It might be a negotiated settlement had still had a chance. Postumus had written to Gallienus saying he had been elected by the Gauls and was content to rule over them. But no answer had come back. The siege had dragged on, and the attitude of those camped outside the walls had hardened. When the citizens ran short of food, they bought their own salvation by handing over Silvanus and the young imperial prince. And then — Lollianus and Marius had urged him to it; Postumus regretted it now — and then both Silvanus and Saloninus had been beheaded. With that, all hope of peace had gone. Postumus knew Gallienus would not rest until one of them was dead. He could not blame him. If someone killed his son, he would do the same.
Postumus had not wanted to be emperor, but once you had taken the wolf by the ears you could not let go. He would do everything in his capacity to keep his grip. He would do anything, absolutely anything, to ensure the survival of his family and himself, and, if it were possible, of course he would be of benefit to those he ruled.
‘By his presence he will safeguard the soldiers in the camp, civil rights in the forum, law-suits at the tribunal, the dignitas of the senate house, and he will preserve for each one his personal possessions.’ Simplicinius Genialis had moved his oration into an exegesis of qualities thought by the elite desirable in their ruler.
Postumus shifted his gaze to the high, shadowed beams of the ceiling. A princeps cannot scruple at deceit or betrayal. Love the treachery, hate the traitor — unless circumstances dictate you love him, too. The agents of Vocontius Secundus, his Princeps Peregrinorum, had brought him the names of those who served Gallienus whom they considered might be suborned. The frumentarii had been diligent, but the list was not over-long, nor, with a few exceptions, were its contents over-mighty. Four caught the eye. Placidianus, the Prefectus Vigilum, still owned lands in Gaul near his birthplace, Augustodunum. The vigiles comprised seven thousand paramilitary firemen in the heart of Rome. It could be useful. Then there was Proculus. He was the Prefect of a unit made up of vexillationes of soldiers drawn from the legions of Pannonia and was now stationed with the comitatus of Gallienus at Mediolanum. Proculus hailed from Albingauni in the Alpes Maritimae. Many of his family were still there, and his cousin was no less than Maecianus, Prefect of Postumus’s Equites Singulares Augusti. For what it was worth, Proculus was an inveterate womaniser, always bragging of his conquests and prowess. The third man of interest was a young officer called Carus, recently appointed a protector. No one was closer to Gallienus than the protectores, and they were assigned the most important tasks. Carus was from Narbo, and retained property there. Finally, there was Saturninus. His long and distinguished career of civil and equestrian offices had been rewarded with the signal honour of being Gallienus’s colleague as consul this year. The ancestral estates of Saturninus spread across Narbonensis into Aquitania.
Postumus’s eyes followed the smoke of the sacred fire as it coiled through the dark patterns of the ceiling. One of the stranger aspects of this undeclared but truceless civil war was that — despite its potential efficacy and the disposable wealth it would yield — so far, neither he nor Gallienus had threatened to confiscate the properties in their territories owned by the families of men serving on the other side. Tempting as it was, Postumus would not take the first step. He had more to lose. The old law that every senator must have one third of his property in Italy was not always observed. Yet many of the key supporters of his regime had holdings in lands under Gallienus. His amici Ragonius Clarus and Trebellius Pollio were from Macedonia and Italy respectively. Lollianus came from Syria Phonice. Tetricius, his governor of Aquitania, might be a native of that province, but he possessed one of the finest houses in Rome, a beautiful building on the Caelian Hill, between two groves and facing the Temple of Isis. Postumus would remember to tell Vocontius Secundus to have the frumentarii keep an especially close watch on Tetricius and the others.
‘Under the tyrant, humanity’s former blessing of friendship had withered and died, and in its place sprung up flattery and adulation, and, worse even than hatred, the false semblance of love. It was you, Caesar, who brought friendship back from exile. You have friends because you know how to be one.’ The consul’s words rolled out, sonorous with sincerity, seemingly never-ending.
