Fire in the East

by Harry Sidebottom

‘It is over. Scribonius has run away. He is leaving you to shoulder the blame. If you remain silent, the best you can hope for is being broken to the ranks. If you tell me everything, things might go better for you. Was it Scribonius’s idea?’

  Turpio set his shoulders. ‘He is my commanding officer. I will not inform against him.’

  ‘Your loyalty does you some credit. But he deserves no loyalty. Like a coward, he has run.’ Ballista paused again. His headache was making him nauseous. ‘You will tell me everything. One way or another.’ The last words needed no emphasis. ‘If you tell me everything you have a chance of redemption, a chance of regaining your self-respect and the respect of your men. I will leave you to think.’

  Ballista turned and, followed by everyone except Turpio and Maximus, walked back through to the terrace. He went to lean on the rail. His head was splitting. The man on the donkey had disappeared.

  The first fat drops of rain landed. By the time they had got back under the portico the air was full of water. Turpio hadn’t needed long to think.

  ‘Gaius Scribonius Mucianus told me what we were going to do last year after the fighting to expel the Persians from Arete,’ Turpio said as soon as Ballista entered. ‘The cohors had taken casualties. He said it was a good moment to start the scheme.’ The centurion stopped to think. ‘It is as you say. Most of the men registered as on detached duty do not exist. Magdala and Chafer Avira do not exist. Or not any more. Becchufrayn is miles down the Euphrates. It is in Sassanid hands. There has not been a Roman soldier there for years. Castellum Arabum is real. Perhaps it is too new to feature on the official itineraries.’ He stopped.

  ‘What percentage did you take?’

  ‘Ten,’ Turpio answered promptly. ‘I deposited it, all of it, with a man in the town. I have not spent any of it. I can pay it all back.’

  Thunder crashed overhead. They were silent in the room.

  At last Ballista spoke. ‘What did he have over you that you had to join him?’

  Turpio did not speak.

  ‘Was it gambling debts? A woman? A boy?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ A flash of lightning lit the room. Turpio’s face looked whiter than ever.

  ‘Yes, if it could happen again.’

  ‘It cannot happen again,’ said Turpio.

  ‘I should have you beheaded in the middle of the campus martius.’ Ballista let his words hang in the air for a long time. ‘Instead, I appoint you acting commander of the cohors.’ Turpio looked stunned. ‘Now you must prove that you are a good officer. It is too late to get new recruits but, by next spring, I want you to have that cohors ready to fight. I want you to train them until they drop. Oh, and you can pay the money back to Demetrius. It can go towards replacement equipment.’

  Turpio began to thank Ballista, who cut him short. ‘This conversation need go no further than these walls. Just do not betray my trust.’

  They could hear the rain beating on the flat roof. Ballista’s headache had almost gone.

  VIII

  It had rained all night, then all day. Demetrius was beginning to wonder if it would ever stop. The previously unnoticed gutters on the terrace of the palace threw strong jets of water away from the side of the cliff. By late afternoon, in the bed of the northern ravine, there was a torrent capable of moving small rocks. At the mouth of the ravine the waters of the Euphrates had turned a muddy dun colour.

  The primeval flood must have started like this. Zeus, disgusted by the crimes of mankind, had sent a flood to put a stop to the killings, the human sacrifices and cannibalism. One man, Deucalion, warned by his immortal father the Titan Prometheus, had built an ark. Nine days later, guided by a dove, the ark had deposited Deucalion and his wife, Pyrrha, on Mount Parnassus - or, as others said, Mounts Aetna, Athos or Othrys. Others escaped to high ground, warned by the screaming of cranes or the howling of wolves. Sometimes Demetrius was unsure if Zeus had been right to relent.

  As soon as Iarhai’s invitation to dinner had arrived, Demetrius knew that it spelt trouble. Ballista had accepted instantly despite knowing that his acceptance was impolitic: it would further alienate Ogelos and Anamu. Demetrius was sure it was Bathshiba that made Ballista ignore such considerations.

  It was almost dark when the ten-strong party set out. The guests, Ballista and Mamurra, were accompanied by Demetrius, Bagoas, Maximus and five troopers of the equites singulares. The torches went out straight away in the torrential rain and within moments Demetrius knew that he was lost. He envied Ballista and Maximus their ability always to find their way.

