Fire in the East

by Harry Sidebottom

  It was now the third hour. For the third time, Gaius Scribonius Mucianus, Tribunus Cohortis, commanding officer of Cohors XX, had not turned up. Was he deliberately trying to undermine Ballista by showing ostentatious disrespect?

  Whatever was happening with the tribune, Turpio had been given a direct order. If the auxiliary unit was not on the parade ground in the next few moments, the first centurion would be later - in the middle, tied to a stake, his ribs bared by the flogging.

  Ballista’s rising temper was stemmed when a mounted soldier appeared from behind the barracks block and conveyed the request of the first centurion that Cohors XX be allowed to begin its manoeuvres.

  The infantrymen of Cohors XX marched on to the campus martius in a column of fives. There should have been 960 of them but, to the various experienced military eyes on the tribunal, it was obvious there was nowhere near that number. The column executed a simple series of manoeuvres, very shabbily: century collided with century, man bumped into man.

  The order was given for the first rank to shoot. Ballista counted several seconds between the first arrow and the last. By the turn of the fifth rank, almost all semblance of shooting by volleys had disappeared. For some seconds after the order to cease, arrows still arced through the air. It was a sign of very poor discipline that a bowman who had taken an arrow from his quiver, notched it and drawn his bow would disobey an order rather than go to the trouble of putting it back. The unit’s manoeuvring to re-form as a line at the far end of the campus martius was, if anything, worse than its earlier efforts.

  ‘Where the fuck are the rest of them, and how come, of those who turned up, only about half have all their kit?’ Maximus whispered in Ballista’s ear.

  Ballista thought the same. The only redeeming feature that he could see was that the individual marksmanship was not too bad; most of the arrows were fairly closely grouped around the man-sized targets of wood inside the western wall.

  A trumpet sounded Pursuit! and, after an interval, two groups of horsemen - presumably two turmae of Cohors XX - galloped on to the campus martius. There looked to be about sixty troopers in each. The nearer appeared to be the turma of Cocceius which had accompanied Ballista from Seleuceia, but the troopers in both groups were so lacking in order that it was hard to be certain of anything. They approached the fixed targets and, as soon as they were within range, began shooting arrows. At fifty yards each trooper wheeled his mount to the right and attempted to execute the Parthian shot, firing backwards over the horse’s quarters as he galloped away. As the turmae were not in disciplined columns but rode as two amorphous clumps, this was a manoeuvre fraught with the dangers of trooper shooting trooper and horse colliding with horse. In the event it passed off not too badly. One horse bolted, refusing to turn and galloping straight ahead. Its rider threw himself off before he reached the target area where the arrows were falling. Another horse, turning and finding one of its fellows heading straight for it, dug its feet in and refused. Its rider shot over its neck and was deposited on the sand.

  While this was going on, the other three turmae had entered quietly and taken up a four-deep line to the right of the parade ground, but these seemed barely at half strength, about thirty troopers in each. Ballista could see what Turpio was trying to do: to disguise both that the unit was massively under strength and that its units were in a dreadful state of training. The centurion must have stripped men from three of the five turmae to bring just two up to strength, hoping that the antics of these two full-strength turmae would draw attention away from the undermanning of the others.

  When the two loose horses had been caught and their troopers remounted, the original two turmae formed up in front of their companions. An order rang out for them each to perform the Cantabrian Circle, little more than a simple piece of formation riding in which a cavalry unit galloped in a circle, always turning to the right to keep its shielded side to the enemy. As each man came to the point closest to the enemy he shot his weapon at a target. Every mounted unit in the empire practised it but Ballista had never heard of a Roman army actually employing it in battle.

  At first all went well. The campus was filled with two whirling circles of horsemen, turning in the same direction as the sun. The horses moved at an easy canter. The noise of drumming hooves, the twang of the bows, the whoosh of the arrows tearing through the air, the thump as they hit, bounced back off the walls. Dust rose in the air. More and more arrows flew. Then disaster struck. The only real difficulty with the Cantabrian Circle was if the horsemen lost the line of the circle - cornered too fast, or spun out of the intended path. The latter happened. One horseman strayed from the nearer circle. The frantic efforts of a trooper from the further one to get out of the way merely confused his mount. The collision was sickening. The two horses and men went down in a tangle of limbs and bodies. After a moment one horse struggled to its feet and ran off. Some seconds later, its rider sat up. But the other man lay motionless, and his horse thrashed with awful screams as it tried to rise with a broken leg.

  Now there were long delays before the medical orderlies carried off the motionless trooper. Ballista noticed that they used a door instead of a stretcher which showed their complete lack ofpreparedness but, at the same time, a certain ingenuity. It was also some time before the unit’s farrier arrived to put down the injured horse. While three men sat on the doomed animal, the farrier pulled its head back. With an almost unbearable affection he stroked its muzzle, then pulled the glinting knife across its throat. The initial spray of blood shot out several yards; then cane the arterial blood. It spread quickly, relentlessly over the sand. The dying horse’s efforts to breath through its severed windpipe added a pink foam to the bright-red pool.

