The Caspian Gates

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘Asylum, Kyrios, grant me asylum,’ the man pleaded.

  ‘Do not listen to him.’ His pursuers, overawed by the maiestas of Rome, embodied in the elderly ex-consul, had pulled up short.

  ‘In the name of Caesar, grant me a hearing, Kyrios.’ The man clung to Felix like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood.

  ‘He is a slave, a runaway,’ one of the others said.

  ‘No, I am a free man, a Roman citizen, wrongly enslaved. Grant me a hearing, Basileus.’

  Felix, his vanity flattered by being called a king, placed a hand, almost in benediction, on the cowering man. ‘I shall hear the case at the start of the second hour tomorrow. The plaintiff will remain in custody until then.’

  One of the bodyguards, a legionary detailed from Legio II Parthica, had fought his way off the ship and now took the man away.

  The second hour of the next day, the seventh day before the ides of May, found Ballista seated next to Felix, as one of his five assessors, in a pleasant portico overlooking the agora.

  The thin man was asked the prescribed questions: Name? Race? Free or slave?

  ‘Melissus, son of Charillus, Kyrios; from Erythrinoi, a village in the territory of Amastris. I am a free man, unjustly taken into slavery.’

  He was given a chance to tell his story.

  ‘I am a fisherman. I was out in my boat, the Thalia, when the Borani came. They captured me. The barbarians burnt my Thalia, just for their pleasure. They took me with them. When they went ashore for fresh water at the mouth of the Parthenios, I escaped.’

  The men who claimed to own him started to voice their disagreement. Felix silenced them with a look.

  ‘I had nothing but a tunic on my back. As I walked towards Amastris, I fell in with these men. At first, they spoke gently to me. When they had lulled me, they had four of their followers grab me. They bound me, beat me. With cruel humour, they renamed me Felix. They were laughing, joking it was a lucky name for a lucky slave.’

  His captors ill-omened naming decided the case there and then. But Felix went through the formalities. The man’s supposed owners were allowed a chance to state their case. Fully aware of how the wind was set, they made a very poor job of it. Witnesses appeared on both sides. Those for Melissus made far the better impression.

  Felix made a show of consulting his assessors. Ballista, Rutilus, Castricius and two young, well-born friends of Felix gave their unanimous opinion. Then the consular delivered his judgement.

  ‘Melissus, son of Charillus, of the village of Erythrinoi, is to be restored to freedom. The men who have so inhumanely preyed on a fellow citizen in misfortune are to be stripped and beaten. Their property is confiscated: half to the fiscus of our dominus Gallienus Augustus, half to Melissus, son of Charillus. Let the sentence be carried out now.’

  Straightaway, eight burly soldiers from the stationarii based in Amastris seized the men, dragged them out into the agora.

  Even before the first whip fell, the condemned were screaming.

  ‘Cowardly Graeculi,’ said Felix.

  The words, even the screams, were cut across by a new voice, loud in its desperation: ‘Kyrios, hear my petition. I too have been wronged.’

  Wearily, Felix said, ‘Who spoke? Bring him forth.’

  And so it started: an endless series of complaints, all different, but all having one thing in common. When the barbarians came, I hid in the hills, returning I found my neighbour had taken my goat, field, wife … When the barbarians came, in the chaos, my fellow citizen attacked my boat, home, daughter … When the barbarians came, my fellow townsman joined them, pointing out roads and houses, sharing in their depredations. When the barbarians departed, they left behind my silver bowl, my statue of Athena … My friend recovered it, but now will not return it to me.

  All through the long day, Ballista listened to the stories of woe. He thought of the famous description by Thucydides of the breakdown of society during the civil war in Corcyra. He thought the coming of the barbarians might be worse; to domestic bad faith and betrayal was added the horror of the unknown.

  A very small part of him felt an atavistic pride – this is what we northerners can do to you feeble men of the south. He suppressed the thought as unworthy. He concentrated on his dominant emotion, a genuine pity for peaceful men and women whose innocence had been no shield. Yet he did not suspend his critical faculties, trying hard to discern the victims from the liars and opportunists. A false accusation, if successful, brought the same rewards as a genuine one.

