Fire in the East

by Harry Sidebottom

  He had reached the tower at the north-east angle of the city walls. He had walked the northern battlements from near the temple of Azzanathcona, now the headquarters of the part-mounted and part-infantry Cohors XX Palmyrenorum, current effective strength 180 cavalry, 642 infantry. Repetition helped in memorizing the details. It was a stretch of about three hundred paces and not a single tower. (Silently he repeated ‘about 300 paces and no towers’). He climbed down the steps from the wall walk before the sentry at the tower had time to challenge or question him.

  The dinner last night had been dangerous. That odious tribune Acilius Glabrio had been right. Yes, he was a spy. Yes, he would do them all the harm he could. He would learn everything in the heart of the familia of the Dux Ripae, unravel their secrets, find where their weaknesses lay. Then he would escape to the advancing all-conquering Sassanid army. Shapur, King of Kings, King of Aryans and Non-Aryans, beloved of Mazda, would raise him from the dirt, kiss his eyes, welcome him home. The past would be wiped clean. He would be free to start his life as a man again.

  It was not that he had been treated in any way badly by Ballista or any of his familia. With the exception of the Greek boy, Demetrius, they had almost welcomed him. It was simply that they were the enemy. Here in Arete the Dux Ripae was the leader of the unrighteous. The unrighteous denied Mazda. They denied the bahram fires. Causing pain to the righteous, they chanted services to the demons, calling on them by name. False in speech, unrighteous in action, justly were they margazan, accursed.

  He was now approaching the military granaries. All eight were the same. The loading platforms were at one end, the doors the other, both closely guarded. At the sides there were louvres, but set high up under the eaves, too high to gain access. There were, however, ventilation panels below waist level - a slight man might be able to squeeze through; any man could pour inflammable materials through. The granaries were brick with stone roofs but the floors, walls and beams inside would be made of wood, and food stuffs, especially oil and grain, burnt well. One incendiary device would, at best, burn only two granaries, and only then if the wind was in the right direction or the fire fierce enough to jump the narrow eavesdrip between the target and its immediate neighbour. But then simultaneous attacks would cause more confusion, and lead to greater loss.

  Bagoas had been unable to discover the quantities of supplies currently held in the granaries. He was hoping to get some idea by looking through the doors now.

  Moving between the first two pairs of granaries, he saw that all the doors to his left were shut, but that the first two to his right were open. As he passed he tried to see inside. There were two legionaries on guard up by the door, four more off duty lounging at the foot of the steps. They were staring at him. Hurriedly, he looked away.

  ‘Hey, bum boy, come over here. We’ll teach you a thing or two.’ The Persian boy tried to walk past normally, as if unconcerned. Then the comments stopped. Out of the corner of his eye he could see one of the legionaries talking low and earnestly to his friends. He was pointing. Now they were all looking more intently at him; then they started to follow him.

  He did not want to run, but he did not want to dawdle; he wanted to walk normally. He felt himself quicken his pace. He could sense that they quickened theirs as well.

  Perhaps they just happened to be going the same way; perhaps they were not following him at all. If he turned down one of the alleys separating the pairs of granaries, maybe they would just walk on by. He turned into the alley on the left. A moment later they turned into the alley too. He ran.

  Sandals slipping on the dust, kicking up odd pieces of rubbish, Bagoas sprinted as fast as he could. Behind him he heard running feet. If he turned right at the end of the alley and past the loading bays, he had only to turn that final corner and he would be in sight of the northern door of the palace of the Dux Ripae.

  He skidded round the first corner and almost ran straight into an ox cart. Sidestepping the lumbering vehicle, he put his head down and sprinted once more. Behind him he heard a commotion; shouting, cursing. He was pulling clear. There were just a few paces, just one corner to go.

  As he cleared the corner of the granary he knew there was no escape. Two legionaries were pounding towards him. The lane was narrow, no wider than ten paces. There was no way he could dodge and twist past both of them. He stopped, looking round. There was the northern door to the palace, only some thirty or forty paces away - but it was the other side of the legionaries. To his left was the blank wall of the palace, to his right the unscalable side of a granary. Despite his speed, despite the ox cart, the other two would be on him in a moment.

  Something hit him hard in the back, sending him sprawling forward into the dirt. His legs were seized. He was dragged backwards. Face down, his arms were being skinned on the surface of the lane.

  He kicked out with his right leg. There was a grunt of pain. He jerked half to his feet, yelling for help. He saw the two equites singulares on guard duty at the palace door look uninterestedly at him. Before he could call again a heavy blow struck his right ear. His world swam around him. His face hit dirt again.

  ‘Traitor! You dirty little traitor.’ He was manhandled into the narrow eavesdrip that ran between the nearest two granaries, hauled to his feet, pushed into one of the bays formed by the buttresses projecting from each storehouse. He was slammed back against a wall.

  ‘Think you can walk around as you like, do you? Walk right past us as you spy on us?’ One of the legionaries got the boy’s neck in a painful grip, brought his face inches from the boy’s. ‘Our dominus told us what you are - fucking spy, fucking bum boy. Well, your barbarian isn’t around to save you now.’ He punched Bagoas hard in the stomach.