Enthroned in lonely eminence, Postumus’s thoughts ran their own course on loyalty and betrayal. His gaze tracked down to his German bodyguards at the doors of the basilica. Heart and courage. Arkil and his Angles would keep to their oath. Yet it had been a timely act of treachery by one of their own that had put them in Postumus’s power.
VI
Olbia
‘Back in line!’
Ballista watched the ten sailors shuffle back to rejoin their colleagues. They were hot and tired, dragging their feet. There was not one of them who did not look mutinous.
‘Next,’ roared the optio Diocles.
There were just eight in this contubernium. Under their brows they looked pure hatred at Ballista — as well they might after what had happened in the bar down by the docks. Ballista gave no indication that he noticed. He shifted the weight of the mailcoat on his shoulders and studied the impromptu training ground. The old agora in the largely abandoned north of the upper town of Olbia was the only area of open, flat ground near the walls. On three sides were ruins: a collapsed row of shops, a fallen portico backed by the remains of two temples and a less easily identified jumble of buildings. On the fourth side stood a granary. It had been built recently, on the site of what might have been a gymnasium. Its construction had cannibalized the surrounding buildings. Thus passed the glory of the world. Nothing was permanent, not even the gods.
‘Javelins ready,’ Diocles ordered. Ten wooden posts, each six-foot high, had been hammered into the ground about thirty paces in front of the men.
‘Run and throw.’ The heavy, blunt training missiles arced away. Five found their mark; the other three fell not far off.
The troops were getting better. Ballista had had Diocles keep them at it all morning. There had been much room for improvement. The crew of the Ister patrol boat Fides were under military law. They were expected to be proficient in military drill. They were not. The fault lay with Regulus, their trierarch. Ballista had taken his measure straight away at the first parade, when Castricius had read out the imperial mandata putting them under Ballista’s command. Regulus was not young. He had the broken veins of a drinker and the disgruntled air of a man who considered that life had treated him harshly. Perhaps, many years before, when he had joined up, he had imagined ending his career as primus pilus of a legion. Instead, he was the centurion in charge of a small river galley. It was likely his own fault. Clearly he was one of those officers who curried favour with those under him, mistakenly believing laxness would lead to popularity. The Fides needed to be got out of the water, her hull scraped and her seams caulked to ready her to take the expedition up the Borysthenes. Ballista had sent Regulus, with one contubernium of ten and the helmsman, rowing master and ship’s carpenter, to see to it. The rest of the crew, twenty-eight oarsmen, had been assembled at first light in the agora.
To be fair, they had marched in step, formed line and doubled their line well enough. But when ordered to form a wedge, a square and a circle, it had ended in a shambles. Now, their weapon handling was proving little better. Obviously unused to the heavy wooden training weapons, they moved clumsily, finding the extra weight a burden. There was no point in even thinking about ordering them to perform the armatura; the complicated and demanding dance-like arms drill would be utterly beyond them.
‘Draw swords.’
There was a ragged scraping of wood on wood as even this was not performed as one.
‘Attack.’
With little enthusiasm, the eight men hacked desultorily at the posts.
‘The point, use the point,’ Diocles yelled. ‘You, cover yourself with your shield. Aim for the face, make the enemy flinch, make him fear you.’
Diocles was the only good t
hing. A big, tough, young Pannonian, given authority, freed from the negligent hand of Regulus, he might develop into a fine leader of men.
It was past noon. The spring sun was hot. The men were being treated like raw recruits, trained all day. It gave them another reason to resent Ballista. But they needed it. The passage up the Borysthenes was unlikely to pass without fighting. Ballista wondered if it would be advisable to put them on barley rations instead of wheat. Certainly their poor performance merited the punishment. Yet, while he had to instil discipline, it would not do to be too heavy-handed. They already had more than enough reason to hate him and the men with him. They needed discipline, but too draconian a hand might be counterproductive.
‘Back in line. Next.’
Ballista went over to Diocles, told him to carry on.
