The Lost Ten

by Harry Sidebottom

Murena wondered if Volusianus had ever served in the east. Perhaps, like many westerners, he considered the Persians no more than effete and cowardly Orientals. If so, Volusianus was wrong. They had defeated four Roman armies in pitched battle. Three of them had been led by Emperors. Gordian III they had wounded, Valerian they had captured, Alexander Severus had been fortunate to escape unscathed. Murena remembered the Persian warriors streaming over the walls of Zeugma. He had seen them cut down his own father. For all their kohl-lined eyes and perfumed silks, there was nothing weak or effeminate about them.

  Murena prided himself on his loyalty. He owed it to Volusianus, but more so to Rome. A war with Persia now would be a disaster. It was vital no pretext was offered to the King of Kings: this Prince Sasan must not be rescued. Murena could not openly go against the Praetorian Prefect, but nor could he approach the Emperor directly. If he warned Gallienus of this plan, Volusianus would be informed, and Murena would find himself in the dungeons of the Palace. It need not come to that. Most likely the mission of Severus would fail, but certainty was necessary. That should not be hard to arrange. Murena was the commander of the frumentarii. If he chose carefully enough, he could make sure the party would ride into the deserts of Mesopotamia, and never be heard of again.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Euphrates

  OF ALL THE DUSTY EASTERN TOWNS through which Valens had passed on his long journey, Zeugma was the most depressing. Of course he was prejudiced. In the others he had spent only a night or two. He had been waiting in Zeugma for almost half a month now. Still, the wait was almost at an end.

  It was the day before the Kalends of August, midsummer in Syria. It was hot, hotter than Rome. Valens had never left the west before, and Zeugma was hotter than anywhere he had ever known. To escape the stifling streets, Valens had toiled up the stepped path to the citadel. Below the temple and the palace there was an orchard. The young equestrian officer sat in the shade, back against an apple tree, hoping to catch whatever breeze might blow. At least it was quiet up here.

  The fruit trees ran steeply down to a low, crumbling wall. Beyond, a jumble of red-tiled roofs descended the slope. The drop was vertiginous, and the houses seemed to be built on top of each other. Halfway down, on a flat shoulder of the hill, was an open space fronted by another temple, a monumental arch, a theatre and other public buildings. Valens cast a disparaging eye on these symbols of Hellenic civic life. The inhabitants of Zeugma might claim to be Greeks, but they looked Oriental. Some even had earrings, and many answered to Syrian names.

  Far below was the Euphrates, and the bridge from which the town took its name. Valens let his gaze wander across the river to Apamea, the settlement on the far bank. Unlike Zeugma, with its narrow, twisting alleys, Apamea was laid out in a regular grid on its plain. Yet on both sides of the river there were abandoned dwellings, their fallen roofs and smoke-blackened beams like missing or rotten teeth in the lines of the streets. It was more than a decade since the Persians had sacked the twin towns. Before, these had been thriving settlements, rich from the endless caravans trading with the east. Now the stream of merchants had dried to a trickle, and the towns were shrunken and run-down.

  Valens looked out to the east, beyond the walls that had failed to keep out the Persians. The land, shimmering in the heat, stretched perfectly flat to where a range of hills rose like a mirage. They were the foothills of the great high plains of northern Mesopotamia. Into that bare expanse, infested with predatory nomads and swept by raiding Persian horsemen, Valens would soon depart.

  The disquieting thought made him glance at the military camp in the northern quarter of Zeugma. Even the base of the Fourth Scythian Legion had seen better days. Once, imperial expeditions had assembled there. The parade grounds would have been full of marching troops, bright with standards, loud with the call of trumpets. Now the legion itself was below full strength, with many men on detached duties, and only a handful of troops moved desultorily across the baked bare earth. Tomorrow, at long last, after the lengthy journey from Rome and this interminable waiting, Valens would report for duty.