  A porter ushered the party inside in response to their knock and Demetrius and Bagoas were swept along as Ballista and Mamurra were led deeper into the house.

  The dining room was a mixture of east and west. Underfoot was a typical Greek or Roman mosaic depicting the remains of a meal: fish and animal bones, nut shells, olive stones, discarded cherries. Persian rugs hung from the walls. Elaborate metal lamps cast a soft light. Braziers warmed and perfumed the room with cinnamon, balsam, myrrh.

  There was just one sigma couch, a semicircle with settings for seven, with one table in the middle. Four men stood drinking conditum, warm, spiced wine. One was the host, two Demetrius did not recognize, and one was Acilius Glabrio.

  ‘Welcome to my house, Ballista and Mamurra.’ Iarhai held out his hand.

  ‘Thank you for inviting us.’ They smiled and shook his hand.

  Ballista turned to Acilius Glabrio. ‘Tribunus Laticlavius.’

  ‘Dux.’ Neither smiled.

  Iarhai offered the new arrivals a drink, which both accepted, and introduced the other two men. Demetrius marked them down as umbrae, shadows, clients of the host. ‘My daughter said that we were not to wait for her, that she would join us soon.’

  Both Ballista and Acilius Glabrio brightened visibly. Demetrius’s spirits sank.

  ‘Tell me, Dux, how do you find our weather?’ Iarhai smiled.

  ‘Wonderful. I am surprised that the eupatrid senators of Rome do not all abandon the Bay of Naples and begin to build their shamefully extravagant holiday villas here.’ As he said the words Ballista regretted them. Acilius Glabrio would not take kindly to a barbarian laughing at the patrician classes. He turned what he hoped was an inoffensive, open smile on the tribune. He was met by a face like a blank wall. It seemed that every time they met they disliked each other more. Would Acilius Glabrio’s attitude extend to disobeying orders? Surely he wouldn’t desert or turn traitor like Scribonius Mucianus?

  ‘Salted almonds?’ Iarhai stepped between the two men. ‘Some fool once told me that if you eat enough almonds before drinking you never get drunk.’

  Mamurra joined in. ‘I once heard that if you wear a certain gem you also never get drunk - an amethyst possibly?’ The uncomfortable moment passed.

  ‘Let us go to the table.’ Iarhai took the highest place on the far left and indicated where the others should recline, Ballista next to him, an empty place reserved for Bathshiba, Acilius Glabrio then Mamurra. The two umbrae occupied the places of least honour.

  The first course was brought in. By the standards of the rich of the imperium, and there could be no doubt that the host was one of their number, the food was unostentatious. Salted anchovies hid under slices of hard-boiled eggs, there were snails cooked in white wine, garlic and parsley, and a salad oflettuce and rocket- nicely balanced: rocket was thought to be lubricious, lettuce antaphrodisiac.

  The diners ate. Demetrius noted that, while the others were being quite abstemious, Ballista and Iarhai were drinking hard.

  Arrive late, when the lamps are lit;

  Make a graceful entrance - Delay enhances charm

  As he recited the fragment of Latin poetry, Acilius Glabrio rose gracefully to his feet.

  Bathshiba stood, backlit in the doorway. Even Demetrius had to admit that she was stunning. She was wearing a thin robe of white silk which clung to and emphasized her full breasts and hips. Demetrius knew she would be almost irresistible to Ballista. Th
e other men scrambled to their feet, none with the grace of Acilius Glabrio.

  Bathshiba gave the young patrician a dazzling smile, her teeth very white against the dark olive of her skin. As she walked to the couch her breasts swayed, heavy yet firm, obviously unfettered under the robe. She graciously allowed Acilius Glabrio to give her his hand as she took her place, smiling a smaller smile at Ballista to her side.

  The main course was, again, almost aggressive in its simplicity: wild boar, lamb meatballs, cabbage dressed with oil, marrow with a pepper sauce and local flat bread. Two musicians, one with a lyre, the other a flute, began to play softly. Both looked vaguely familiar to Demetrius.