Ballista, accompanied by Castricius, Maximus and Tarchon, walked back towards the inhabited part of Olbia. Once, the broad street had been a grand thoroughfare, flanked by luxurious houses. Now it was a narrow track, hemmed in by overgrown rubble from the long-collapsed dwellings of the Olbian elite. Off to the left, through the voids, where once had been peristyle and ornamental garden, the view swooped down to the river. Lush spring grass waved on slopes and hillocks where terraces had collapsed. Among the wildflowers, lines of cut grey stone indicated the transient hopes of the past. There were shrubs and trees. Here and there — like primitive squatters in the wreck of some higher order — rough, new buildings showed. A line of potters’ kilns almost abutted the wall of the living town. Further out was a small foundry. The smoke from their industry was taken by a wind from the north-west out across the broad, islet-studded Hypanis. It further misted the low line of blue that marked the far bank some two or three miles distant.
‘We are caught between Scylla and Charon,’ Tarchon said in heavily accented, mangled Greek. ‘If we are not teaching these sailor-fuckers to fight, they will be as women on our voyaging, and the tribes of the riverbanks will be killing us.’
‘Charybdis,’ said Castricius.
Tarchon ignored the interruption. ‘But if we are teaching them, they will be turning on us in some unfrequented place. We are forging a sword of Diogenes.’
‘Damocles,’ corrected Castricius.
‘Names are unimportant to a man with a sword hanging over his head,’ Tarchon concluded with gravity.
‘They lack the balls,’ said Maximus.
‘The Suanian has a point,’ said Castricius. ‘There are more than forty of them and just the four of us; it might give them encouragement. But Roman disciplina will bring them to heel.’
‘I do not give a shite. There was a time in Hibernia — I was young then, still known as Muirtagh, Muirtagh of the Long Road — we were outnumbered by five, no ten to one …’
Ballista’s attention wandered as Maximus launched into a lengthy epic with much hewing and smiting, many severed heads rolling and frequent digressions for scenes of violent sexual congress, their consensual nature not always evident.
They came to the gate. A cart was blocking it. A small herd of six head of cattle and its driver were waiting. On the instant Ballista turned away from the gate, looked all around for danger. Nothing. He turned, scanned every potential hiding place again. Even Maximus was silent. They were all looking. Still nothing.
Ballista studied the gate again. The cart was carrying furs. With the officiousness of his kind, a telones was checking every bundle — fox, beaver, wolf; each had a different customs duty.
Stepping off the path, Ballista climbed a low, grassy bank, which probably once had been the front wall of a house. He smiled at his reaction. It was a very old trick: get a cart to shed a wheel, break an axle, get wedged — anything to cause an obstruction which prevented a gate being closed — and from concealment men could storm into a town. Several examples from the ‘Defence of Fortified Positions’ of Aeneas Tacticus hovered at the edges of his memory. It had to be ten years or so since he had last read that book. He had been on his way to the Euphrates to defend the city of Arete from a Persian attack. He smiled again, ruefully. That had not turned out well. Despite all his efforts and all his theoretical and practical experience, the town had fallen. It was odd that of the very few who escaped death or enslavement, three were standing in this ruined street half a world away — Castricius, Maximus and himself. With that thought came another, far less welcome. Calgacus had survived the sack of that city, had survived so much else. But Hippothous had killed him, had left those who loved the old Caledonian to grieve, had left Maximus and Ballista himself, had left Rebecca and the young boy Simon. Ballista had written to Rebecca. It had been a long letter, difficult to write. But one day he would return to his house in Tauromenium on Sicily where they lived, and that would be much harder. He would give them their freedom, make sure they lived comfortably as freedwoman and freedman, but he doubted that would be much consolation.
