Their mysterious guide climbed down, fingers hooked into the gutter at the top, legs spread wide, and edged crabwise along the horrible slope. Calgacus followed. Demetrius stared at the gutter. It looked so fragile: his existence would hang by an insubstantial piece of fired clay.
‘No choice, boy,’ Maximus whispered in his ear. ‘Don’t look down.’
Fumbling, clumsy with fear, Demetrius lowered himself. He could feel the heat of the day’s sun still in the tiles under his body. Tentatively, he began to edge along. Athene, Artemis, all the gods hold your hands over me. Inch by inch he crept. Great Zeus, Hermes, protector of travellers. His palms were slick with sweat. He crept further. Fear sent little spasms of cramp running through his limbs. His breath was coming fast and shallow. He looked over his shoulder. The tiles went on and on, sickeningly steep, dropping into yawning black nothingness. His muscles locked. He could not move.
Demetrius felt Maximus grip his right wrist, Calgacus his left. The mere touch of the other men made the young Greek feel a little calmer.
‘We will guide you,’ Calgacus said in his ear. ‘One hand at a time. Mine first.’
Demetrius felt the increased pressure on his left wrist. Reluctantly but obediently, he unclenched his fingers and let Calgacus move his hand along. He grasped the next length of guttering. Maximus repeated the procedure with the other hand.
Only once did Demetrius look to his left. The roof stretched away into the distance. A wave of panic rose in him. He fought it down. He kept his eyes on the tiles under his nose. Hand by hand, Maximus and Calgacus helped him along.
Demetrius became aware that Calgacus was shifting his position. A moment later, his boot struck the roof that extended out to form the next side of the atrium. A jerky scramble and the Greek boy was on the ridge, legs either side, in no danger of a fall for the time being.
On the far side of the ridge, a gentler slope ran down to a low wall. They slithered down. Past this was a drop to a stepped lane. No matter, they were safe where they were. In the shelter of the wall, they paused to get their breath back. Somewhere, not far away, a baby was crying. It had not struck Demetrius that the noise they were making could wake those sleeping in the houses below. At any moment, they might raise the alarm. Suddenly, he was eager to be moving again.
Calgacus touched Demetrius’s arm. They were off once more, crouching below the level of the parapet wall, using their hands, scurrying like monkeys. This uncomfortable but unthreatening way of moving lasted all too short a time. The wall on the right and the roof on the left were at an end. Demetrius was unhappy to see Calgacus get down on all fours. The Caledonian crawled out on to a free-standing wall.
Great Athene of the Aegis, I can do this, thought Demetrius. On one side, there was a drop to the stepped street, on the other an equally awful fall to a paved courtyard. I can do this. Grey-eyed Athene, I can.
Demetrius inched out. The top of the wall was a couple of feet across. No reason to fall. Just keep going. No earthly reason to fall.
He was concentrating so hard on keeping his balance that he almost bumped into Calgacus. The Caledonian had stopped and was manoeuvring himself to lie down full length. Not knowing why, Demetrius did the same.
The noise came from behind. The Greek boy peered anxiously over his right shoulder and down. Two watchmen were walking down the street. They carried lanterns, and each had a club over his shoulder. As they drew nearer, Demetrius could hear one of them talking.
‘So the tribune says, “So, Centurion, is that how the men use the camel?” And the centurion says, “No, Tribune, they use it to ride to the nearest brothel.”’
The other watchman laughed briefly. ‘That joke was old when Cronos was young,’ he said. When he was level with Demetrius, he stopped. He held up his lantern and shone it into a small courtyard on the other side of the street. He went in and carefully looked all around a fountain in the middle. Gods below, he was far too diligent.
The watchmen moved on. The humourist started up again. ‘Do you know the one about the donkey and the murderess?’
‘Yes,’ replied the other unencouragingly.
Giving the impression that such rebuffs were not uncommon, his companion stopped and put his lantern down on a step. He retied his laces. Retrieving the lantern, he stood up and walked on. Then, without warning, he stopped again. He turned to look back the way they had come. Then he looked up.
‘Thieves! There up on the wall!’
Calgacus was up, running fast. Without time for thought, Demetrius was doing the same.
