by Ian Ross
‘Will it happen again?’ Castus had asked him, still dazed and aching as he lay on the mattress in his darkened chamber.
‘Oh, certainly,’ the doctor had replied, smiling. ‘As I suspect it has happened before, no...? You’ve survived this time, the gods alone know how, but if you continue to exert yourself the next paroxysm will certainly come, and you will die.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘If it doesn’t… I expect you may live a good few years yet. Ten, I would estimate. You have a very dense body, and a great deal of blood – I assume you have some barbarian ancestry. But currently you must rest, continue the course of medication, and avoid undue stress.’
And so it had been for nearly a month now. For the first half of that time Castus had remained in his chamber, sleepy with the drugs the doctor fed to him. He had dreamed often, feverishly; he thought that Marcellina came to him, and he reached out for her, shouting loud enough to summon the slaves from the vestibule. He dreamed of his first wife, Sabina, as well, and woke troubled and sweating heavily. But the fever passed, and steadily his strength had returned.
His son brought him news from the city twice a day. There had been further attacks, while Castus lay incapacitated. A ladder assault against the Singara Gate, thrown back with minor losses. Mamertinus had died there. Also a night attack against the western wall, where the Persian ram had breached the defences. But for the last two weeks the enemy had remained in their siege camps, and no further attacks had come. The river flowed along the eastern wall below the repaired breaches, a swamp of half-dry pools and marshy rivulets, choked with debris and decomposing corpses.
And in the city, the slow grinding discomfort of blockade. The food rations were down to a cup of grain and one of oil a day, and water was rationed likewise. Thin sulphurous gruel was the only meal available for most. But at least there had been no further talk of surrender.
The shock of Castus’s own collapse had been almost entirely eclipsed by another tragedy. Bishop Iacob, spiritual defender of Nisibis, had finally died on that very same day, shortly after the last Persian attack on the breaches had been thrown back. He had expired, Castus heard, with a loud cry to God, still praying before the altar of his church. The old man had consumed nothing but sips of water for over a month. Ephraim had conducted the funeral service, and the death had been greeted with passionate mourning by Christians and non-Christians alike. But Iacob had given his life for the city, as everyone agreed. To fail now, to even think of surrendering now, would be an insult to his memory.
‘I see you’ve been consuming meat,’ Nicagoras said gravely, lowering his eyebrows as he glanced at the remains of Castus’s evening meal.
‘Only a little, and don’t ask me what it is. Horse, probably.’
‘You should not. Red meat in particular heats the blood, you know!’
Castus just shrugged, then sat patiently while the doctor checked his pulse, his tongue and the colour of his eyes, before leaving him in peace.
Alone again, Castus picked up the sword that lay on the low table beside him, and swung it for a while to loosen his muscles. He had spent far too much time in idleness while he was recovering; now he felt rested, and he needed exercise. But soon his eye was drawn to the plain south of the city. The air was filled with fluttering, swooping shapes. Vultures, Castus realised, feasting on the Persian slain. He shuddered. The enemy did not bury or burn their dead, but exposed them in great enclosures. Soon, he thought, the enclosures of the dead would be larger than the encampments of the living…
‘Father,’ Sabinus said, approaching from the stairs. ‘You look well!’
‘Better each day,’ Castus told him, setting down the sword. ‘I almost feel like riding a horse again. If there are any which haven’t been eaten.’
‘I have Robbers,’ Sabinus said, setting the rolled gameboard and the bag of playing pieces on the table, ‘and some quite good wine. Which is in short supply!’
They sat down together to play, and the slaves brought lamps as the evening darkened into night. Castus was getting better at latrunculi too – although he wondered if Sabinus was letting him win.
‘You know,’ he said, sipping wine. ‘After the battle, when I… when I fell. I was sure that I’d lost you. The same as when you went out to attack the Persian tower.’
‘That was what caused the paroxysm?’ Sabinus asked, frowning.
‘Maybe. That and the curator’s wife, perhaps. The death of her boy. If you’d been killed…’
‘Don’t speak of it, Father,’ Sabinus said hurriedly, and moved one of his pieces into a winning entrapment.