  Eventually the cohors had clumsily manoeuvred itself to stand before the tribunal. Many of the men had a hangdog air. They looked not at their new Dux but at the ground or at the back of the man in front of them. An unnerving number, however, looked up at Ballista with dumb insolence, the very set of their shoulders challenging this northern barbarian.

  What will I say to them? thought Ballista. Allfather, how am I going to play this?

  ‘Silence! Silence in the ranks for Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Egregius, Dux Ripae.’

  A murmuring continued.

  ‘Silence in the ranks!’ bellowed Turpio. This time, there was some response.

  ‘Milites,’ said Ballista, ‘it seems to me that military manoeuvres have their own rules. Add too much, and the whole thing becomes an over-complicated pantomime but, equally, take too much away, and you are left with nothing to show the skill of the units.’ Ballista paused. The murmuring was stilled.

  ‘You carried out very few manoeuvres. The infantry did not adopt skirmish order, did not countermarch. The cavalry tried no complicated manoeuvres; neither the xynema nor the touloutegon.’ The murmuring returned. ‘Yet you are not to be blamed too savagely. Your depleted numbers and your lack of equipment point to your being neglected by your officers, as do your limited range of manoeuvres and your limited success in carrying them out. Your marksmanship, however, points to your own skill.’

  The men were silent. More of them looked up at Ballista. Now it was not just those whose demeanour said ‘fuck you’ who would catch Ballista’s eye.

  ‘By tonight you will have a new commander. In two days’ time you will begin to train again. By the spring, Cohors XX Palmyrenorum Milliaria Equitata will be at the peak of efficiency, as befits a proud unit, one established under Marcus Aurelius, one which has campaigned under Lucius Verus, Septimius Severus, Caracalla, Valerian and Gallienus.’ Again Ballista concluded: ‘All except essential details, to be determined by First Centurion Titus Flavius Turpio, will take a day’s leave.’

  Again the troops cheered and, in no better order than before, the unit made its way off the campus martius.

  The courier stood by the head of his camel and waited. The telones, the customs official, had disappeared into the registry on the ground floor of the
southern tower of the Palmyrene Gate. The courier looked up at the northern wall of the courtyard between the two great wooden gates. Above head height the wall was plastered and painted with an offertory scene. Glancing down, the courier noticed a merchant come out of the registry, climb on a donkey and, leading another donkey, ride off. The courier returned to studying the wall. Below head height the wall was plain brick, but covered in graffiti, most scratched or painted in Greek or Aramaic, some in Latin. Some just consisted of a man’s name and that of his father. For the most part, these two words were preceded by ‘I thank you, Tyche of Arete.’ Without having to look, the courier knew the southern wall was much the same.

  ‘Ah, it is you again,’ said the telones. ‘Business is good.’

  ‘No, business is bad,’ replied the courier.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Downriver. To Charax. To Persia.’

  ‘Men of business need their letters to get through no matter what politics says. What do you have to declare?’ The customs officer began to open the near-side pannier on the camel.

  ‘Nothing. There is nothing in there except my spare clothes and bedding.’

  ‘I had a philosopher come through here not long ago,’ said the customs officer, rummaging in a desultory way. ‘He looked the complete part - naked except for a rough cloak, big bushy beard, hair down to his arse. Dirty. Absolutely fucking filthy. But he was no poor Cynic. Had a pretty-boy attendant, a shorthand writer and a calligrapher to write down his wisdom.’

  The courier watched the boukolos, the controller of herds, on the other side of the road counting a herd of goats a tent-dweller wanted to bring into town to sell. He wondered how soon it would rain.

  ‘So, I say to the philosopher, “What are you taking out of the town?” and he says, “Temperance, Justice, Discipline” ... and a couple more forget.’ The customs official moved round the camel, and started to open the other pannier.

  ‘There is nothing in there except the three sealed writing blocks that I have to deliver.’

  ‘So then I say, “Well, it does not matter what fancy names you have given them, you will have to pay export duty on these whores!” And he says something like, “You cannot tax virtue!”’ The customs official laughed. The courier smiled politely.

  The telones did up the pannier, the writing tablets undisturbed inside. The courier passed some coins into his hand. ‘Talk about not getting a joke. Silly fucker is standing just where you are, in the middle of the road, with his pretty boy, shorthand writer and calligrapher. Not a girl in sight! Silly fucker!’

  The courier climbed into his saddle, flicked his whip and the camel got to its feet.

  ‘Safe journey.’

  And so it was that the traitor’s letter left Arete.

  Big dark clouds were piling up in the north-west. Now and then a rumble of thunder was just audible. Ballista had a nagging headache. It would get better when the storm reached Arete.

