A large bribe, thought Ballista, tortured out of the adherents of a supposedly peace-loving sect in response to a wonderfully ambiguous message. The northerner made sure his face was immobile.
With a grandiloquent gesture, Astyanax turned to the emperors. ‘Domini, the east is secure. Give the word and we will follow you to Rome to free the imperium from the cruel tyranny of Gallienus. Just give the word.’
In the murmur of approval, Ballista saw Macrianus nod to one of his sons.
Macrianus the Younger held up his sceptre for silence. ‘We thank the Vir Ementissimus Maeonius Astyanax. We hear the wishes of our comites. We hear the prayers of those oppressed in Europe and Africa. In the spring, as soon as the campaigning season opens, we will march to the west.’
Now he had all their attention.
‘I myself, accompanied by my father, the Prefect of Cavalry Ragonius Clarus and the Princeps Peregrinorum Calpurnius Censorinus, will lead a force of thirty thousand picked men. Those who will serve as legates we will announce later.’
There was an intensity of gaze among the members of the consilium. Whatever they really thought of the young emperors, all the comites knew that it was on expeditions like this that serious advancement could be secured, a glittering career made.
‘In advance of the main expedition, Gaius Calpurnius Piso Frugi, the governor of Syria Coele, will lead fifteen thousand men to secure first a crossing into Europe at Byzantium, then the provinces of Thrace and Achaea. Again, those who will serve as legates will be announced later.’
Macrianus the Younger looked up at the thick cedar beams supporting the high roof. ‘We bow to the will of the immortal gods, put our lives in their hands. They will not fail to support us. The tyrant Gallienus has rescinded the persecution of the Christians. The natural, powerful gods of Rome will not suffer those who deny them to go unpunished. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, all the gods, they will hold their hands over us.’
The young Augustus relapsed into the immobility and distant stare the Romans thought fitting in an emperor. Ballista wondered how much of it was well-schooled play-acting. Was he just mouthing the words, or did the younger Macrianus share his father’s terrible certainty about the divine?
Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista saw a movement. It was the walking stick of Macrianus the Elder. Its silver top, with its bust of Alexander the Great, nudged towards Quietus.
As the young emperor prepared to speak, Ballista studied him. Quietus had the features of his family. Since his accession, Macrianus the Younger had acquired a simulacrum of maturity, but Quietus had not. The pouchy eyes, receding chin, the long, straight nose … all still carried the look of a spoilt, petulant and vindictive youth.
‘Comites –’ Quietus began in too high a register. He coughed, looked annoyed and started again. ‘Comites, when our brother and father march, we will remain in Antioch, governing the east. The Praetorian Prefects, Maeonius Astyanax and Ballista, will advise us. As Piso Frugi heads the advance to the west, his province of Syria Coele will be governed by our most loyal subject Fabius Labeo.’
The boy paused for the elderly ex-consul to express his thanks.
‘As we have heard from Maeonius Astyanax,’ Quietus continued, ‘in general, the east stands secure. But the duties of a ruler never end. The governor of Palestine, Achaeus, informs us that his province, always an unruly one, is suffering a plague of bandits. These evil-doers must be eradicated. To this end, we order our Praetorian Prefect Ballista, even in the depths of winter, to descend on them with fire and sword. He will take a thousand men, infantry and cavalry, and he will put an end to these brigands. He will rout them out – and their sons too, that they may not grow up to follow the example of their fathers. Not one will be left alive.’ Quietus looked at Ballista. He seemed to be relishing in advance the suffering of innocents.
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,’ Ballista intoned. Allfather, he hated this.
A half-smile played across Quietus’s face. ‘To put at rest the mind of the Vir Ementissimus, given the unfortunate events when he was last away, we are happy to extend our protection to his family. Ballista’s wife and sons will reside with us, here in the palace.’
Ballista had no choice. As he expressed his thanks, he felt a deep foreboding. Allfather, let Julia and his boys be all right while he was away, let nothing bad happen to them.
Quietus could not prevent a high-pitched giggle.
One day, you little bastard, thought Ballista, maybe not soon, but one day.