  The summons by the Leader of the Strangers had come like a peal of thunder from a clear sky, like a portent. Although the headquarters of the frumentarii lay at no distance from the camp of his own unit on the Caelian Hill, Valens had never set foot in the place. No one in their right mind chose to go there. Like all members of the Roman upper classes, Valens both despised and feared the frumentarii. The secret soldiers were underhand spies and assassins. The Emperors used them to pry into the lives of the elite, to ferret out any hint of disloyalty. Dressed in civilian clothing, they were rumoured to be impossible to recognise. Nowhere was safe from them. An ill-considered word in a casual conversation at the baths, or at a dinner party, might lead to arrest. If evidence was lacking, the frumentarii were notorious for inventing incriminating details. Once in the hands of the torturers, you would confess to anything.

  Murena, the Princeps Peregrinorum, was a vulgar little man, obviously promoted from the ranks. But he had been civil. Once he had established that Valens was indeed Marcus Aelius Valens, Deputy Tribune in the Imperial Horse Guards, he had been brisk and efficient. It was well known, Murena had said, that Valens was bored by garrison duty in the capital. Valens had agreed. He had not wondered how Murena knew. It was the sort of thing the frumentarii found out.

  Another officer was introduced, a tall man in middle age, with a short beard and protruding ears. Gnaeus Claudius Severus was to lead a team of ten across Mesopotamia, and into Persian territory. Severus would claim to be a merchant, trading in jewellery. Eight frumentarii would act as the guards of his caravan. Valens would be second in command, and pose as Severus’s nephew. The aim of the mission was to rescue a Persian prince named Sasan from a prison called the Castle of Silence, situated to the south-east of the Caspian Sea. Once they had freed the Prince, they were to travel north to the Steppe. There, the ruler of the nomad Heruli would convey them to the Black Sea, from where they would take passage on a ship back to the empire.

  ‘Any questions?’ Murena had asked.

  Dozens jostled in Valens’s mind: routes, logistics, money, weapons, above all the chances of survival.

  ‘No, sir,’ he had replied.

  ‘Good,’ Murena had said. ‘You will report to Severus in the military camp at Zeugma on the Euphrates on the Kalends of August. You will travel there alone, not even with a slave.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘One last thing. You will resign your commission in the Horse Guards. You will not be formally transferred into the frumentarii. You will not be issued with the identity token of a miles arcanus. The others will hand their disks in at Zeugma. If you are captured, you are not a soldier of Rome. We will deny any knowledge of you, or the mission.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Murena smiled. ‘Welcome to the world of the secret soldiers.’

  Thinking back on the conversation in that insignificant office, Valens knew that he had had no choice. Once the mission had been revealed, he could not refuse. Murena would not have let him leave. Valens had no idea why he had been chosen, but it was true that he had been stultified by the round of ceremonial duties in Rome. All the efforts of securing a commission had not been undertaken just to stand guard on the Palatine, or parade in the Circus Maximus.

  Valens had wanted action. He had been crushed when it was announced that he would remain with the detachment of the Horse Guards ordered to stay in the capital, that he was not among those selected to accompany the Emperor on the campaign in Gaul. Now, here in the east, there was no doubt that he would see combat. But this furtive, and probably suicidal, expedition – the whole idea was insane – this was not at all what he had wanted. He had envisioned leading men in open battle, riding at the head of a cavalry charge under the eyes of the Emperor. Not sneaking about like some filthy merchant, intent on cheating those foolish enough to buy his wares.

  And there was the problem of the frumentarii. Valens did not tru
st them. How could anyone trust men whose trade was deception? They would all be veterans. They would realise his inexperience. Even under an experienced commander like Severus, commanding a squad of them would not be easy.

  The light breeze had dropped. It was getting hot in the orchard. Valens thought he could do with a drink.

  Severus was another cause for concern. The man was from a respectable equestrian family, but he had been taciturn, his attitude far from amiable. Perhaps on a dangerous mission behind enemy lines an officer of his long service might not welcome as his second in command someone he might see as a callow fop from the imperial guard?

