Fire in the East

by Harry Sidebottom

  As Ballista watched, smoke leaked out from all over the siege ramp. The noise changed to the deep rumble of an earthquake. The ramp seemed to quiver. The boarding bridge began to buck wildly. The looks on the Sassanid faces changed to terror. Slowly at first, then too sudden to follow, the centre of the ramp sank out of sight. The three side walls held for a moment. The boarding bridge swayed above the abyss.

  ‘Jump!’

  As he shouted, Ballista spun round and started to run. The. wooden boards under his feet tipped up. He was scrabbling upwards on his hands and knees, his sword swinging dangerously from its wrist loop. The boarding bridge slid backwards down into the void. Its spike snagged for a moment on the parapet.

  With a leap born of desperation, the leap of a salmon, Ballista just got the fingers of his right hand over the end of the bridge. There was a deafening roar. A mushroom cloud of choking dust and smoke blinded him. The parapet gave way. The boarding bridge began to slide down into the abyss.

  A hand caught his wrist. The grip slipped, then held. It was joined by another hand. Then another. Haddudad and Maximus hauled Ballista up on to the fighting top.

  For a time he lay on his back in the dust, holding both hands to the wound in his thigh. Through the darkness he could hear the groaning of thousands of tons of earth, wood and rock shifting, and hundreds, thousands, of men screaming.

  Thick sweet coils of smoke meant to keep the swarms of insects at bay rose from the incense burners. Despite the clouds of gnats, evening was the one time of day Ballista still enjoyed in Arete. The artillery fell silent and a cool wind blew across the Euphrates. The terrace of the palace of the Dux Ripae was the best place to enjoy it. Here, the door guarded by the equites singulares and the waspish presence of Calgacus, Ballista could know some privacy.

  The northerner picked up his drink and went and sat on the wall, one leg dangling. In the half-light bats flitted along the face of the cliff. Below him the great river rolled past, always changing, always the same. The green of the tamarisks provided a welcome relief for the eyes. Across the river came the bark of a fox.

  Ballista put his drink down on the wall and looked again at the amulet that the two guardsmen had brought him. The messenger from the Subura had of course died. They had found the amulet on his body. In life he had worn it under his clothes. The leather thong on which it had hung around his neck was stiff with dried blood. The amulet was a circular disc, not more than two inches across. It was an identity tag, one side blank, the other stamped with two words: MILES ARCANUS. Ballista turned it in his hands.

  The northerner’s thoughts were interrupted by the approach of Calgacus. ‘That hot Syrian bitch and her miserable father are outside. He says he wants to talk to you - probably wants to know why you haven’t fucked her yet.’

  ‘That should make for an interesting conversation.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind, would you show them in?’

  Calgacus walked away. ‘Your father would have had her on her back months ago. Any man in his right mind would.’

  Ballista put the amulet in the purse on his belt and swung down off the wall. He brushed down his tunic. He had not yet had a chance to bathe or eat.

  ‘Dominus, the synodiarch larhai and his daughter Bathshiba.’ Calgacus could not have sounded more courtly.

  Ballista had seen very little of Iarhai recently. For the last couple of months the caravan protector had seldom appeared on the walls. More and more he had entrusted the running of his troops to the mercenary captain Haddudad. Haddudad was a fine officer, but Iarhai’s continuing absences were worrying.

  As Iarhai advanced out of the gloom of the portico Ballista was struck by a change in him. He looked thinner, gaunt even. The broken nose and cheekbone looked more prominent. The lines on his forehead and at the sides of his mouth were deeper.

  ‘Ave, Iarhai, Synodiarch and Praepositus.’ Ballista greeted him formally, giving him his titles both as caravan protector and as Roman officer.

  ‘Ave, Ballista, Dux Ripae.’ They shook hands.

  With a thickening in his throat Ballista turned to the girl. ‘Ave, Bathshiba, daughter of larhai.’ Her eyes were black, very black. They smiled as she returned his greeting.

  ‘Calgacus, would you bring some more wine, and something to eat, some olives and nuts?’

  ‘Dominus.’ The aged Caledonian left without a sound.