  Several hours had passed since the manoeuvres on the campus martius. What had promised to be a long day had become even longer. As ordered, prompt at the fourth hour, Acilius Glabrio, his accountant, and his secretary had presented themselves at the principia. The exactor and the librarius had explained all the relevant paperwork in minute detail to the new Dux Ripae, his praefectus fabrum and his accensus. Ballista, Mamurra and Demetrius had concentrated hard. Acilius Glabrio had sat in a chair examining his highly ornate sword belt. Absolutely everything with the vexillatio of Legio IIII Scythica was in good order. The unit was virtually at full strength; very few men were missing, in hospital or in jail. Pay and provisions were up to date. Not only were the men fully equipped but there was quite some number of weapons, shields and armour in reserve. After nearly two hours Ballista had turned to Acilius Glabrio, who was now reading a book of poetry, Ovid’s The Art of Love, and congratulated him on the state of his unit. The young patrician took it as no more than his due. If anything, he seemed somewhat put out to find himself in a position where he could be commended by the likes of Ballista.

  The sixth hour, of course, was lunchtime. Yet that was when Ballista had ordered Turpio to present the accounts of Cohors XX. Hunger never improved Ballista’s temper. When the first centurion had arrived, with the unit’s exactor and librarius in tow but without its commanding officer, the northerner had made a conscious effort to rein in his anger. Not even asking about Gaius Scribonius Mucianus, he ordered all the paperwork they had with them to be handed over. Next, he announced that they would go next door to the headquarters of the cohors. Military clerks had scattered like chickens as the party, headed by Ballista, swept into the converted Temple of Azzanathcona. In the record office Ballista had demanded the two general registers previous to the current one, and the register of soldiers’ money on deposit ‘with the standards’ in the unit’s bank. Deciding to enlist hunger on his side, Ballista commanded that Turpio, the accountant and librarian should attend him at the palace at the tenth hour, dinner-time (and if by some miracle he appears before then, you can bring your tribunus with you - under arrest). He said heavily that this would allow time for he and his staff to study the documents closely, very closely indeed.

  Back at the palace, Calgacus had produced a late lunch: cold roast partridge, black olives, the local round unleavened bread, figs, nuts and dried damsons. This was spread at one end of a long table in the dining room. At the other were the accounts of Cohors XX.

  After they had eaten they had got down to work. Mamurra had gone through the current general register reading out the name of each soldier and the annotation that indicated his posting. A straight line meant that the soldier was with the unit and available for duty; ad frum(entum) that he had gone to secure supplies of wheat; ad hord(eum) that he was getting barley for the horses; ad leones that he was hunting lions; and so on. Finally, there were the unlucky ones against whose name was just the Greek letter theta, the army shorthand for dead. Other annotations indicated where detachments of the cohors were stationed - Appadana, Becchufrayn, Barbalissus, Birtha, Castellum Arabum, Chafer Avira and Magdala.

  At last they had finished. But the pattern had emerged almost from the start: on paper the unit was at full strength - but there were far too few straight lines and far too many soldiers off hunting lions or stationed in places with strange names. There were just two thetas.

  The next stage was to cross-reference the information in the general register with the list of deposits ‘with the standards’ to find those who did and did not have savings in each type of posting.

  It was approaching the ninth hour, and they were about two-thirds of the way through. Again a pattern had emerged: almost all those with just a line against their name had savings. Next to none of those on detached duty had a denarius to their name.

  The thunder was closer now. Flashes of lightning lit the interior of the line of black clouds. There was a yellow tinge to the rest of the sky. Ballista’s headache was no better. He had ordered food, and issued instructions that, when they arrived, the accountant and librarian were to be put in a room off the first courtyard. Calgacus was to make sure that Turpio heard them being offered food and drink. Turpio himself was to wait in the main reception hall off the second courtyard. He was not to be offered even a chair and Maximus was to keep an eye on him - or hang about in such a way that Turpio thought he was keeping an eye on him.

  Calgacus coughed. ‘They are here.’

  ‘Good, let him sweat a bit.’

  Ballista walked up and down the terrace for a while. On the other side of the Euphrates a man on a donkey was heading for the river. Ballista wondered if he would get there before the rain came. He turned to Mamurra and Demetrius. ‘Bring him in. We might as well get on with it.’

  ‘First Centurion.’

  ‘Dominus.’ Turpio looked at the end of his tether. His shoulders were rounded and his head stuck forward. There were blue-black pouches under his eyes.

  Ballista leant on his fingertips on the table. He look
ed down at the papers for some time, then suddenly looked up. ‘How long have you and Gaius Scribonius Mucianus been defrauding the military treasury?’

  Turpio did not flinch. ‘I have no idea what you mean, Dominus.’

  ‘It is the oldest trick in the book.’ Ballista tried to suppress the jet of anger that rose in him. ‘The first centurion and the unit commander conspire together.’ Turpio looked away. Ballista continued remorselessly. ‘When a man dies or is transferred he is kept on the books. When recruits are called for, invented names are entered. The imaginary recruits and the dead are sent on “detached duty”. Their pay is still drawn. It is kept by the commander and the first centurion.’ Ballista paused. ‘You would have me believe that this unit has eighty-five men hunting lions. Several of the places you would have me believe large detachments of this unit are stationed - Castellum Arabum, Chafer Avira, Magdala - do not exist in the official itineraries of this area.’ At the first name Turpio looked up, then looked down again. ‘It worked well for a time. Now it is over. Gaius Scribonius Mucianus and you were quite thorough, but not thorough enough. You failed to create savings for the imaginary soldiers.’ Ballista leant further towards Turpio.