  Gods below, I really need a drink. But he could not get too drunk. It would not do to arrive in the camp tomorrow morning with a bad hangover. The baths down by the river were the answer: a massage, a cold plunge, have a couple of drinks listening to whatever philosopher or sophist might be giving a lecture. With luck, there might be a half-decent poet. Even in this backwater there were always one or two itinerant intellectuals haunting the public buildings, seeking an audience. As Lucian had written in one of his satires, it was easier to fall over in a rowing boat and not hit a plank than avoid being accosted by some down-at-heel man of words.

  By the time Valens had negotiated the steps down to the town, he had changed his mind. There was a bar on the waterfront, close to his lodgings. It was nothing special, but it was dark and cool, and the wine was not too bad.

  He stood for a moment in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. A bar ran along the right-hand wall. Across the back was a worn staircase, up which the customers might take whichever of the serving girls was working. A door under the stairs led out to a privy in a small courtyard. The rest of the room contained four tables with benches. At one of them sat two stevedores. In the furthest corner was an extraordinary figure clad in yellow-and- green striped trousers and a blue tunic. His cloak, also sky blue, was folded neatly on the bench next to him, and a long ebony cane was propped against his table. The man had been a regular at the bar over the last few days. As ever he was eating fruit, and not drinking wine, but plain water.

  As Valens entered, the man looked up. His huge domed head was entirely hairless, lacking even eyebrows. His oddly small features were those of a contented baby. He nodded to the newcomer. Valens nodded back. The man ate a piece of melon, then broke wind loudly, with evident satisfaction.

  Taking a stool at the bar, Valens called for a jug of the best wine. The owner claimed that it was from Chios. Valens doubted that. He poured himself a drink, adding an equal part of water. Not wanting to get drunk, he took some coins from the wallet tied to his belt, and paid.

  Valens studied his own reflection in the tarnished mirror behind the bar. Short haired and clean shaven, he looked younger than his twenty-five years. His tunic was plain, but of good material. He wore no jewellery, except a signet ring, the seal set in silver. There was nothing left of the dandyish gilded youth of Rome. His appearance fitted his role as the nephew of a moderately well-to-do provincial merchant.

  Two men came in from the street. Almost as if by prior arrangement, the stevedores got up and left. The arrivals were dressed as off-duty soldiers: boots, belts and swords. Yet the ornaments on their belts were not military, and their appearance was too slovenly for them to be serving under the standards. Most likely they were local toughs, hired as bodyguards by some town councillor or the like. Ignoring Valens and the bald man, they walked to the bar with the swagger of their kind.

  A second jug would do no harm. Valens called the girl. She served him perfunctorily, eager to get back to the newcomers. Irritated, Valens half turned on his stool and studied them. One had a very long face. Its length was accentuated by a wispy pointed beard, an abnormally long nose, and high, receding forehead. The other made up for his companion’s lack of hair with a bushy, square-cut beard, and thick ringlets falling to his shoulders. The latter wore a pearl in one ear. They talked to the girl in Greek with thick eastern accents.

  Valens turned back to the mirror. Behind him, the bald man, having finished his eccentric repast, was writing in a small hinged book. The stylus and writing block looked miniscule in his big fingers. Valens focused on his own reflection. All the effort to obtain the post of Deputy Tribune in the Horse Guards – the letters of recommendation wheedled from family friends, the badgering of his cousin, the Senior Tribune – and he had ended up in Zeugma. Instead of winning glory beyond the Alps, or even enjoying dinner parties and recitals in Rome, he was drinking alone in this fly-blown town at the edge of the empire. He doubted he would have joined the army if disaster had not struck. His life would have been very different were his parents still alive. It was not that the gods were cruel, simply that they did not care.

  The man with the long face brushed against him as he passed. Valens bridled. Smiling, the man apologised. His teeth were like those of a horse.

  The girl met the man at the far end of the bar, led him up the stairs. She was better at feigning pleasure than the other girl who worked in the bar. Valens had tried both. Celibacy was bad for the health. No one blamed a man for taking what was offered, for walking down a well-used path.

  Valens stared into his cup. He did not see the wine, but the empty expanse of the high plains of Mesopotamia. The tent-dwellers were fierce, strangers to the laws of humanity. It was said their pitiless nature often led them to torture those they captured. Instead of holding them to ransom, they staked them out to die slowly beneath the merciless sun. As for the Persians, they were infamous for the refinements of their cruelty.

