Ballista was impressed. It was like a hunting expedition on a huge scale. The fixed stakes were driven in, then the nets hung from one to the next, leaving no way out. Odenathus knew what he was about. No need for surprise there. No one harried Shapur out of northern Mesopotamia, retook cities like Carrhae and Nisibis from the Sassanids, unless he knew what he was about.
Numbers of light horsemen were always difficult to judge, but there looked to be about ten thousand of them ringing the town. The Palmyrene heavy cavalry and the infantry were still on the road. Ballista had no idea how many they were. Cornelius Macer — the cousin Quietus had made, among other things, head of the frumentarii — had produced no reliable figures whatsoever. The ineptitude was not enough to make Ballista wish Censorinus back as Princeps Peregrinorum. At a guess, it was unlikely the main body of Odenathus's army was smaller than the force already outside Emesa. So, the Lion of the Sun would have at least twenty thousand men, maybe more, maybe many more.
And to oppose him, Ballista had what? Quietus had a Praetorian Guard of a thousand. There was the core of Legio III Gallica, the main unit of the garrison of Syria Phoenice, some two thousand men. There were also vexillationes of five hundred men each from five other legions: IIII Scythica and XVI Flavia Firma from Syria Coele, X Fretensis and VI Ferrata from Syria Palestina, and III Felix from the outpost of Circesium. The five and a half thousand Praetorians and legionaries were augmented by about the same number of regular auxiliaries. Then Sampsigeramus claimed to have ten thousand Emesene bowmen, horse and foot.
It was a sizeable force: twenty-one thousand men, more than half of them Roman professionals. Unfortunately, it only existed in the mind of Quietus and, seemingly, those of his closest advisors, his cousin Macer and the king Sampsigeramus. In consilium, all the other officers — including Rutilus, Castricius and Ballista himself — paid lip service to it. But in the unobservable places of their hearts, they knew it was not true.
Ten years of wars, foreign and civil, since the coming of the time of troubles had worn the Roman units down. In a decade of confusion, detachments had been sent away and never returned, new recruits had not been levied. Death and injury, disease and desertion had left the units pale shadows of their former selves. Keeping old men with the standards far beyond their time for retirement had caused resentment but done little to maintain numbers. It was dubious if any unit, apart from the Praetorian Guard, had half the men it was said to have. And no one put any faith in the existence of the ten thousand Emesene warriors claimed by Sampsigeramus.
Numbers continued to fall. Desertions continued. Day by day, furtive figures slipped out of the postern gates or over the wall and away. Far from stemming the flow, the arrival of the enemy cavalry increased it. The Palmyrenes welcomed the deserters with open arms.
It was not just the rank and file who were abandoning the regime of Quietus. The sometime Praetorian Prefect Maeonius Astyanax had never returned from his embassy to Palmyra. Astyanax, the great amicus of Quietus's father, now was said to ride close to the right hand of the Lion of the Sun.
Then there was the governor of Cappadocia, Pomponius Bassus, the man who was meant to raise a great barbarian army of Iberians, Albanians, Alani to sweep down the Euphrates and save the day. For some time, no message had come from him. Now it was almost certain he had gone over to Gallienus.
It was surely a sign that even Theodorus, the elderly, hesitant governor of unarmed Cyprus, had sent messengers west openly repudiating Quietus.
A more visible proof yet was Fabius Labeo. Two nights earlier, the governor of Syria Coele had been apprehended inconspicuously leaving by the Apamea Gate. Few senators were much good at being inconspicuous. The two silver-mounted carriages and three wagons necessary to move his essentials and maintain the governor's dignitas had rather taken the clandestine edge off Labeo's movements. With tears running down his face, he had maintained he had been leaving to levy troops in his provincial capital of Antioch. Even Quietus had not believed it. Fabius Labeo now resided in a metal cage hanging over the Apamea Gate. No one was to give him food or water, on pain of joining him. It was generally agreed that the punishment, if novel and possibly un-Roman, did show a certain poetic justice.