*
The sound of trumpets woke him, and he snapped into sudden awareness, reaching for his sword. As the darkness pulsed around him, he thought he had dreamed the sound, or some last ebb of fever had summoned it. Then he heard the distant blast again, and the carrying cries of men.
Up from the bed, head reeling, he struggled into his tunic. Lamplight flared in the vestibule, and Vallio stumbled in, rubbing his eyes.
‘What is it?’ Castus demanded. ‘What’s happening?’
Vallio did not know, but by the time Castus was dressed and pacing out into the courtyard the messenger had arrived.
‘The Persians,’ the man said, gulping breath. ‘The Persians have broken in through the eastern postern! They’re in the streets!’
‘You’re sure?’ Castus said, as Vallio strapped the linen arming vest over his tunic.
The messenger was nodding. ‘I saw them myself, dominus – they’ve seized the wall ramparts.’
Castus cursed, still struggling to digest the news. The white linen vest was almost glowing in the darkness, an easy target for an arrow, and he pulled a darker tunic on over the top, then tightened his belts and flung the sword baldric across his shoulder.
‘Where are you going?’ Sabinus cried, emerging from the lower chamber. He too was dressed for battle.
‘You expect me to sit here and wait for the Persians?’ Castus growled. ‘I’m going down there – now!’
He could feel the blood thundering in his body as he swung himself up into the saddle in the Strategion courtyard. Sabinus mounted a horse beside him, and four men of the guard followed them as they rode down the slope towards the agora.
Now the sounds of fighting were clear and distinct on the night air, carrying across the city from the eastern walls. Kicking his horse into a canter, Castus passed the flank of the theatre, the arches rising ghostly pale in the moonlight, and plunged into the grid of narrower streets that led eastwards through the Severan district of the city. Soldiers were rushing in the same direction, and parties of militia too; organisation had improved greatly in the many days since the last scare. As Castus rode, his mind awoke to the danger: how could the city have been taken by surprise, after holding out so long? How had the Persians got inside the defences? Fury rose within him, but his body was freighted with dread.
By the time they got within three blocks of the eastern wall, they could see the shapes of men fighting on the rampart. ‘Centurion, what’s happening?’ Castus yelled, dragging back on the reins as he caught sight of a crested helmet in the darkness. He could hear ballistae snapping, shooting along the walkways from the shelter of the interval towers.
‘Dominus,’ the centurion called back, saluting quickly, his face lost in the shadows beneath his helmet rim. ‘Some bastard opened the postern and let them in! But we’ve driven them back and secured the gate – a band of them got up onto the ramparts, and our boys from the First Parthica are clearing them off. There’s another lot in the courtyard at the end of this alley, but we’ve got them surrounded, and there are archers on the roofs.’
Castus glanced up, and saw figures running across the narrow plank bridge that spanned the street. He slid down from the saddle. ‘Come on,’ he told Sabinus.
There was a flight of steps at the corner of the street, leading to the flat roof of the building. Sabinus got there first, and held his
father back. ‘I’ll lead the way,’ he said firmly, then drew his sword and ran up the steps.
Castus followed, his limbs already aching. As he reached the roof he paused and glanced towards the wall; the rampart was clear of Persians now. All across the rooftops there were people, civilians roused from sleep, and militiamen and archers rushing towards the courtyard where the remaining enemy soldiers were trapped. Sabinus had crossed the plank bridge; Castus went after him, trying not to glance down at the dark gulf of the street below.
The buildings on the far side were packed close together, their flat roofs forming an undulating terrain, separated only by low walls. With Sabinus going ahead of him Castus picked his way carefully, clambering from one roof to the next. As he reached the brink of a higher building he stopped and peered over the edge.
Below him was a small courtyard, an irregular dusty space, but it was packed with men. Castus saw conical Persian helmets, the glint of spears in the moonlight. And on the roofs all around were archers, Lycianus’s men and the Armenians, pelting shafts down into the confined mass of enemy soldiers. Militiamen had joined them, flinging spears and stones; the Persians were screaming as they died.