  Two legionaries pulled the boy upright and held on to him as the other two hit him repeatedly in the face and stomach.

  ‘We’re going to have some fun with you, boy. Then we’re going to put a stop to your games for ever.’ There was a flurry of blows, then they let him go. He fell to the ground. Now they took it in turns to kick him.

  Bagoas curled into a ball. The kicking continued. He could smell the leather of their military boots, taste the sharp iron tang of his own blood. No, Mazda, no ... don’t let this be like the tent-dwellers, no. For no reason that he could follow, a fragment of poetry came into his mind.

  I sometimes think that never blows so red

  The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled.

  The kicking paused.

  ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’

  Through his bruised, half closed eyes, the Persian boy saw Calgacus outlined at the end of the eavesdrip.

  ‘Oh, aye, you are hard men - the four of you on one boy. Maybe you think you could take on one old man as well.’

  To the Persian boy’s eyes, Calgacus looked younger and bigger than ever before. But it could end only one way. The youth wanted to shout, wanted to tell the old Caledonian to run, tell him that it would do no good him being beaten, maybe killed, as well, but no words came.

  ‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you, you old fucker.’ The legionaries were all facing Calgacus.

  There was an exclamation of surprise and pain. One of the legionaries shot forward, tripping over the Persian boy’s outstretched legs. The other three looked stupidly down at their friend. As they started to turn the youth saw Maximus’s fist smash into the face of the legionary on the left. The man wore an almost comical look of shock as he slumped back against the wall, his nose seemingly spread right across his face, fountaining blood.

  The legionary that Maximus had knocked forward had landed on his hands and knees. Calgacus stepped forward and kicked him sharply in the face. His head snapped back and he collapsed motionless, moaning quietly.

  The two legionaries still on their feet glanced at each other, unsure what to do.

  ‘Pick up these pieces of shit and get the fuck out of here,’ said Maximus.

  The soldiers hesitated, then did as they were told. They supported the
ir contubernales down the eavesdrip. When they reached the road, the one with the badly broken nose called back that it was not over, they would get all three of them.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ muttered Maximus as he bent over Bagoas. ‘Give a hand, Calgacus, let’s get this little bastard home.’

  I sometimes think that never blows so red

  The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled.

  The fragment was running through the Persian boy’s thoughts just before he passed out.

  At a gesture from Ballista the soldier again knocked on the door. So far it had been a very trying day. Ballista had set out at the second hour of daylight accompanied by Demetrius, two scribes, three messengers, Romulus, who today did not have to carry the heavy standard, and two equites singulares. As the ten men had walked to the southern end of Wall Street, some legionaries in the distance, far enough away not to be recognizable, had howled like wolves.

  Ballista and his party were inspecting all the properties near the western desert wall that would soon be destroyed, encased in rubble and mud. The complaints voiced at dinner the previous night by the caravan protectors were on the lips of all the residents. This morning they seemed to have added meaning. They were being voiced by the priests whose temples would be torn down, whose gods would be evicted. They were being voiced by the men whose houses would be razed, whose families would be made homeless. Some of these were defiant; others fought back tears, their wives and children peeping round the doors from the women’s rooms. Whether they saw him as an irresponsible imperial favourite, a power-drunk army officer or just a typically stupid barbarian, none of them saw Ballista’s actions as anything but a cruel and thoughtless whim.

  With some irritation, Ballista again gestured for the soldier to knock on the door of the house. They did not have all day, and they were only at the end of the third block out of eight. This time, as soon as the soldier finished hammering, the door opened.

  In the gloom of the vestibule stood a short man dressed as a philosopher: rough cloak and tunic, barefoot, wild long hair and beard. In one hand he held a staff, the other fingered a wallet hanging from his belt.

  ‘I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, Dux-’

  ‘I know,’ the man rudely interrupted. It was hard to see clearly, as Ballista was looking from the bright sunlight into the relative darkness, yet the man seemed very agitated. His left hand moved from his wallet and began to fidget with his belt buckle, which was shaped like a fish.

  Allfather, here we go again, thought Ballista. Let’s try and deflect this before he starts ranting.

  ‘Which school of philosophy do you follow?’

  ‘What?’ The man looked blankly at Ballista as if the words meant nothing to him.

  ‘You are dressed like a Cynic, or possibly a hardline Stoic. Although, of course, the symbols are appropriate for almost all the schools.’

  ‘No ... no, I am no philosopher ... certainly not, nothing of the sort.’ He looked both offended and frightened.

  ‘Are you the owner of this house?’ Ballista pressed on. He had wasted enough time.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you fetch him?’

  ‘I do not know ... he is busy.’ The man looked wildly at Ballista and the soldiers. ‘I will get him. Follow me.’ Suddenly he turned and led the way through the vestibule into a small, paved central atrium. ‘Inspect what you will,’ he said then, without warning, vanished up some steps to the first floor.

  Ballista and Demetrius looked at each other.

  ‘Well, one cannot say that philosophy has brought him inner peace,’ said the Greek.