  Let us be men, the heroes encouraged each other in Homer. Literature was stocked with sayings to instil courage. If your sword is too short, take a step forward. Everyone knew what was expected. Return with your shield, or on it. Slaves and criminals faced wounds and death in the arena. They were a lesson in courage to the free citizens watching in the stands.

  Although he had trained with weapons since childhood, Valens had never drawn a blade in anger. Veterans had told him that nothing could prepare you to stand close to the steel. Some men froze. Fear made the urine run down their thighs, as they stood, motionless and unresisting, waiting to be slaughtered. Others threw down their weapons, sank to their knees, vainly pleading for their lives. Many betrayed their manhood, and turned and fled.

  A burst of ribald laughter brought Valens back to his surroundings. The long-faced man had returned. He was boasting of his prowess. The girl, behind the bar again, seemed unmoved.

  Perhaps one more jug. Then Valens would go and sleep it off. He reached for his money. The wallet was gone.

  Valens was on his feet, moving before he stopped to think.

  The long-faced man turned as he approached.

  ‘You stole my money.’

  The man smiled, showing his equine teeth. ‘Not me, friend.’

  Valens grabbed the front of his tunic, hauled him off the bar stool. ‘Give it back.’

  ‘On the honour of my mother, that would be impossible.’

  Valens shook the man, as if the wallet might fall from the folds of his clothes.

  ‘You are really most uncivil.’ The man sounded amused.

  With no warning, the man brought both his arms up inside Valen’s forearms. He snapped them outward, breaking the grip on his tunic. The sparsely haired head lunged. His forehead cracked into Valen’s nose.

  Reeling back, hands to his face, Valens felt the blood, hot on his cheeks, the iron taste of it in his mouth.

  The serving girl was running out of the door at the back. In the corner the bald man was looking up quizzically, as if this was a mildly interesting, if unexceptional occurrence. The second ruffian remained on his stool.

  ‘A puppy should not fight bigger dogs.’ The first thug was actually laughing. ‘Consider it a lesson cheap at the cost.’

  Valens rushed at him, trying to get his hands around the man’s neck. They grappled, staggering from side to side, like men on a ship in a storm. The long-face
d man was the stronger. Valens was being forced backwards. With a move from the gymnasium, Valens got his left leg behind his opponent, twisted, and threw him to the floor.

  ‘Give me the wallet.’ Valens was standing over the man.

  A movement in the air warned Valens. He went to turn. Too slow. The heavily bearded man’s punch caught him in the left eye. Again, he lurched away. His back collided with the bar.

  The two brutes, fists at the ready like boxers, were closing. Valens had no room to manoeuvre. Hades, I am not going to take a beating from the likes of these common swine. He yanked out his knife.

  His assailants gave a pace.

  ‘Not so brave now,’ Valens panted.

  The ruffians glanced at each other. The hirsute one shrugged.

  ‘Your decision,’ the other said to Valens.

  Both drew their knives, dropped into a trained fighting crouch.

  Be a man, Valens thought. Nowhere to run. Just be a man.

  The yellow and green striped trousers were a blur of colour as the bald man crossed the room. For all his bulk, he moved soundlessly, with the grace of a dancer. The thugs did not hear him coming. Massive hands took them by the scruff of the neck. There was a sickening crack as their heads were slammed together. Then, as if they were no more than child’s toys, the brightly dressed stranger tossed them both aside.

  ‘You are fucking insane, Iudex,’ the long-faced man shouted from where he had landed half under a table.

  ‘And you are a thief, Zabda.’ The man smoothed his blue tunic. ‘The opinions of others are crosses we must all carry.’

  Both ruffians began to scramble to get up.

  The gigantic figure wagged a finger.

  The men stopped.

  ‘Zabda, give the officer back his wallet.’

  Slowly, with the utmost reluctance, the long-faced man picked himself up, then tossed the leather bag at the feet of Valens.

  ‘Now leave.’

  Sheathing their knives, the two shuffled out of the bar. ‘Fucking madman,’ one muttered.