Ballista had marched his men down from Antioch to Caesarea Maritima in the province of Syria Palestina. It had been fine. On their left, the mountains of Lebanon, in the bright mornings their cedars often shrouded in fine mists. To their right, red sandhills and, beyond them, the sea, flashing violet, blue, black in the winter sun. They had passed through the famous cities of ancient Phoenicia: Tripolis, Berytus, Sidon and Tyre. They had negotiated the outcrop known as the Ladder of Tyre, where the road overhung precipices of naked white rock. Once they had rounded Mount Carmel, the coast road had been covered in a drift of millions of shells. White, brown, purple, they cracked and rattled under the horses’ hooves and the boots of the men.
Throughout the journey, the noise of the sea was in their ears. The surf was magnificent, rolling in great billows, breaking then forming again. The weather had held fair, but it was obvious the shore was a cruel one. Ballista counted eight ships wrecked; some still almost intact, others little more than discoloured lines in the sand. Maximus, of course, counted fourteen. The new secretary Hippothous claimed to have seen no fewer than twenty.
Caesarea Maritima, the city built by King Herod, was a fine place. Ballista had been busy there: endless sessions with the governor Achaeus, his legates – including the stony-faced senator Astyrius – and other officers to plan operations to scour the land of bandits. It had soon become clear why Achaeus needed aid. Several districts were overrun: Samaria, Galilee, Judea itself. Detachments to the emperors’ field armies had cut the governor’s command to the bone. There were no more than two thousand men with the eagle of Legio X Fretensis at Aelia Capitolina, and just a thousand with that of Legio VI Ferrata at Caporcotani. The number of auxiliary units had been slashed. There were only two alae of cavalry and six cohorts of infantry: nominally four thousand men, but these likewise were under strength. They were spread thin throughout the province.
The troops of Ballista would act as a strike column in Galilee. It was a large area for their very limited force. The northerner had led down a vexillatio of five hundred drawn from Legio III Gallica commanded by an amiable centurion called Lerus, and a wing of Dalmatian cavalry of the same number under the big red-headed prefect Rutilus.
The mission was important. It was no fool’s errand. Yet Ballista was unhappy to have left Julia and his sons behind in the palace. He prayed they would be all right. He did not trust Quietus.
His worries aside, the stay at Caesarea would have been pleasant – certainly the palace on the headland by the sea was more than comfortable, and Ballista usually enjoyed throwing himself into military planning – but for the personality of the governor. Not only was Achaeus a close amicus of Macrianus the Elder, he was also a bore and a bigot. A Praetorian Prefect Ballista may be, but the rules of society demanded that he frequently accept the governor’s hospitality and, at least outwardly, give some small sign of enjoyment. And then he had to campaign with him. Ballista had reclined through meal after meal as Achaeus dilated on his favourite topic: the iniquities of the Jews he ruled.
‘I tell you, they are far more pernicious even than the disgusting Christians. Those superstitious fools, when they are not shouting “I am a Christian and I want to die,” they at least keep repeating, like the cawing of so many trained crows, “Thou shalt not kill; Thou shalt not kill.” If the god of the Jews had mentioned the latter to them, the circumcised ones were not listening. Three massive uprisings under the emperors Nero, Trajan a
nd Hadrian. Continuous trouble the rest of the time. A nightmare to govern, like living with a stepmother. The Jews hate mankind. As the saying goes, they would not show a non-Jew the way or give him a drink of water. More likely, they would cut his throat. They’re always fighting. When they’re not persecuting good citizens who worship the natural gods or attacking the Christians and the Samaritans, they turn on each other. Do you know, I asked the emperor Valerian why we did not deal with them once and for all? Do you know what he said? “They may be mad, but unlike the Christians, their madness is ancestral.” Addled old fool, thank the gods he has gone. When I mentioned it to the father of the noble emperors set over us now, may the gods preserve them, I got far more sense. “One enemy at a time,” Macrianus said. “The Christians first, then the Jews.”’
Every evening, when the eating was done, when Ballista could have been enjoying his wine while listening to the roar of the surf on the harbour walls, the boom of more distant breakers, Achaeus told stories that only a child or a Greek geographer could believe: ‘Everyone knows what they used to do before the divine Titus destroyed their temple. They would catch a Greek, hold him prisoner, fatten him up, then kill and eat him. They are probably still at it, up in the hills of Galilee under their so-called patriarchs.’