‘Hold back!’ Castus yelled. ‘Who speaks Persian? Call on them to surrender!’
But there was no stopping the slaughter. For another few heartbeats the archers continued to shoot, then a wild roar rose from the trapped men in the courtyard, and a knot of them surged towards the mouth of an alley. Castus stepped up onto the wall and saw their charge pass directly below him; then the alley was sealed by a wall of Roman shields. A thunder of voices, echoing between high walls, a clash of iron on wood, iron biting flesh, stamping feet in the darkness. Then it was over.
They dropped back down the steps, and moments later Egnatius found them. Sweat was tiding down his face as he tore off his helmet. ‘All secure, dominus!’ he reported.
‘How did they get in?’ Castus demanded. His body was still a riot of aggressive energy. ‘Who opened the postern?’
He found out soon enough. One of the soldiers from the gate garrison had survived the attack, a Syrian trooper of the Ala Nova Diocletiana; he was brought before Castus under guard, trembling in the flare of the torches.
‘It was one of the civilian magistrates, dominus,’ the soldier said. ‘He told us we were to open the gate – a messenger was coming in, from the relief force, he said…’
‘Relief force?’ Castus growled to himself. He shook his head. ‘Since when do you take orders from civilians, soldier?’
‘He said the order came from you, dominus!’
‘Who was it?’
‘Not him,’ the soldier replied. Castus turned, and saw that Dorotheus had joined them, still dressed in his light sleeping tunic. ‘The other one – the curator.’
Clenching his fists, Castus let the tide of anger flow through him. He inhaled slowly, trying to remain calm. ‘Half-rations,’ he ordered, pointing at the soldier, ‘and put him on burial duty. He’s lucky he’s not dead himself.’
Egnatius muttered something under his breath. Clearly many of the other troops had wanted a harsher punishment. They had lost many comrades in the attack.
‘And bring me Vorodes,’ Castus told them. ‘Alive or dead, I don’t care.’
*
Light was in the sky by the time he arrived at the curator’s house. He had already been told the news, and his anger had faded to a dull weary nausea, a sense of pained fatigue. As he climbed the steps from the deep well of the central courtyard, a foul smell met him. The men were gathered in the upper chamber, Dorotheus and Egnatius among them.
‘Sorry about the stink, dominus,’ a soldier said. ‘He emptied his bowels as he died. Must’ve been the poison he took.’
Septimius Vorodes, Curator Civitatis of Nisibis, lay sprawled on the floor of the chamber, spattered with filth and blood. He had died neither cleanly nor painlessly. His face was still contorted, but it looked more like an expression of shame than of agony. Castus guessed that the curator had taken the poison shortly after returning home, only an hour or so after he had ordered the guards to open the postern.
‘His wife’s upstairs, on the terrace,’ the soldier said. ‘Shall we bring her down here?’
‘No,’ Castus said quickly. Sohaemia would already have witnessed her husband’s ignoble end. No need for her to see it again. Pushing past the soldiers on the landing at the head of the steps, Castus climbed towards the top floor. He was remembering the first time he had come this way, during his first visit to Nisibis. The elegant dinner party that Vorodes had hosted in his rooftop chamber. Entering that same room from the steps, Castus saw no signs of elegance. The mosaic floor was dusty from the tread of boots, weapons were piled on the couches, and empty jugs and amphorae stood around the walls. He walked out through the wide arch onto the roof terrace, into the glow of morning.
‘You’ve seen him?’ Sohaemia asked. She was dressed for mourning, in a gown and shawl of coarse black cloth, and stood with her back to Castus, looking out over the city.
‘Yes. Why did he do it?’
‘Why did he betray the city to the Persians, you mean? Despair. I’ve felt little but despair myself, since Barnaeus died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Castus said. It was all he could find to tell her.
‘My husband believed that if he let the Persians into the city they might agree to spare at least some of our people. Nisibis might not be destroyed utterly.’
‘Nisibis isn’t going to be destroyed,’ Castus said quietly, the words rough in his throat.
