectangular homes of the dead. Maximus had been this way before, six years previously, on his way to Arete. One of a company then, he had not really looked at the tombs. Alone now, he gazed at them. They spoke of wealth and power. And, to his mind, there was something more. Halfway up the steep slope on one side, three, four storeys tall, their masonry so well squared off, doors and windows so neatly cut, the ring of towers spoke of permanence. They were like a smoother version of the jagged rocks poking through the sand at the summit; grown out of nature, but shaped by man. Like the living rocks, they intended to be here for ever.

  Looked at in a certain way, they seemed to be the walls, the natural rocks the city; the dead men guarding the living rocks. Gods below, any more of this drivel and you would think I had been educated in Athens, thought Maximus. He had been out in the sun a long time. It had been a long, tough journey since the killings in the mere. Over the terrible hard mountains — Ballista's bloody hills — then monotonous days of dun-coloured, sun-blasted, rocky desert. But at last he was here: Palmyra, Tadmor to the locals, the oasis city of Odenathus, the Lion of the Sun.

  There was a crowd at the gate jostling to get in. Most were farmers from the villages to the north-west, their donkeys, camels and wives laden with wheat, wine and fodder, olive oil, animal fat and pine cones. There were fewer traders from the west than there had been the last time Maximus had been here. But there were a couple. War or not, profits can drive a man from home. One of these hardy souls traded in Italian wool, the other in salt fish. It was very hot, and tempers were short. Men shouted and donkeys brayed; the camels spat.

  Maximus sat on one of his two horses and looked at the city walls. He remembered his old drinking companion Mamurra sneering at them the last time they were here. The Hibernian checked the thought — as if that square-headed bastard Mamurra would ever be going anywhere again, buried as the poor bugger was in a collapsed siege tunnel under the walls of Arete. He was never the quickest man in the world, old Mamurra, but in time he had got things right. The low mud-brick walls of Palmyra would be as much use in a siege as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking competition. It was a good job the Palmyrenes were on the attack. They had better pray the tables were never turned.

  Eventually, Maximus reached the customs post in the gate.

  'What do you have to declare?' The telones spoke without looking up.

  Maximus did not reply.

  With a tut of irritation, the telones took his eyes from his tally. He took in the mail coat; the worn leather grip of the sword; the missing tip of the nose; the two horses and the dust engrained thick in everything that told of a long journey at speed. 'Carry on,' he said. 'Next.'

  Inside the gate, Maximus threw a street child a coin and said he wanted the house of Haddudad. He followed the lively bundle of rags and brown limbs up one fine, bustling colonnaded street, down another, through a monument of sixteen columns of swirling black and gold, passed a full agora and an empty theatre. The strong but not unpleasant smell of spices, horses and humanity, all with a slight edge of camel, was familiar. Maximus recognized the route to the palace of Odenathus. Three houses beyond it, his guide stopped, pointed at the marble entrance to a huge townhouse and jabbered excitedly in whatever language he or she spoke. Haddudad the mercenary had come up in the world.

  Maximus showed the child — on balance, probably a girl — a quite high-denomination coin, mimed holding the horses and put the coin back in his wallet. Laughing, the child took the reins.

  The porter created no fuss. It was as if armed, violent-looking men covered in dirt arrived at the door every day. Given that his kyrios was an ex-mercenary and his kyria the daughter of a caravan protector, quite possibly, they did. He showed Maximus to a small room and asked him to wait. He expressed no surprise when the visitor declined his offer to look after his weapons.

  Maximus sat down and stretched out his legs. He assumed he was being watched. He looked around, unconcerned. The walls were painted and depicted some Greek myth. Large, near-naked and hairy men were running about on an improbable range of mountains. They were throwing huge boulders down at anchored warships. Most of the ships had been hit, and some were already beyond salvation. Their crews stretched their hands to the heavens in appeal or reproach. A shifty-looking man on the last vessel had the right idea. He was cutting the mooring rope. The galley was so far unscathed but, given the hairy boys' skills with a rock, Maximus did not fancy its chances.

  Two armed men entered the room. Hands on their hilts, they hard-eyed Maximus. After them came a woman in eastern costume, fully veiled, only her eyes visible.

  Maximus politely stood up. The guards tensed.

  The woman passed the guards, came close. With her left hand, she reached up and across and undid her veil. Gods below, but Bathshiba was still attractive.