Red-faced, Achaeus would warm to his topic: ‘Do you know why they will not eat pigs? No, I will tell you. Because they worship them! Do you know they will not eat hares either? Why? Because hares look like miniature donkeys, and they worship donkeys too!’ On and on the calumnies rolled, by turns vile and ludicrous, drowning out the clean roar of the sea.
After fifteen days, Ballista had been glad to get away from the odious governor. But he wished the weather had not finally broken. It had been merely overcast when they set out from Caesarea three days earlier. The first night had been spent in the echoing near-emptiness of the legionary fortress of Legio VI at Caporcotani, the second in the town of Sepphoris. They had waited there a day. At dusk the force had divided and marched out as the rain began to fall. Their target was a village called Arbela which was overrun with bandits. It was to be a pincer attack at first light. The legionaries from III Gallica under Lerus were to march to the Sea of Tiberias and approach the village from the east. Ballista and Rutilus, with the Dalmatian troopers, were to come in from the west. Ballista suspected that Lerus and his men had drawn the better lot. It was as well the cavalrymen had left their mounts at Sepphoris: Ballista was glad Pale Horse was safe in a stable. The hill path was hard going for men on foot. And it was cold, very cold.
Winter had come with a vengeance. In the dark, the wind tore down the rocky Galilean hills. It tugged at the olive trees and dwarf oaks. It gusted rain. The weather would choose tonight to turn, Ballista thought sourly.
The wind had veered straight into their faces. The men marched hunched over, heads down and turned away, trying to find some shelter from the blasts.
Not long after midnight, the rain had stopped. Soon after, the first watch fires glittered on the hills. The bandits of Arbela knew they were coming. Ballista was unsurprised. As far as he had gathered, the Jews had no love of the Roman occupiers. Caesarea had a large Jewish population, and Sepphoris was a Jewish town. It was no wonder the brigands had been forewarned. One man’s bandit was another’s freedom fighter. Ballista set his shoulders. There was nothing to be done but press on.
Ballista trudged behind the native guides. The strap of the shield slung over his back dug painfully into his left shoulder. The sword belt over his right was only a little less painful. He did nothing to shift the weights. Any movement would expose part of him to the wind. Allfather, it was cold.
‘Dominus.’ Maximus’s voice broke into Ballista’s discomfort. ‘I cannot see Calgacus. The old bastard must have dropped back.’
Reluctantly, Ballista looked around. It was a dark night. He could not see far, but Maximus was right. Raising his voice over the keening wind, Ballista told Rutilus to take command and keep going; the standard bearer Gratius and secretary Hippothous were to carry on with the troops.
Ballista and Maximus stepped off the path. Slowly the soldiers passed, like mourners in a procession, only quieter.
Calgacus was near the rear of the column. He was staggering slightly. Ballista and Maximus fell in on either side. The Caledonian did not appear to notice.
‘Calgacus,’ Ballista called.
The old man did not respond. Swaying slightly, he carried on walking.
Calgacus stumbled, almost fell. They caught his arms.
‘I’m fine. Leave me alone.’ Calgacus’s speech was slurred.
‘Halt – that is an order.’
Calgacus stopped. He started to fall. Maximus grabbed him.
‘Halt the column,’ Ballista shouted to the nearest trooper. ‘Pass the order up the line.’
The backs of the nearest troops stopped moving. They stood bent over like beasts of burden.
Ballista and Maximus manoeuvred Calgacus to the side of the track, lowered him to lean against the trunk of a tree.
‘I am fine. Get the fuck off me.’ Calgacus’s words were thick, like those of a drunk. He shut his eyes and groaned. Now they had stopped, Ballista could feel the muscles in his own legs twitching, trying to cramp.
‘Dominus.’ It was a Dalmatian trooper. ‘Dominus, the rest of them, they have gone.’
Ballista peered into the night. His eyes streamed from the wind. The soldier was right. Six troopers and an empty path. Fuck. Someone had not heard the command over the noise of the marching and the wind. Or someone had been too far sunk in cold misery to understand what had been said. Fuck.