'Ready, Dominus?' The Praetorian's head popped up through the trapdoor.
Down below, Rutilus and Castricius were waiting. It was the appointed time to make their daily report to Quietus. Three senior centurions from the Praetorians, including Jucundus, fell in behind as they set off across town for the palace. Apart from occasional trips to the temple of Elagabalus, Quietus never left the palace now.
The officers did not talk as they marched. As soldiers did, Castricius twirled the end of his belt. The metal fitting at the tip thrummed through the air. It was good that he was here. Ballista would have liked to talk to him, but not in front of the centurions, any one of whom, even Jucundus, could be an informer. And there was Rutilus — a good officer, but he had never given any sign he was other than completely loyal to the house of Macrianus.
At the gates of the palace, the Roman officers were brought up short. There was not a single Praetorian to be seen. On duty instead was the royal guard of Sampsigeramus. They could not have formed a greater contrast to the Romans in their plain white un-dress tunics and dark trousers. The Emesenes owned a lack of uniformity that was magnificent and colourful — saffron, blinding white, delicate rose; embroidered with flowers, striped and hemmed. Some had put down their spiked helmets and inlaid shields. Most leant back against the walls, a few with their eyes shut against the glare. Off to the right, a couple had gone further. They sat, heads drooping, with their arms around their drawn-up knees.
Not all were so somnambulant. Their commander may have eased his feet out of his sandals, but his eyes were watchful. He admitted the Roman officers with pursed, contemptuous lips.
They went down one long, cool corridor after another. Now and then, windows opened on to well-watered, shady gardens where caged birds sang. It was hard to believe that the vanguard of the besieging army was not a mile from this profound peace.
A final corridor, and they were at the door of the women's rooms. The guards here had taken lethargy further. A scatter of slippers. Five pairs of naked feet. The warriors lay on a richly patterned carpet. The bottom step of a flight of three served as their pillow. At the top, their leader reclined against a doubled-over cushion. He spoke in Aramaic. One of his men got up and drifted through the door.
Awake, but supine, the guards regarded the Romans with insolent eyes. Behind the easterners, the door was opened. The Emesenes rose to their feet. Their gorgeous silks and languid movements suggested something of the inhabitants of the women's quarters. They followed the Romans up the steps and through the door.
The inside of the women's quarters of the palace of the king of Emesa would have confirmed every prejudice against the Orient of every stern Roman moralist of old. Cincinnatus would have fled back to his plough. Cato the Censor would have had apoplexy.
The room was bathed in a lurid red light. There was an almost overpowering smell of perfume and wine. The emperor Quietus lay on a couch. The priest-king reclined against his chest. Both men were half naked. Quietus absent-mindedly toyed with Sampsigeramus's hair. On another couch, the emperor's cousin Macer lay on his back unconscious. An equally comatose girl lay across him.
In the gloom at the rear of the room was an enormous bed. Girls moved in the shadows behind it. Four more slept on it. They were naked apart from the odd wisp of material, limbs sprawled in abandonment. Another girl had collapsed and lay with the crushed flowers and spilt wine on the floor.
Ballista started to make the daily report. It was a carefully worded thing, keeping to the official line and troop numbers. Even so, Quietus clearly was not interested. He quickly interrupted.
'It is written in the stars that this is a turning point for us. The gods turn their anger on the camel herder of Palmyra. The storm howls around Odenathus's impious ears.'
/> Ballista broke the ensuing silence. 'Dominus, the storm is unlikely to delay the Palmyrenes for long, not more than a day.'
'They say Odenathus has a beautiful wife.' Quietus's voice was reflective. 'I will enjoy her when he is defeated.'
Sampsigeramus giggled knowingly.
Rutilus spoke. 'Dominus, Odenathus will be here by dusk tomorrow.'
Quietus ignored him.
'We will form a new legion.' Suddenly the emperor sat up, full of manic energy. 'Legio XXXI Macriana Victrix. Its symbol will be the symbol of my family, the image of Alexander the Great. My father always said that those who wear the likeness of the Macedonian are aided in all they do. It will be the same with the legion. After its first victory, we will add the title "Invictus". Rutilus, conscript men from Emesa, and make up the numbers with drafts from the existing legions.'