  For a time, Bathshiba’s arrival made the conversation falter slightly. Her generous cleavage and olive skin obviously attracted both Ballista and Acilius Glabrio, yet the northerner seemed to be finding it hard to think of much to say. After only a short while, he resumed his conversation with Iarhai about the relative endurance levels of the camel and the horse. Acilius Glabrio, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying himself. Attentive, light-hearted and witty, he clearly thought himself any girl’s ideal dinner companion. Although the conversation was in Greek, he could not resist the occasional sally into Latin verse:

  Wine rouses the heart, inclines to passion:

  Heavy drinking dilutes and banishes care

  In a sea of laughter, gives the poor man self-confidence,

  Smoothes out wrinkles, puts paid

  To pain and sorrow. Then our age’s rarest endowment,

  Simplicity, opens all hearts, as the god

  Dissipates guile. Men’s minds have often been enchanted

  By girls at such times: ah, Venus in the wine

  Is fire within fire!

  The final course showed the same almost flamboyant restraint that had marked the previous two: dried fruits, Damascene prunes, local figs and dates, pistachios and almonds, a smoked cheese, and some poached pears and fresh apples. The wine was changed to a sweet dark Lesbian.

  Demetrius did not like the way things looked. If anything, Ballista and Iarhai were drinking even faster now. There was an awkward glint in the eye of his kyrios and a mulish set to his shoulders. Clearly he was annoyed by Acilius Glabrio’s ease with Bathshiba. The young patrician was liable at any moment to bring out the worst in the northerner. In all honesty, the gathering frequency of the tribune’s recitation of Latin poetry was beginning to irritate Demetrius too. After each display the young patrician sat back with a smile which suggested that he was enjoying a private joke. He carefully avoided naming the poet. His audience was either too polite or too reluctant to show its ignorance to ask. Like the majority of educated Greeks, Demetrius claimed ignorance of Latin literature in public while privately knowing a great deal about it. He knew the poetry, but for the moment could not quite place it.

  An exaggerated run on the lyre ended a tune and drew Demetrius’s attention to the musicians. He suddenly realized who they were: they were not slave musicians at all, they were two of Iarhai’s mercenaries. He had heard them play at the campfire. With mounting apprehension, the young Greek looked round the room. Iarhai’s four slaves were all older, capable-looking men. And they weren’t slaves - they were mercenaries too. Although he could notbe sure, the two umbrae relaxing at the table could well be two officers of the mercenary troop. Gods, he could kill us all in a moment. A scene in Plutarch came to mind: Mark Antony and Octavian are dining on Sextus Pompey’s flagship, and the pirate Menas whispers in the admiral’s ear, ‘Shall I cut the cables and make you master of the whole world?’

  ‘Demetrius!’ Ballista was waving his empty cup impatiently and the Greek boy snapped back to the present. Iarhai and Ballista were happily drinking together. Why would the protector of caravans want the northerner dead? Even Sextus Pompey had rejected the offer: ‘Menas, would that you had acted, not spoken about it beforehand.’

  ... don’t waste precious time -

  Have fun while you can, in your salad days; the years glide

  Past like a moving stream,

  And the water that’s gone can never be recovered,

  The lost hour never returns.

  Acilius Glabrio leant back, a half-smile playing on his lips, his hand fleetingly brushing Bathshiba’s arm.

  Ovid. Demetrius had it. And the poem was ‘The Art of Love’. The pretentious swine. Acilius Glabrio had been reading it only yesterday - so much for his scholarship. So much for his smug little smiles. Demetrius remembered how the passage continued:

  You who today lock out your lovers will lie

  Old and cold and alone in bed, your door never broken

  Open at brawling midnight, never at dawn

  Scattered roses bright on your threshold! Too soon - ah, horror! -

  Flesh goes slack and wrinkled, the clear

  Complexion is lost, those white streaks you swear date back to

  Your schooldays suddenly spread,

  You’re grey-haired.

  The passages Acilius Glabrio had recited had been a series of snide jokes at the expense of the other diners, whom he undoubtedly thought far too ill-educated to detect him.

  How did that passage about arriving late go on?

  Plain you may be, but at night you’ll look fine to the tipsy:

  Soft Lights and shadows will mask your faults.

  Demetrius could not say anything to anyone at the moment. Indeed, if he did tell a drunk Ballista the results might well be catastrophic. But at least he had unravelled the smug Roman patrician’s sly little secret.