Ballista stood, wondering what to do. The wind plucked at his cloak. There were four watch fires visible on higher ground around them. Nine men left behind, one of them incapacitated. They were cut off, surrounded.
Ballista crouched down, gazed into Calgacus’s face. It was very pale in the darkness. The old man was shivering violently. That was good – he was not yet in the last stages of dying from exposure.
‘How goes it, old man?’
Calgacus smiled. ‘Fine.’ Drowsily, he shut his eyes.
Ballista slapped his face. ‘Wake up, you old bastard.’
Calgacus opened his eyes. They were not properly focused.
Ballista hugged the old man close. He spoke fiercely into his ear. ‘Go to sleep and you will die. And you are not going to die on me.’
Calgacus nodded.
Ballista got to his feet. The nearest fire was not far. There was no other way.
‘You four’ – Ballista pointed – ‘huddle round him, give him your body warmth. You two, keep watch each way down the track, keep moving, try and keep warm. Maximus and I will get fire.’
They got ready. At Maximus’s suggestion, they left their shields. A brigand may have a shield, but not a big circular army one. Now their silhouettes would not give them away.
‘You remember Pigeon Island?’ Maximus asked. It was getting on for two years ago, but to Ballista it seemed half a lifetime ago. On a little island south of Ephesus, the two of them had carried out a similar raid to snatch fire from a Borani watch camp in order to burn the barbarians’ longboat. ‘Sure, but this will be fun too.’
‘You are a very strange man,’ said Ballista.
They set off up the hill. Initially, Ballista led them away from the nearest fire. They needed to come up on it from downwind. There was no necessity for extreme caution. The howling wind should cover the noise of their approach, but they moved carefully anyway, a few steps apart, as if patrolling. The concentration needed took their minds off the cold.
Time largely loses meaning when you are climbing a dark, windswept hill with part of your mind on what will happen at the end of the climb. The wind sighed through the trees, branches creaked, stones turned under foot and mud tugged at their boots. It started raining again.
When they grew close, they slowed. About thirty paces away, they stopped behind a dwarf oak. Wiping the rai
n out of their eyes, they peered around the gnarled, slick trunk. Now the cold returned. Maximus passed Ballista some air-dried meat. He chewed it without thinking; it prevented his teeth chattering.
They could see two guards. They threw elongated, shifting shadows as they paced about, stamping their feet. There were other, indistinct, shapes huddled in blankets by the fire.
Ballista would have liked to observe longer, but there was no time. He touched Maximus’s shoulder. They clasped hands.
Stepping out from behind the oak, they walked forward. No point in running, risking a fall, until they were seen.
The man Ballista was after was unobservant. The northerner ran the last few paces anyway. His sword swung. The man started to turn. The blade caught him on the jawline. He screamed wordlessly. Retrieving the weapon, Ballista finished him with a powerful blow to the back of the neck.
Another man was rising from his blanket. Three quick steps, two chopping blows, and he sank down again. Ballista moved on. The next one had risen to his feet and was struggling to free his weapon. Ballista drove the steel into his stomach.
Turning, scanning for threats, all Ballista saw was Maximus finishing off a man on the ground. Seven dead. All over in a matter of moments.
A branch cracked up the hill. Dark shapes were moving through the trees; five, six, maybe more. Fuck. Surprise was on their side. Ballista and Maximus moved a little apart.
The first one tore downhill at Ballista, sword out in front. At the last moment, Ballista brought his blade down and across, driving his opponent’s weapon out to the right. Ballista dropped his left shoulder, braced himself. The man crashed into him. Using the impact, Ballista shrugged him off to the right.
Straightening, Ballista parried the next one’s sword to the left. He brought his elbow hard up into the man’s nose. As the man staggered back, Ballista cracked the pommel of his sword down into his face. He fell back, howling.
A quick step to the right, and Ballista arced his blade down at the first opponent, now scrambling to his feet. It bit into something. No time to check. Ballista spun round. A third bandit lunged. Ballista leapt backwards, arms up, arching his body. Sparks flashed as the blade scraped along the mail covering Ballista’s chest. He and his opponent were wedged together, face to face.
Warrior of Rome III Page 22