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,' said Rutilus.
Quietus looked momentarily downcast. 'Treachery all around me. Maeonius Astyanax — my father trusted him. Now Pomponius Bassus — he will lead no army down the Euphrates.'
With no warning, the emperor brightened. 'But it is of no account, none at all. My Princeps Peregrinorum has arranged everything.' He looked over to where Macer lay, stunned by alcohol. The emperor laughed fondly. 'Before he took his deserved rest — otium must always follow negotium, it is the ancestral Roman way — my beloved cousin sent envoys bearing princely gifts to the leader of the Arab confederation of the deep desert. Jadhima of the Tanukh will ride at the head of his horde. The Arabs will fall on Odenathus, scatter his army like chaff on the threshing floor.'
The news was received in silence. The officers tried not to give away their feelings. The idea that any confederation of Arabs could ever come out of the desert and defeat a regular army in open battle was too ridiculous for words.
Rutilus tried again. 'Dominus, our scouts say the storm will blow out quickly. Odenathus will be here by dusk tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow, the day after, it makes no difference.' Quietus waved a hand at Ballista. 'The night he arrives, you will lead a raid into the heart of his camp. If you cannot bring him to me alive, you will bring me his head. It will be finished.'
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.'
And Odenathus will be ready too, thought Ballista. Now a collection of Emesene guards and palace girls know of the plan. Odenathus knew what he was about. He would have spies in the palace.
'By the next dawn, the Lion of the Sun will be dead,' Quietus added softly, 'or others will suffer.' Night and not enough darkness. The flames of the torches sawed in the wind. The orange glow illuminated the inside of the Palmyra Gate. Only at the very top of the tall arch night still held sway. Lower down, the sculptures of the eagle, altar and conical stone of Elagabalus were thrown into shifting heavy relief. Below them, the palimpsest of graffiti — thanks to the god for safe arrivals or pleas for help getting across the desert unharmed — was almost legible.
Night and far too much noise. The five hundred or so Praetorians gathering for the raid stamped their feet against the chill breeze, or just out of boredom. The unbound hobnails of their boots rang on the paving stones. There was a continual jingle and chink of equipment; several thousand metallic awards for valour, and good-luck charms hung on their harnesses. There was a low buzz of talk. One or two groups were passing around wine-skins.
Disciplina was not good in the army of Quietus. But there was a deeper reason for the men's behaviour. The Praetorians had been seconded from the eastern legions, and they had a reputation among officers for lack of disciplina. How could it be otherwise? Their camps were not in bleak frontier fastnesses like Caledonia or Germania but near comfortable towns. Sometimes they were even billeted in the towns themselves. And the towns were eastern. Most of the men had been recruited locally. At bottom, they were easterners, with all that implied about insolence and loose living.
No one had told the Praetorians to bind rags round their hobnails, to take off their charms. No one had ordered them to stop talking or drinking. There was no absolute certainty of being obeyed. Ask any legionary or auxiliary out on the frontier — the Praetorians were overpaid, arrogant and pampered; all plumes and sashes; parade-ground soldiers, useless in a fight.
Ignoring the commotion, Ballista leant against the wall. He pulled an old black cloak around himself and shut his eyes. The usual smell of Roman soldiers: unwashed men, with undernotes of garlic, cheap perfume and sour wine. Once — when the centurion and his men had come to the hall of his father — it had been alien and frightening. Now — twenty-three winters later — it was homely and reassuring. Like everything else we think innate, the evocations of smell are often shaped by circumstances outside our control.
Ballista found himself thinking about Turpio. His old friend had boasted of a particularly keen sense of smell. Ballista wondered what scents had come to Turpio five years earlier as he had waited under another gate to Palmyra, the one at Arete, to lead a mission with a different target but the same aim. Turpio had so nearly taken the Persian King of Kings unaware in his tent. But he had not. All he had taken was a golden bracelet. And years later, it had proved his death. For mortals, mortal things. And all things leave us. Or if they do not, then we leave them.