  To give him his due, Felix worked hard. But, by the evening, the old senator was very tired. He had had more than enough. There were eight complaints still unheard. Felix announced that he must sail the following day; his duty to the Res Publica demanded it. The remaining cases must be taken to the governor of the province of Bithynia et Pontus, Vellius Macrinus, currently thought to be holding assizes in the city of Prusa. That many of those involved were poor men, poorer still after their disaster, and Prusa probably was over two hundred miles away, did not seem to occur to him.

  The following morning, bright and early, the Armata pulled out of Amastris. At first there was a north-westerly breeze, but it was fitful; several times it disappeared and the oars had to be run out; as many times again, it returned and the oars were drawn inboard. Leaning on the starboard rail, Ballista commented to Bruteddius on the forbidding-looking coast. Big, wooded mountains; the trees ran down to the rocks, and the rocks jutted out into the sea. Stark precipices reared up from the water. There were coves, but most were rock bound, open to the weather; each more of a trap than a haven.

  ‘Not good,’ Bruteddius agreed. ‘I wanted to get to Sinope today. The noble senator, however, seems to have rediscovered his pleasure in religion. He demands we spend the night at Ionopolis. I am told by the locals the mooring there is not secure. If another storm gets up …’

  ‘I will talk to him,’ Ballista said.

  Felix, seated in comfort, was listening to one of his staff, a winsome youth, reading the Argonautica of Apollonius. Ballista waited for him to finish the passage. Then, choosing his words with care, he spoke in Greek. ‘Kyrios, this early in the sailing season the weather is unsettled. Ionopolis is just a grandiose name given to the obscure Paphlagonian town of Abonouteichos. We would have to ride at anchor. There is nothing to see except the temple built by the charlatan Alexander of Abonouteichos. Long ago, Lucian exposed the god Glycon as a fraud: a tame snake with a moulded human head, deceitful voices whispered through the windpipes of cranes, sham oracles created by greedy men. The consul Rutilianus became a laughing stock when he was taken in by it.’

  Felix turned a cold, baleful face on Ballista. ‘Publius Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus was my kinsman. In matters of religion, allow me to believe a Roman of high rank and unblemished character over a malicious scribbler like Lucian of Samosata.’ He pronounced the latter with extreme distaste. ‘Lucian, part Graeculus, part Syrian, all malevolent.’

  Ballista nodded. ‘Of course, Kyrios.’ There was nothing else to say.

  Despite the desolate coast, Ionopolis was reached without mishap. The elderly consular and his entourage went ashore. Ballista and the others stayed with the ship. Bruteddius allowed the crew no shore leave; two thirds camped on the beach, the rest remained aboard. Thankfully, the night was placid.

  At first light, Felix climbed the boarding ladder, smiling, gracious, obviously buoyed up by an auspicious response from the oracle. Bruteddius assured the consular that everything was ready. Felix made the libations, asked for the favour of the gods. Ballista was irritated, but unsurprised to hear Glycon among the deities. What has the snake god promised you, old man? he thought. A century ago your kinsman believed, so now you do; to you that passes for piety.

  There was no wind. The sea was dead calm, leaden. Even the eastward current seemed to have deserted them. The sun was a pale disc behind the haze. Intermittent patches of vapour curled on the surface of the water. The oarsmen would have a hard day of
it.

  Ballista sensed the unease of Bruteddius; something deeper than just scratching at his beard. The veteran trierarch had ordered that one of the three levels of rowers should rest at all times. He had taken the Armata well out into the deserted sea. A glance at the coastline showed why. Iron-bound promontory after iron-bound promontory; between each, open, rock-strewn coves.

  Bruteddius had taken on another local pilot. There was but one safe anchorage in the sixty or seventy miles between Abonouteichos and Lepte Point. As it was pointed out, Bruteddius relaxed a little. As the Armata left it astern, he went back to worrying at his beard.

  Across a grey sea, under an increasingly grey sky, the trireme laboured on, the men singing doleful songs to keep time. At the foot of the cliffs, jagged black-green rocks, frosted white on top with bird droppings. Above the precipices, rugged foothills, jagging up to wild mountains just visible through the mist. Only the occasional column of smoke, rising straight in the still air, showed the country was not deserted.