‘Oh yes, you’re so sure of that,’ Sohaemia replied, turning to face him. She dropped her shawl, and he saw that she had cut off her long dark hair. Only a short ragged crop remained. Many women in the city had done it, he had heard; the hair was used to repair the torsion bundles of the catapults. But in Sohaemia’s case it appeared almost vengeful. Her face was drawn, harrowed by grief.
‘I would like to speak with you, general,’ she said with great dignity. ‘Alone, if I could.’
Castus gestured, and Egnatius and the others who had followed him up the stairs drew back into the dining pavilion.
‘I’m sorry too,’ Sohaemia said quietly, taking a few steps closer. ‘I should not have blamed you for my son’s death. He died, as I hear, most nobly. His father should have been proud, but instead…’ She shuddered quickly, closing her eyes. ‘Can you comprehend a loss like that?’
‘I’ve often tried to,’ Castus told her. The dawn breeze was warm, but he felt coldness running through him.
‘And now you promise that the city will not fall,’ she said in a mild and almost lilting voice. ‘But I’ve heard your promises before. Why should I believe you now?’
‘What choice do you have?’
‘Oh, I have a choice, general,’ Sohaemia said. She took another step towards him, then stretched out an arm and brushed his cheek. Her fingers rasped through the grey stubble of his beard. ‘And I should have chosen a long time ago.’
Leaning closer, she turned her head, as if to kiss him. Castus stood motionless, wanting to flinch away from her but unable to move. For a heartbeat he felt a strange warm compassion rising through his body.
Then Sohaemia drove the knife into him.
He noticed the sudden movement of her arm, and twisted by instinct before he felt the hard jab of the steel against his kidney. With a startled yell he shoved her away, staggering backwards. Glancing down in shock, half expecting to see his own blood pouring from the wound, he saw instead the ripped tunic, the gashed linen and the tufted padding beneath. His arming vest had turned the blade before it punctured his flesh.
Egnatius was in the doorway of the dining chamber, his sword drawn. Letting the knife fall from her hand, Sohaemia took three long paces backwards. She laughed, cold and mirthless in her despair. ‘Too late,’ she said. ‘I was too late…’
Then she turned, took another step up onto the low wall surrounding the terrace, and let herself
fall forwards.
‘Stop her!’ Castus managed to yell as he lurched into motion. Egnatius and the others in the doorway had not moved. A brief silent flicker of black cloth in the breeze, and Sohaemia was gone.
At the brink of the roof Castus stared downwards, and saw her body twisted on the cobbles of the stepped alleyway, fifty feet below. A scrap of blackness in the shadow. Cold remorse poured through him, delayed shock, and a sickening sense of guilt. An old woman appeared at the doorway of the house opposite, and shrieked.
Descending the stairs from the roof, Castus found the men in the chamber where Vorodes lay talking together excitedly. They all turned to him, wide-eyed, as he reached the lowest step. Nicagoras had joined them, and Sabinus. Castus peered back at them, still shaken. His gut was beginning to ache from the blow of Sohaemia’s knife, and he probed with his fingers at the gash in his linen vest. He wanted very much to sit down.
‘Tell him,’ Sabinus said to the doctor. ‘Tell him what you’ve learned!’
‘Excellency, I’ve examined the Persian prisoners we took during the night attack,’ Nicagoras said, his words stumbling. ‘They’re weak – very weak, and several of them are fevered… They all have welts covering their bodies…’ He flicked his fingers up and down his arms, across his chest and neck. ‘Insect bites, very inflamed. The prisoners report, excellency, that the Persian encampments are plagued by mosquitoes, vast clouds of them. They’ve bred from the pools of standing water left after the hydraulic operations, and the multitude of bodies left exposed – now they’re tormenting man and beast. And fever is spreading through the enemy army. Shapur has lost thousands of men already, with more dying every day!’
Castus was struggling to digest what the doctor was saying. But he could see the men in the room breaking into grins.
‘You know what this means, Father?’ Sabinus cried. He turned to Dorotheus.