The lines ran through Ballista's mind. Turpio had been fond of modern poetry, but Ballista had no intention of letting this nocturnal raid be the death of him.
'Have a rest, you poor little thing.' Calgacus puffed up and put down the two lanterns he was carrying. 'After tonight, we may have all fucking eternity to rest.'
Somewhere in the town, dogs were barking. In Aeneas Tacticus's book on defending a town under siege, the general was advised that, to avoid noise and confusion, all dogs, strays and otherwise, should be rounded up and killed. Ballista had read the book at least twice. In this town, he had not acted on that piece of advice.
'Here comes Jucundus,' said Calgacus.
Ballista opened his eyes.
Jucundus marched up and saluted. The noise from the Praetorians had dropped appreciably with his arrival. Jucundus was solid dependability personified. He reported his men ready; a column five wide and a hundred deep to pass through the gate; once outside, they would redeploy ten wide.
Ballista thanked him. They waited for Castricius.
The sometime convict now Prefect of Cavalry came down the steps from the artillery platform two at a time. The stone-thrower and the two bolt-throwers were ready. Ballista thanked him.
The northerner drew Jucundus close to quietly explain the stratagem, for should Ballista fall, Jucundus must carry it out. The artillery pieces were drawn back but unloaded. At night you could seldom see the missiles fly. If the raid got into trouble, these two blue lanterns should be hoisted. Castricius would release the artillery — they sound the same whether they are loaded or not. With luck, Odenathus's men would think they were being shot at — there is little more frightening than incoming missiles you cannot see — and retreat out of range. It had worked before with the Persians at the siege of Arete. The gods willing, it would work again now.
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' The two officers went to withdraw. Ballista indicated Castricius to remain. The northerner talked so that only Castricius could hear. The latter listened intently, the flaring torches scouring deeper the many lines on his face, highlighting its points and sharp angles. The talk was obviously of serious matters, but in the flickering light Castricius never looked more like a playful creature from a backwoods myth.
It was time to see if the raid could go ahead at all. Castricius clattered back up the stone steps. Ballista asked one of the legionaries on the gate — they were from III Felix — to open the postern. Following Calgacus through, he noticed it was big enough for someone to lead a horse.
The postern shut behind them. The rectangle of orange light vanished. Ballista was left in profound darkness. He stood still, wait
ing for his night vision. Beside him, Calgacus hawked and spat.
The nearly full moon was somewhere over Ballista's right shoulder. He stood in the deep shadow of the town walls. Beyond was the moon-blanched landscape. He went out into it. Calgacus followed.
The road ran away, very light, smooth and straight. Near at hand, on either side, prominent and reassuring to Romans of rank with a clear conscience, stood the symbols of the divinely inspired power which upheld the stability of the imperium. The crosses were empty, but there was a dark stain at the base of the one to the left. Ballista did not like to wonder what fluids were its cause. Maybe the local dogs pissed there.
The shadow of the right-hand cross pointed diagonally off down the road. The eastern necropolis of Emesa was like a reduced version of those outside Palmyra; the same tower, temple and house tombs, but most of them on a somewhat smaller scale. The houses of the dead were close-set. The ground between them was rough and stony. It would make it difficult to outflank the raiding party on the road. At least that was something good.
Little else was good. The necropolis ran for about two hundred yards. About the same distance further out were the picket fires of the Palmyrene army. They burned rose-red, were well made up, evenly spaced. Beyond them, yet another couple of hundred yards, were the bigger fires of another picket line around the main camp. These too looked well tended. There were Roman regulars among the blockading army. Vexillationes of at least three legions had been seen: III Cyrenaica from Arabia, XV Apollinaris from Cappadocia and, mirroring the detachment in Quietus's force, III Felix from Circesium. Yet Ballista considered that the Palmyrenes needed no guides in the craft of war — they knew what they were about.
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