The slope of the roof loomed in front. Scrambling up it, boots slipping on the tiles, Demetrius glanced down. The first watchman had a bell in his hand. Demetrius saw him pull out the straw which held the clapper in place. Its clanging echoed across the sleeping city.
Their unintroduced guide led the fugitives on. The pitch of the roofs here was gentle. Up and down they went, vaulting over ridges. Fear gave wings to Demetrius’s feet. Below, the watchmen were chasing. Somewhere in front, another bell was ringing.
‘Alley ahead. No problem to jump.’ In the stress, the guide’s eastern accent had dropped away.
Demetrius saw Calgacus leap the divide. Demetrius found himself mouthing one of Ballista’s sayings – Do not think, just act.
As soon as he took off, the young Greek knew he had mistimed it. Arms flailing, he was dropping too fast. His stomach thumped into the edge of the roof, knocking the wind out of him. He was slipping back. His fingers clasped the corner of a tile. It came loose. He was slipping faster, legs thrashing in the void. Far below, the tile shattered.
Demetrius clung to the final row of tiles. They began to shift. A hand gripped his wrist. Calgacus’s face was contorted with effort; Demetrius’s weight was dragging the old Caledonian with him.
‘Let go,’ Demetrius screamed.
Slowly sliding to his doom, Calgacus hung on. Sweat was pouring down his ugly old face.
Another hand grasped Demetrius’s other wrist.
‘One, two, three, pull!’ Together, the guide and Calgacus managed to haul Demetrius up a little.
‘One, two, three, pull!’ Demetrius’s chest was over the lip of the roof. He clawed himself fully over. His saviours yanked him further up. Calgacus was doubled up, holding his injured arm. Maximus landed like a cat behind them.
‘This way, quick!’ The guide was off again.
Below, the streets and alleys echoed with shouts and the ringing of bells. Here and there shutters were thrown back, light spilling out.
They raced around the opening of an atrium and across an unbroken span of roofs. Temporarily, they were out of sight from the ground.
‘Down there.’ The guide pointed. ‘Stay there until I come back.’
One by one, they dropped into a dark space formed by four converging slopes. The guide’s face appeared above them. ‘Do not move,’ he said. Then he was gone.
A few moments later, there was a cacophony of yells. Demetrius could not resist peeping out. The guide had gone back the way they had come and was now standing over an alley, gazing this way and that, a picture of uncertainty. Then, as if spurred by the shouts from below, he set off. Moving fast, he passed the hiding place and ran off to the south. The sounds of pursuit followed him. With one hand, he swung up over a wall and was gone from sight.
Slumping back down, Demetrius saw that Maximus was tearing strips from the sleeve of his tunic and binding Calgacus’s arm. The old Caledonian’s eyes were screwed shut. Dark blood was running from his wound.
‘Thank you,’ Demetrius whispered.
Calgacus opened his eyes. ‘Think nothing of it.’
They waited. The sounds of the chase faded. Immobile, they grew cold.
Demetrius wondered what they would do if the guide did not return. Was the underworld like this? Cold, powerless, an eternity of unfulfilled waiting? One thing was certain: they could not stay here for long. They had to eat soon or else become too weak to flee. Demetrius could not s
top shivering.
There was a slight scraping sound and the guide was back. ‘Good exercise, yes?’ His thick eastern accent had returned. ‘Now, you follow. Is easy now.’
True to his word, the rest of the rooftop journey consisted of straightforward stages. Only one passage gave Demetrius concern. A beam jutting out from beneath the eaves held two leaning buildings apart. As he wriggled across, Demetrius looked down. An intricate pattern of washing lines ran across the alley. They would do nothing to slow a falling man. The young Greek kept his eyes on the wood in front of him.
At long last, they reached the lowest level of houses. Via an outhouse, they dropped to the ground. Across the street was the inner side of the main city wall. At no great interval, the torches of sentries could be seen up on the walkway. The guide pressed them back into the shadow of the outbuilding. He hissed for them to wait. Calmly, he walked out into the open and around the corner.