  'It has been a long time,' she said in Greek. Her voice was as he remembered; the sort of thing that could take a man's wits.

  'Five years.'

  'I would kiss you, but you are filthy.' She smiled, stepped back.

  Ballista, my old friend, thought Maximus, you were a fool not to fuck her when you had the chance. If it had been me she set her cap at in Arete, her bed would have been no place of solitude and quiet contemplation.

  'As you can see, I am in my best demure-wife clothes. We are entertaining — just the one guest. You will join us; no need to bath or change.' She came close again, closer than before. He could smell her, beneath her perfume. Ballista, you were such a fool. She leant closer still and, her breath in his ear, whispered, 'Be very careful what you say in front of Nicostratus. No mention of coming from the army of Quietus. No mention of Ballista.'

  The dining room was light and shady at the same time. For a Syrian afternoon in high summer, it was cool. A water feature played somewhere.

  Haddudad rose from his couch. Prosperity suited him. His hair was longer, flat on top, curled at the sides, very artful. From behind his full, curled and perfumed beard, he grinned.

  'Maximus,' Haddudad said. Although his clothes were yet more gorgeous and ornate than those of his wife, he hugged the Hibernian to him. They pounded each other on the back. Clouds of dun-coloured dust drifted up through the shafts of sunlight.

  Haddudad gestured at the occupied couch. 'Maximus, this is the renowned historian Nicostratus of Trapezus.' Haddudad gestured back again. 'Nicostratus, this is an old systratiotes of mine from the siege of Arete, Marcus Aurelius Maximus.'

  The man of letters got to his feet. There was no overt show of reluctance, but Maximus had the impression that Nicostratus of Trapezus did not often shake the hand of mercenaries, old companion of his host or not.

  Servants brought in a third couch. Haddudad guided Maximus over to it. All three men reclined. Bathshiba sat on an upright chair behind and at the foot of her husband's couch. Maximus felt like laughing. He remembered the wild Amazonian girl from Arete: dressed like a man, fighting alongside her father's men, quite probably — much to his fury — saving Ballista's life.

  First they brought him a bowl and ewer to wash his hands. Then a servant positioned a small table at Maximus's right hand. Another placed a selection of small dishes of pastries, olives and cheese and an empty wine cup on the table. A third poured the mixed wine. Maximus made a libation and drank the health of his host.

  Haddudad and Nicostratus resumed a conversation they had obviously been having before Maximus arrived. It was about a historian called Herodian. Nicostratus tried to include Maximus. The Hibernian said he was usually
paid to kill men not read books. Nicostratus did not try again.

  Maximus drank his wine. He was impressed by Haddudad. The ex-mercenary had taken to this life as if born to it. His fine, embroidered tunic, trousers and boots — all dusty now — hung easily on him. He lounged elegantly and was more than holding his own in bookish discussion: 'So would you agree, my dear Nicostratus, that Herodian sacrifices certain trivial details in order to bring out more clearly what he regards as deeper and more profound levels of historical truth?' The false nomen he had given Maximus was clever. Since the emperor Caracalla — about fifty years earlier — had given Roman citizenship to all the free inhabitants of the imperium who did not already have it, almost every other person carried the Caracalla's praenomen and nomen: Marcus Aurelius.

  A servant came and refilled Maximus's wine cup. That was another creditable thing about Haddudad — not just that he kept the drink flowing but that he had followed Bathshiba's father's way of employing fighting men at table. Much more use than some pretty boys or naked girls in the event of trouble.

  Bathshiba leant forward and spoke to her husband. Haddudad inclined his head, smiling. She got up. At her sign, a servant placed another upright chair by Maximus's couch.

  'Historiography not your strong point?' Bathshiba's voice was pitched low, so as not to carry. She did not wait for an answer. 'Nicostratus is a pompous bore — failings not unknown among men of his calling. Zenobia summoned him here to Tadmor. She has commissioned him to write a history from the reign of Philip the Arab to the glorious victories of Odenathus. It will be ghastly — no chance of it standing the test of time.'

  Maximus studied the reclining Greek historian. He had thin, pursed lips in a self-satisfied face. He did not appear a man much troubled by curiosity. Under his Greek himation, a pair of oriental embroidered trousers and finely tooled soft leather boots peeped out. This standard bearer of Hellenic culture had gone half native already. Not that Maximus cared.