  ‘If we sit on the wall we can catch the cool of the breeze.’ Ballista watched Bathshiba’s lithe movement as she sat, curling her legs beneath her. She was dressed as one of her father’s mercenaries. She took off her cap and put it behind her on the wall. Her long black hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Allfather, but she had a body made to be against that of a man.

  Balhsta knew enough of easterners not to talk first to the daughter. He knew enough of easterners not to ask the father straightforwardly what he wanted.

  ‘Your men have done good work, larhai, very good work.’

  ‘Thank you. It is partly about them that I want to talk to you.’ At Ballista’s nod the caravan protector continued. ‘They have taken many casualties. There are but 150 of the original 300 mercenaries left, and over 100 of the levies have died. I would like your authority to conscript another 100 civilians. While they are being trained they can be stationed on the southern wall, where it is usually quiet.’

  ‘Yes, I have been thinking that something of the sort would soon be necessary. I think that you should try to conscript more, say 200. If suitable free men are hard to come by, we could offer some able-bodied slaves their freedom.’

  ‘My fellow caravan protectors, Anamu and Ogelos, will not like it.’

  ‘No, but as they are not placed on the desert wall, their troops have not suffered comparable casualties.’

  ‘I will speak gently to them about it. I have no wish to upset them.’

  Calgacus brought out the food and drink. Ballista took a sip of his own wine and pondered larhai’s last words. More than his appearance seemed to have changed.

  Iarhai, who was still standing, held his cup up towards Ballista. ‘My congratulations on your destruction of the Persian siege ramp yesterday. It was a fine stroke.’ As the northerner dipped his head in acknowledgement, larhai went on. ‘The defence goes well. The end of the ramp was a turning point. Now the danger is less.’

  Inwardly Ballista sighed. larhai could not believe that the danger was in any way passed, any more than Ballista himself did. The caravan protector was fully aware of the Persian mine from the ravine, the possibility of another all-out assault, the ever present threat of treachery.

  ‘I think that it is a long road before we are safe.’ Ballista smiled to try and take any sting out of contradicting his guest.

  There was a short silence as they all took a drink.

  ‘Things go well in the east. Your arrangements down by the river are good.’ As there had been no repetition of the one failed Sassanid venture by water, Ballista had allowed some fishing boats to go out, under strict military supervision. At least one legionary from the Porta Aquaria went with each boat. The ten legionaries who had brought the grain boat down from Circesium had proved useful.

  ‘Yes, it is good to eat fresh mullet and eel,’ said Ballista. He was wondering where was this going. Iarhai had established his loyalty by talking about his soldiers, then pretended that the danger was past, and now he had brought up the river. The northerner took another drink. When he had first met larhai he had considered him wonderfully straightforward for an easterner. Quite a lot had changed.

  A muscle twitched in larhai’s broken right cheekbone. ‘I own a few of the boats.’ He looked away across the river to the approaching Mesopotamian night. ‘One of them is called the Isis.’ He pronounced the name of the goddess with distaste. ‘She is large for a fishing boat. She has benches for ten rowers. Before all this I used to use her to go upriver for pleasure trips - fishing, hunting - sometimes as far as Circesium.’

  ‘Everyone i
n the west believes that it is impossible to take boats up the Euphrates, the current is too strong,’ Ballista said. He glanced at Bathshiba. She was sitting very still. Her face gave nothing away.

  ‘The current is strong. Usually you row for short spells then come to shore. Taking a boat up the mother of all rivers is hard work. But it can be done. It would not be in the interest of the caravan trade for the authorities in Rome to know that it can be done.’ Iarhai smiled. For a moment he looked like his old self.

  ‘Well, I will not tell them unless it is necessary.’ Ballista smiled too, but the warmth had gone from Iarhai’s face.

  ‘I would ask you a favour.’ larhai stopped. He said no more.

  ‘I will grant it if I can,’ said Ballista.

  ‘I want you to give the Isis back to me. I want your permission for ten of my men to take her to Circesium. I want them to take my daughter there.’