The wind had shifted to the north. It was blowing the smoke of the kilns and furnace over the wall of the lower town, over the docks. Ballista ran his gaze over the wall from the water up to the gate. The wall was too low. It had no towers. He knew that, on the inside, houses were built up against it. The houses meant there were few accesses to the wall walk for the defenders, but they would aid an attacker jumping down into the town. The gate itself was too wide, and it had no projections to enfilade those approaching. A single felled tree — and there were several suitable growing close by — would be sufficient to smash it, if the men wielding it were determined, were prepared to take casualties.
This wall was the weak point of Olbia. The rest was good. The town formed an inverted triangle pointing south. The weak northern wall was its top. On its eastern side was the river; on its western a deep ravine. The citadel, at the tip of the triangle, was a fine strongpoint. It boasted massive stone walls built by the Roman army. They were studded with towers, each showing ports for artillery. It was true the walls had not been kept in good repair. Pocked with weeds, in places they were most shoddily patched with barely mortared, uncut stones. Yet nature aided their strength. On the river side, a cliff dropped nearly sheer down to the water. Opposite, the ravine was not so daunting. Indeed, it was planted with vines. There were even three wineries on narrow, cut terraces. But it was still not inconsiderably steep, and the cover the vines might give to an attacker ended in thirty paces of bare rock to the base of the wall. On the north side of the acropolis a deep moat separated it from the rest of the town. Unlike the main body of the city, the citadel was eminently defensible. Ballista wondered how it had fallen to the Goths some thirty years earlier. He would ask the strategos Galerius Montanus at the meal.
Finally, an armed guard told the telones to let the cart enter. The crack of a whip and it and the cattle were moving. Ballista and the others followed, watching their step to avoid the green, flat cow-pats which fouled the street. Inside, the buildings were close together. More kilns and granaries were wedged up against wineries, cattle shelters, small workshops, stores and houses. Near the gate was a shop which, inexplicably, appeared to sell nothing but tiny, carved-bone pins. The smells of cooking mingled with excrement, spices and packed humanity and animals. The streets were dirty. From what Zeno had said, presumably the agoranomos Dadag had much else on his mind.
They crossed the wooden bridge over the moat and walked under the arch of the citadel gate. Armed guards, fully equipped Sarmatian-style — pointed metal helmets, scale armour, bows and long swords — stood around in numbers.
The house of Galerius Montanus was just inside the acropolis gate to the right. Like all Greek houses, it showed a forbidding blank face to the world. They told the porter they were expected, and waited in the street. Maximus began to tell the old joke about the young prefect and the camel. He had changed it into something he had witnessed himself in Mauretania.
‘Health and great joy,’ Montanus greeted his guests.
‘Health and great joy,’ they all replied with formality.
They follow
ed Montanus along a dark corridor which dog-legged and suddenly opened into a sunny courtyard ringed by Ionic columns. In the centre was a small pool with a water feature and ornamental fish. Couches were set for a meal in a room which opened off the far side. There was a mosaic underfoot — a straightforward geometric pattern in black and white — and sweet-smelling plants in strategically placed pots. It was quiet — just the splash of water — and immaculately well kept. All very simple, yet an oasis of urbanity amid the desuetude of the town.
Montanus introduced them to his other guests: Callistratus, son of Callistratus, the first archon; Dadag, the agoranomos; another member of the Boule called Saitaphernes; and the deputy strategos, Bion. This was a small town. Its society was limited, and — despite the outlandish names of some of the citizens — it was clearly one where provincial Hellenic ways were maintained. There were no freedmen or — women waiting to greet them.
When everyone had shaken hands and said, ‘Health and great joy,’ to everyone else, some several times, Montanus led them to their couches. Nine diners was a traditionally auspicious number.
Ballista was guided to the place of honour to the left of the host. A boy moused up with a pitcher and bowl. With downcast eyes, he washed Ballista’s hands then removed the military man’s boots; finally, placed a garland of flowers on his head. Ballista unbuckled his sword belt and settled himself down on his left elbow. In his youth, no one would have borne weapons into the dining room. Now it was quite normal, apparently especially at the imperial court among the protectores of Gallienus.
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