This time, the guide returned more quickly. Wasting no words, he indicated that they should follow. He took them towards one of the towers. On the battlements, the torches illuminated a standard bearing the eagle, lion and Capricorn of Legio IIII Scythica. Fortunately, the sentries were all on the other side. Under the tower, low in the wall, was a small postern gate. It was unlocked. The guide led them through and pulled it shut behind them.
Keeping close to the wall, they moved south. Every time a sentry paced above their heads, they froze. Out in the night, a fox barked. They followed the wall as it curved round to the east. Before long, the low, gloomy structures that indicated a necropolis emerged from the darkness on their right. With a wave of his hand, the guide led them away from the wall into the city of the dead. Like ghosts, they flitted between the tombs. He stopped before one that had been cut into the living rock. The door opened easily. Once inside, he closed the door and pulled a curtain across its frame.
Sparks flashed as the guide worked a flint on a steel. He lit a small clay lamp. Their shadows danced grotesquely on the walls. Demetrius looked around. A table and three couches stood in the centre of a large room cut from the rock itself. On the wall opposite the door were relief sculptures of eagles, wicker baskets, swags of flowers. In the other two walls were arched recesses; inside them long, low piles of broken roof tiles. The air was still, with a strong odour of mould and decay.
‘You wait here. Your friend will come.’ The guide’s eastern tones were now thick to the point of parody. ‘I go now. You wait.’ He indicated for Maximus to shield the lamp and slipped behind the curtain. They heard the door open and close again. They were alone in the house of the dead.
Exhausted, Demetrius sat on one of the couches. With a wince, Calgacus sat beside him. Maximus put the lamp on the table and busied himself. First, he checked for any food that may have been left behind from a funeral feast. There was none. Then he started sorting through one of the mounds of tiles in one of the recesses. He came across with three shards, handily shaped and razor-sharp.
Demetrius gazed at the recess from which Maximus had emerged. In rooting about, he had disturbed the tiles. A hand stuck out from the wall now, yellow-black with decomposition. How could people use these places for sexual assignations, thought Demetrius. He could understand a low-class prostitute maybe, with no place of her own to go. You often saw them hanging around the tombs outside city walls. But others – free men and women? It was unthinkable. No wonder that, in the famous story, the shade of Philinnion left her tomb to visit her lover in her old house.
Maximus pointed to the curtain and the door behind it. In his most serious tone, he said, ‘Sure, but you have to ask, just who the fuck was he?’
‘No idea,’ said Calgacus. ‘But he could climb the shite out of a wall, just like a monkey.’
‘Do you remember,’ said Maximus, ‘when we were in Arete, there was a woman that fucked a monkey?’
Demetrius found himself laughing with the others. ‘I think you will find,’ he said, ‘it was just a woman who gave birth to a child that looked like a monkey.’
‘And how did that happen?’ Maximus sounded indignant, before adding thoughtfully, ‘Unless of course she happened to look at a monkey just at the moment love reached its true, destined end.’
A sound from outside stopped their laughter. Men with horses. Several of them, reining in by the door; dismounting.
Quick as lightning, Maximus and Calgacus were either side of the curtain, the shards of tile to the ready. Maximus blew out the lamp. Unsure what to do, Demetrius rose from the couch. Feeling foolish, he adopted an approximation of the fighting crouch of the others.
There was the sound of the door being opened. The curtain moved slightly as the night air caught it. Demetrius held his breath.
‘I am a friend.’ The voice from beyond the curtain was pitched low, the Latin words muffled. ‘I am coming in alone. Do not attack.’
The curtain was drawn back. Pale moonlight flooded into the tomb. In the opening was the black silhouette of a man. He stepped over the threshold and stopped, his eyes taking their time to adjust. He did not flinch as Maximus noiselessly put the shard to his throat.
‘Welcome back from the dead, boys.’ As he spoke, the man turned to look at Maximus and the moonlight fell on his face – a strange-looking face, all lines and points.
‘Castricius, you little bastard!’ Maximus hugged him. Calgacus slapped him on the back. Demetrius shook his hand. The centurion’s palm was gritty.
‘Shite, I hoped our saviour would turn out to be the eupatrid whose son we rescued.’ Calgacus shook his head in what seemed genuine sorrow. ‘He would have given us a fine reward.’