  Ballista took care not to look at Bathshiba. He could sense her stillness. ‘I am afraid that I cannot grant you this. It could not be done in secret. Once it was known that you had evacuated your family to safety, everyone would assume that the town is about to fall. It would cause panic. If I let you do this, how could I refuse the others? Anamu, Ogelos, the councillors - all would want a boat to take their loved ones, themselves, to safety.’ Aware he was talking too much, Ballista stopped.

  ‘I understand.’ larhai’s mouth was a thin line, like the mouth of a fish. ‘I will not trouble you further. I have to do the rounds of my men. Come, daughter.’

  Bathshiba got down from the wall. As they made their formal farewells, Ballista could read nothing in her face.

  Calgacus appeared and led them out.

  Ballista leant on the wall and looked out into the night. On silent wings an owl was hunting over the big island. Again he heard the bark of a fox, nearer now. There was a light footstep behind him. He turned fast, his hand going to his sword. Bathshiba stood there, just out of reach.

  ‘That was not my idea,’ she said.

  ‘I did not think that it was.’ They looked at each other in the pale moonlight.

  ‘I am worried about my father. He is not himself. The fight has gone out of him. He hardly ever goes to the battlements. He leaves everything to do with the troops to Haddudad. He stays in his rooms. If you ask him his opinion about anything he just says that it will be as god wills. You must have seen. He is even being nice about Anamu and Ogelos.’

  Ballista took a step towards her.

  ‘No. My father is waiting at the gate. I left something.’ She walked around Ballista and picked up her cap from the wall. She pushed it on her head, piling her long black hair under it. ‘I must go.’ She smiled and left.

  Back sitting on the wall, Ballista took the amulet from his purse and turned it in his hands. MILES ARCANUS - literally secret or silent soldier. It was the mark of a frumentarius.

  Ballista was sweating like a Christian in the arena. The air was very bad down here, close and fetid. It was hard to draw breath properly. At Mamurra’s gesture, the northerner moved at a crouch to the far right of the gallery. The sweat was slick on his sides. Kneeling down, he put his ear to the first of the round shields held to the wall. The bronze was cold to his ear. He listened. He would have liked to shut his eyes to concentrate on listening, but he feared what would happen when he opened them again. He had done that once before, and he had no wish to relive that almost physical surge of panic that ran up through his body as his eyes told him that he was still in the tunnel.

  After a time he looked at Mamurra and shook his head. He could hear nothing. Mamurra gestured to the next shield. His fear making him clumsy, Ballista shuffled along and put his ear to this one. He put his hand over his other ear. He tried to calm himself, tried to filter out the thumping of his heart, the small scratching noises as the shield moved imperceptibly against the rock. Yes, now he thought he heard something. He listened some more. He was not sure. He made a gesture of uncertainty, palms up. Mamurra pointed to the final shield. With this one there was no doubt. There it was: the steady, rhythmic chink, chink, chink of pickaxe on stone.

  Ballista nodded. Mamurra pointed, his hand describing an arc from straight ahead to about forty-five degrees off to the left. Then, still without speaking, he held out the splayed fingers of his right hand, once, twice, three times. The enemy mine was approaching from the left; it was about fifteen paces away. Ballista nodded and jerked his head towards the entrance. Mamurra nodded back. Still crouching, Ballista turned to leave, hoping his pathetic relief was not too evident.

  Back above ground, back from the realm of the dead, Ballista sucked air into his lungs. The hot, gritty, dust-laden air that hung over the town of Arete was like the coldest, cleanest air off the northern ocean of his childhood. Gulping it down, he used his scarf to mop the stinging sweat and dirt from his eyes. Maximus passed him a skin for water. He cupped a hand, filled it and bathed his face. Above him, the wind sail over the entrance to the mine hung limp. One of Mamurra’s engineers was tipping a bucket of water over it to try and make it draw better.

  ‘Now I can show it to you from up above,’ said Mamurra.

  In contrast to what had gone before, the view from the battlements of the south-west tower was Olympian. There off to the right was what remained of the Persian siege ramp. Broken-backed, it lay like a stranded whale. Beyond it was the broad sweep of the plain. Shattered missiles, scraps of clothing and bleached bones broke the wide, dun-coloured monotony that stretched all the way to the Sassanid camp.