  In the heavy fullness of time, the shoreline turned north. The Armata turned to follow. The high cliffs dropped away. Through the gathering mist, gentle meadows could be seen rolling down to the sea, on them tiny white dots, most likely sheep grazing, seemingly unattended. Ballista thought it might put some men in mind of pastoral poetry or Greek novels. He had never really cared for either. Demetrius would have enjoyed the view; probably Hippothous did.

  ‘Lepte Point.’ Bruteddius pointed. The headland ended in a low jumble of grey rocks. The water pushed and sucked sluggishly at them. Bruteddius kept the Armata well out. When he thought it completely safe, he brought her head around.

  ‘Ship in sight,’ the bow officer called out. Ballista, Maximus in tow, walked forward with Bruteddius. The three peered through the shifting obscurity. The bow officer pointed. ‘A warship, a liburnian by the size of her. Must be from Trapezus, one of the Classis Pontica.’

  It was hard to judge distance in the mist. Maybe a mile away to the south-east was a dark shape. The outline of a high prow and forward-sweeping sternpost indicated a Mediterranean-style war galley. Smaller than the Armata, she appeared motionless, seemingly sitting on her oars in the shipping lane just around Lepte Point.

  ‘She is not alone.’ Maximus had always had keen eyes. ‘Beyond her.’

  Ballista strained to penetrate the murk. Another dark shape, a second, then a third. ‘How many do you see?’

  ‘Six – there could be a seventh.’

  Ballista could make out four now. The two he could see best had a prow at either end. ‘Bruteddius, turn us around, and get us away from here.’

  ‘Gothic longboats?’ The trierarch was tugging his beard.

  ‘Gothic longboats.’

  Bruteddius shrugged. ‘That explains the empty sea and the beacons.’

  ‘We will fight them.’ No one had noticed Felix arrive on the fo’c’s’le. ‘We will go to the aid of the liburnian. It is unfitting we should run.’

  ‘They have seen us,’ said the bow officer. ‘They are getting under way.’

  Ballista addressed Felix. ‘It is too late for the liburnian. She is with them.’

  ‘Unstep the masts; main and bowsprit.’ Bruteddius’s voice carried throughout the ship. The crew moved promptly at their trierarch’s command.

  ‘This is a trireme,’ said Felix. ‘We can fight them all.’

  ‘No,’ said Ballista bluntly. ‘Our marines and artillery were left in Byzantium. None of our rowers are armed; all of their men will be.’

  ‘We will manoeuvre, use the ram.’ There was no doubting the old senator’s martial spirit.

  ‘They would grapple us.’ Ballista shook his head. ‘Seven or eight ships – they would be on us like a pack of hounds.’

  Both masts were down. The gaggle of passengers was impeding them from being securely lashed to the deck, getting tangled in the coils of the back and forestays. ‘All civilians sit down,’ bellowed Bruteddius. ‘Well spread out and not in the way.’

  The trierarch led the men of rank back to the stern. Maximus had vanished.

  ‘All rowers to benches. Prepare for fast turn to left. On the command, starboard oars full pressure; larboard side, back her down hard; steering-oars, hard over.’

  A chair was produced for Felix. He waved it away.

  ‘Now!’ The rowing master and the bow officer repeated the call.

  The great galley surged forward and heeled. Her starboard lowest-level oarports almost under water, her ear dipping towards the sea, she circumscribed a tight circle. In a matter of moments, Bruteddius had her levelled off and racing back to the west.

  Ballista looked over the stern. The Goths had gained appreciably. Now he could see five longboats behind the liburnian. As he watched, the blast of a horn echoed across. It was answered by seven or eight more.

  Bruteddius spat over the side. ‘We have a start, and we have the legs on them. It has already been a longish row, but the boys have rested in turn. Anyway, fear gives a man stamina.’

  No sooner were the words out than another horn rang out. It came from somewhere ahead and to the left. Another blast followed.

  ‘We were being followed,’ said Ballista.

  ‘Helmsman, take us out to the north-west, out into the deep sea.’ Clearly, Bruteddius was not given to panic. ‘Clear for action. Spare oars to all levels. Spread sand on the deck. Complete silence. Only officers to speak.’

  Ballista knew what orders had not been given. This called for some tact. He turned to Felix. ‘Dominus, I have commanded a trireme in action before. If the trierarch agrees, should I organize what fighting men we have?’

  The elderly senator nodded gravely. ‘That would be best. I have never been called to fight at sea. My four bodyguards and myself are at your disposal.’