  Iarhai made a signal, and wreathes of fresh roses and bowls of perfume appeared, symbols that the time for eating was over and the time for serious drinking and toasting about to start. Demetrius placed a wreath on Ballista’s head and put his bowl of perfume by his right hand. After anointing himself, Ballista gestured the young Greek to stand closer. The northerner took the spare wreath which Iarhai had provided for just this reason and placed it on Demetrius’s head. He then anointed the boy.

  ‘Long life, Demetrius.’

  ‘Long life, Kyrios.’

  ‘A toast’ - Acilius Glabrio had not thought enough of his slave to anoint or wreath him - ‘a toast to our host the synodiarch, the caravan protector, the strategos, the general. The warrior whose sword never sleeps. To the man who waded ankle-deep in Persian blood to free this city. To Iarhai!’

  Before the company could drink, Iarhai turned and glared at the young Roman. The synodiarch’s battered face was twisted with barely suppressed anger. A muscle twitched in the broken right cheekbone.

  ‘No! No one shall drink to that in my house.’ Iarhai looked at Ballista. ‘Yes, I helped end the Sassanid occupation of this city.’ His lip curled in disgust. ‘You are probably still too young to understand,’ he said to the northerner, ‘that one probably never will understand’ - he jerked his head at Acilius Glabrio and paused. His eyes were on Ballista but he had withdrawn into himself. ‘Many of the Persian garrison had their family with them. Yes, I waded ankle-deep through blood - the blood of women, children, babes in arms. Our brave fellow citizens rose up and massacred them, raped, tortured, then killed them - all of them. They boasted they were “cleansing” the city of the “reptiles”.’

  Iarhai’s gaze came back into focus. He looked at Bathshiba then at Ballista. ‘All my life I have killed. It is what a synodiarch does. You protect the caravans. You talk to the nomads, the tent-dwellers. You lie, cheat, bribe, compromise. And when they all fail, you kill.

  ‘I have dreams. Bad dreams.’ A facial muscle twitched. ‘Such dreams I would not wish even on Anamu and Ogelos ... Do you believe in an afterlife, a punishment in an afterlife?’ Again his gaze became unfocussed. ‘Sometimes I dream that I have died. I stand in the grove of black poplars by the ocean stream. I pay the ferryman. I cross the hateful river. Rhadamanthys judges me. I have to take the road to the punishment fields of Tartarus. And they are waiting for me, the “kindly ones”, the demons of retribution and, b
ehind them, the others: all those I have killed, their wounds still fresh. There is no need to hurry. We have eternity.’ Iarhai sighed a great sigh then smiled a self-deprecating smile. ‘But perhaps I have no monopoly on inner daemons ...’

  The patrician drawl of Acilius Glabrio broke the silence. ‘Discussing the immortality of the soul. This is a true symposium, a veritable Socratic dialogue. Not that I ever suspected for a moment that after-dinner conversation in this esteemed house would resemble that at the dinner of Trimalchio in Petronius’s Satyricon.’ Everything about his manner suggested that was just what he thought. ‘You know, all those dreadful jumped-up, ill-educated freedmen talking nonsense about werewolves and the like.’

  Ballista swung round heavily. His face was flushed, his eyes unnaturally bright. ‘My father’s name is Isangrim. It means “Grey-Mask”. When Woden calls, Isangrim lays down his spear, offers the Allfather his sword. He dances and howls before the shield wall. He wears the wolfskin coat.’

  There was a stunned silence. Demetrius could hear the oil hissing in one of the lamps.

  ‘Gods below, are you saying that your father is a werewolf?’ Acilius Glabrio exclaimed.

  Before the northerner could answer, Bathshiba began to recite in Greek:

  Hungry as wolves that rend and bolt raw flesh,

  Hearts filled with battle-frenzy that never dies -

  Off on the cliffs, ripping apart some big-antlered stag

  They gorge on the kill till their jaws drip red with blood

  ... But the fury, never shaken,

  Builds inside their chests.

  No one in the imperium couldfail to recognize the poetry ofHomer.

  Bathshiba smiled. ‘You see, the father of the Dux Ripae could not be in better company when he prepares to fight like a wolf. He is in the company of Achilleus and his Myrmidons.’

  She glanced at her father. He took the hint and gently indicated that it was time for his guests to depart.