  They kept low behind the much-repaired parapet. Since the fall of the ramp shooting had been desultory, but a man in full view would still attract missiles. Mamurra borrowed a bow from one of the sentinels. He selected an arrow with bright fletching. He looked round the crenellations to find his mark, ducked back into cover, took a deep breath and stepped out to draw and release. Ballista noted that Mamurra drew the bowstring not with two fingers but with his thumb, like the nomads of the steppes.

  ‘Hmm.’ Mamurra grunted as the arrow embedded itself in the ground, its bright red feathers quivering. He considered for a moment or two. ‘You see the arrow? Now move your eyes five paces to the right. Now almost ten paces away. Not as far as the scrap of yellow material. You see what looks like a large molehill?’ Ballista saw it. ‘Now move further away, twenty-five, thirty paces. You see the next one? Then, at a similar distance, the one beyond that?’

  ‘I see them. That was not a great shot,’ Ballista said.

  ‘I have done better.’ Mamurra grinned. ‘It served its purpose. Now you can see the air shafts the reptiles have dug up from their mine. The Persian tunnel is considerably longer than ours so those air shafts are necessary. Ours is about forty paces long. Much further and the air gets bad at the head of the mine. The wind sail helps a little. If there had been time I would have dug another tunnel next to our mine: if you light a fire at the mouth of a parallel tunnel it draws out the bad air.’

  Allfather, but he is a good siege engineer this one, a good Praefectus Fabrum. I am lucky to have him.

  ‘I think that their tunnel will pass just to the left of our cross gallery. We will have to dig a little more to catch them,’ Mamurra continued in answer to Ballista’s unspoken question. ‘There is a risk that they will hear us digging, that they will be ready for us. But we will dig and listen by turns. Anyway, it cannot be helped.’

  Both were silent. Ballista wondered if Mamurra was also thinking that the traitor might already have warned the Sassanids of the Roman counter mine.

  ‘When you intercept them, what will you do?’

  As was often his way, Mamurra slowly mulled the question over. ‘We could try and break into their tunnel from below, light a fire and smoke them out. Or we could come in from above, throw down missiles, maybe pour in boiling water, try to make their mine unworkable. But neither really answers. As I told the Greek boy when he talked of bears, bees, scorpions and such things, it will be nasty work in the dark with a short sw
ord.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Collapse their mine. Preferably not with us still in it.’

  ‘How many men will you need?’

  ‘Not many. Numbers can be an encumbrance underground. When I ask, bring up the reserve century stationed on the campus martius. I will take twenty of them into the tunnel to add to my miners. Have the rest of the century around the entrance. Keep Castricius with you, in case things should work out badly.’ The corners of Mamurra’s mouth were turned down.

  ‘I will tell the centurion Antoninus Posterior to have his men ready.’

  Two days passed before a red-faced messenger sought out the Dux Ripae. Ballista collected Antoninus Posterior and his men. When they reached the mine Mamurra was waiting. There was no time for an extended farewell. Ballista shook the hand of his praefectus fabrum, and Mamurra led twenty legionaries into the tunnel.

  Faced with a period of inactivity when nothing was required of him, Ballista did what all soldiers do: he sat down. There was no convenient shade from which he could see the entrance, so he sat with the hot sun on his back. He watched the awful black mouth of the mine. It was the twenty-ninth of September, three days before the kalends of October. It was autumn. In the north it would be cool. Here it was still very hot. He draped his cloak over his shoulders to keep the sun off the metal rings of his mail coat.

  Calgacus arrived with some slaves from the palace. They handed round skins of water. Ballista took off his helmet and scarf. He took some water in his mouth, swilled it round and spat it out then, holding the skin away from his lips, poured a sparkling jet of the cool liquid into the back of his mouth.

  Passing the water skin to Maximus, Ballista looked round and caught the eye of his latest standard-bearer, a lumpen-faced Macedonian called Pudens.

  ‘Dracontius, take my standard to the Palmyrene Gate. Let the Persians see the white dragon flying there as usual.’ Ballista picked one of his equites singulares, a Gaul with fair hair. ‘Vindex, take my cloak. Put it on and show yourself by the standard. Play at being the Dux Ripae for a while. Let the Persians thinkit is just another day.’