‘And if it had to be you, Castricius,’ Maximus joined in, ‘there was no need to leave us there so long.’
‘And it’s lovely to see you too,’ said Castricius. ‘You are lucky I’m here at all. I only got back tonight from a tour overseeing the quarries up the road at Arulis. Nasty, dirty, dangerous work – by Silvanus, the legionaries hate it – very tiring. I thought about getting a good night’s sleep, maybe rescuing you tomorrow.’
‘Certain, I imagine the new governor thinks your life history fits you for the quarries.’ Maximus was grinning.
‘Quite possibly – Piso is a cunt.’ The centurion’s voice changed. ‘I was very sorry to hear Ballista was taken.’
‘He will get back,’ said Calgacus. ‘Always does.’
‘I do not doubt it.’ Centurion Castricius became businesslike. ‘The last watch of the night is almost over. There are three horses outside, tacked up, weapons to hand, food and water in the saddlebags, even a little money. Which way will you go?’
‘Do you think it unwise just to ride down the main road west – Regia and Hagioupolis to Antioch?’ Calgacus asked.
Castricius considered for a time. ‘Piso will be annoyed you have escaped. Of course, you three are of no importance, and Piso is naturally indolent. But he is desperate to appear competent in the eyes of his Macrianus the Lame. He might be so keen to suck his dominus’s cock that he will send a troop of horses down the obvious route.’
‘I have a friend in Hierapolis – well, a man I met on the journey out …’ Demetrius’s words trailed off.
‘There is no direct road,’ said Castricius. ‘It must be about forty miles as the crow flies, tough going, but it still might be best to go south.’
Outside, a legionary was holding the horses. In turn, the fugitives thanked Castricius and mounted up.
‘One thing,’ said Maximus. ‘Who was the easterner who led us over the roofs?’
The small centurion laughed. ‘That was no local. One of my boys from Legio IIII – a scaenicus legionis. If you had to talk your way out of something, I thought it would be useful to have an actor to help you.’
As they rode away, Demetrius reflected on life’s absurdities. Most legions, especially those stationed out in the east, contained a troupe of soldier-actors. It helped pass the time. A scaenicus legionis had appeared to save them like the deus ex machin
a he must have so often played.
Ballista was standing in the governor’s palace in Samosata. He was watching the Sassanid envoy trying to control himself. Garshasp the Lion might have first won his cognomen in some battle in the east, but presumably it had stuck because it suited him. Unusually for a Persian, his hair had a reddish tinge. Long and thick, it invited comparison with a mane. When angry, as he certainly was now, his eyes flashed.
They had been in Samosata for nine days. Finally granted an audience with Macrianus the Lame, they had been left waiting in the basilica for over an hour. If you thought the Sassanid King of Kings the equal of a Roman emperor, the twin eyes of the world, the two lamps in the darkness of mankind, as Ballista had heard Garshasp put it, this was a studied insult.
Ballista himself had relished the delay. Every night that passed took him further away from the nocturnal apparition of the daemon of Maximinus Thrax. Ballista needed recourse to his familiar mantra – the daemon cannot physically harm you, avoid Aquileia and all will be well – less and less frequently There were other reasons Ballista welcomed the delay. Every day in Roman territory was a day he did not have to return to Sassanid captivity. Here in Samosata he could indulge the fantasy that all he had to do to be reunited with Julia and the boys was call for a horse and set out on the road to Antioch. And he wanted to be far away from the memory of the cell in Carrhae. Rolled face down, limbs stretched out, tunic hauled up; Allfather, that had been close. The assault had shaken the northerner more than he cared to admit.
To break the run of his thoughts, he looked around the basilica. The last time he had been here, there had been plague. It was long gone, but the ends of some of the swags of laurel – their scent considered a preventative of disease – had not been removed. The floor was unswept. If one were planning a coup, as Ballista was convinced Macrianus was, such incidentals might well be overlooked. Valerian’s imperial throne had gone from the dais at the end of the long room. Instead, six seats adorned with ivory stood in a row – the curule chairs symbolic of high Roman magistracies.
Warrior of Rome III Page 7