  The chase soon took on its pattern. The Armata, throwing a big bow wave, forged through the dull sea. Directly astern, a little more than half a mile away, mainly visible through the gloom, were the liburnian and eight longboats. Somewhat further back, off south-east, were two more northern warships; these drifted in and out of sight.

  Normally, Bruteddius would have been right: the trireme most likely would have outrun her pursuers. But, despite his reassuring words, the oarsmen of the Armata had been rowing, more on than off, for hours, since shortly after dawn. The Goths seemed fresher. At least, they were keeping station, if not actually gaining a trifle.

  Bruteddius spoke. ‘The pilot says that, on this course, there is nothing between us and the Island of Achilles off the mouths of the Danube three hundred miles or more. We could edge to the north. The Crimean Bosphorus is no more than a hundred and sixty-odd miles.’ No one stated the obvious: the Goths would run them down long before they reached either.

  Maximus reappeared with his weapons and equipment and that of Ballista. With him were Calgacus and Hippothous, already kitted out. As he armed, Ballista ascertained the number of warriors aboard. Four in his familia. Felix’s four bodyguards. The old man insisted on arming too. Rutilus and Castricius added just themselves. Bruteddius, of course, was a long-service centurion. Twelve men, one rather long in the tooth.

  Ballista asked for volunteers from the entourages. Twenty answered the call. Ballista rejected six, among them the youths Wulfstan and Bauto. However, he gave each of the boys one of the many knives in his kit. They would not wish to be enslaved again. The eunuch Mastabates was one of those accepted. There were pikes and boarding axes aboard. These and the warriors’ spare weapons were doled out. Twenty-six men in all, less than half trained. Hopeless.

  The sun broke through the haze. Everything was suddenly illuminated. Through the tendrils of mist, nine Gothic vessels astern, two more further behind on the larboard quarter. Say a minimum of thirty warriors in each. Over three hundred armed men against fewer than thirty. No sort of odds. Utterly hopeless.

  The sun went in again. Grey wisps of vapour rose again. The grim chase went on.

  ‘I cannot understand why
they would chase a warship,’ said Felix. ‘There must be easier, richer pickings. They do not know we have no marines or engines.’

  ‘They know everything about us.’ Bruteddius spoke quietly.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Someone from Abonouteichos told them.’

  ‘Never.’ Flat disbelief in Felix’s voice.

  ‘They are Goths, but to some they are just pirates. All latrones, on land or sea, get information from locals.’ Bruteddius sounded resigned.

  ‘No citizen would do such a thing!’

  Ballista gently intervened. ‘The cases you heard at Amastris, Dominus? You condemned two men to the arena for joining in the barbarians’ depredations.’

  The chase ground on. The water still sang down the sides of the Armata, but slower now. The oarsmen were tiring fast. Their open-mouthed faces were masks from a tragedy. Their breathing came in sobs. Their sweat dripped on the men below, puddled in the hold. Individuals were starting to miss their stroke. The banks of oars were becoming ragged, like the damaged wings of a bird. The Goths were coming up hand over fist. No more than three hundred yards of clear water separated the sternpost of the Armata from the ram of the liburnian.

  Ballista ran through his pre-battle ritual: the dagger, sword, the healing stone. Wordless, he embraced Calgacus and Maximus. He shook hands with Hippothous, Rutilus and Castricius. The latter hugged him close. The sombre, gathering darkness of the day was fitting. Ballista’s main regret was not seeing his sons grow. Maybe in Valhalla, if there was such a thing or something like it.

  Bruteddius had stopped tugging at his beard. The old seaman actually laughed.

  Dull witted, everyone at the stern stopped gazing at the Goths and looked at Bruteddius. The trierarch called out loud to his rowers. ‘One last effort, boys. Less than half an hour, pueri, and we are safe.’

  Bruteddius turned and pointed ahead. There, curving across the Kindly Sea, was a solid bank of fog.

  XVIII

  The Armata slipped into the clammy embrace of the fog. Instantly, the temperature dropped. The sweat ran cold between the men’s shoulderblades. Their breath plumed. Wraiths of mist slipped inboard past the bow post, snaked down among the benches. A pall of steam rose from the rowers, adding to the gloom. It was getting hard to see from one end of the boat to the other.