  ‘Only the wise man is happy,’ quoted Ballista, although in all honesty he was not certain where the quote came from. ‘Let’s have a look around.’

  There was an open portico off to their left. Straight ahead they entered a long room which ran almost the length of the house. It was painted plain white and furnished only with benches. It looked like a schoolroom. There was an almost overwhelming smell of incense. Re-entering the atrium, they looked into another room, opposite the portico. Empty but for a few storage jars in one of the far corners. Again the room was painted white. Again the almost choking smell of incense masked every other.

  There was one final room on the ground floor, separated from the vestibule by the stairs up which the man had vanished. Entering, Ballista stopped in surprise. Although, like the rest of the house, almost empty of furniture, this room was a riot of colour. At one end was a columned archway, painted to resemble marble. The ceiling was sky-blue and speckled with silver stars. Under the arch was a bath, big enough for one and, behind it, a picture of a man carrying a sheep.

  Ballista gazed about him. Wherever he looked there were pictures. He found himself staring at a crude painting of three men. A man on the left was carrying a bed towards a man on the right, who was lying on another bed. Above them a third man stood, holding his hand out above the reclining figure.

  ‘Fucking odd,’ said one of the soldiers.

  Just to the right of this picture, a man dressed as a peasant was hovering over the sea. Some sailors looked at him in amazement from a well-rigged ship.

  ‘Greetings, Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Egregius, Dux Ripae.’ The speaker had entered quietly behind them. Turning, Ballista saw a tall man dressed in a plain blue tunic with white trousers and simple sandals. He was balding, hair cropped close at the sides. He sported a full beard and an open smile. He looked very familiar.

  ‘I am Theodotus son of Theodotus, Councillor of the City of Arete, and priest to the Christian community of the town.’ He smiled pleasantly.

  Annoyed with himself for not recognizing the Christian priest, Ballista grinned apologetically and thrust out his hand.

  ‘I hope that you will forgive any rudeness in welcoming you on the part of my brother Josephus. You understand that, since the persecution launched by the emperor Decius a few years ago, we Christians get nervous when Roman soldiers knock on our doors.’ He shook Ballista’s hand and laughed heartily. ‘Of course things are much better now, under the wise rule of Valerian and Gallienus, and we pray that they live long, but still old habits die hard. We find it best to remain discreet.’

  ‘No, if anything I was unintentionally rude. I mistook your brother for a pagan philosopher.’ Although Theodotus seemed amiably enough disposed, Ballista thought it best to forestall any trouble if he could. ‘I am very sorry, so very sorry that it is necessary to destroy your place of worship. I assure you that it would not happen were it not absolutely necessary. I will try my utmost to get you paid compensation - if the city does not fall, obviously.’

  Rather than the storm of protest and complaint that Ballista was expecting, Theodotus spread his hands wide and smiled a beatific smile.

  ‘It will all fall out as God wills,’ said the priest. ‘He moves in mysterious ways.’

  Ballista was going to say something else, but a waft of incense caught the back of his throat and set off a fit of coughing.

  ‘We burn a lot of incense for the glory of the lord,’ said Theodotus, patting the northerner on the back. ‘As I came in I saw you looking at the paintings. Would you like me to explain the stories behind them?’

  Still unable to speak, Ballista nodded to indicate he would. Mercifully, today he was not attended by the Christian-hating trooper.

  Theodotus had only just begun when a soldier burst through the door. ‘Dominus.’ A quick-sketched salute and the legionary rushed through the army greeting. ‘Dominus. We have found Gaius Scribonius Mucianus.’

  XI

  Gaius Scribonius Mucianus was dead.

  Violent unexpected death in peacetime always draws a crowd. A dense throng of soldiers and civilians, old and young, clustered under the eastern wall by the entrance to one of the old water tunnels.

  Romulus shouted something in Latin, then Greek, and finally Aramaic and reluctantly the crowd shuffled sideways, opening a small path to let Ballista and his entourage through. Mamurra, Acilius Glabrio a
nd a centurion from IIII Scythica stood over the body. They turned and saluted.

  Ballista looked inquisitively at Demetrius, who leant close and whispered ‘Lucius Fabius’ in his ear.

  ‘Lucius Fabius, would you get the crowd to move back, at least thirty paces?’

  The centurion rapped out orders and his legionaries used their heavy javelins as herdsmen use their crooks to herd the bystanders away.

  Scribonius Mucianus lay on his back, arms and legs sprawling, head twisted sideways at an unnatural angle. His clothes were stained with long-dried blood and green mould. His face was a mottled yellow-green turning black. Ballista had seen more corpses than he wanted. Five years earlier, the siege of Novae had given him the unwanted opportunity to observe the dead decompose. In front of the walls defended by the northerner and his general Gallus thousands of Goths had lain unburied under the summer sun for nearly two months. Ballista guessed that the tribune had been dead for at least two months. Quietly he asked Demetrius to fetch a local doctor and an undertaker to make independent estimates.

  ‘How do you know it is him?’ Ballista directed the question to all three men still close to the corpse.