‘From where have you come, and who sent you?’ The eunuch was speaking angrily, drawing himself upright, stiff with the dignity of his petty office.
‘We have sent ourselves to see if we can make men of you, whether you like it or not,’ Narses said.
‘If you do not answer my questions, I will have you tortured.’ There was an outraged petulance in the manner of the official.
‘By the peasants here?’ Narses laughed, his teeth very white in his dark beard. ‘It will be good for you do it with your own hands, so that you may be tested by the touchstone of a true man.’
Clemens nudged his horse closer to Valens. ‘The Persian fool will get us all killed.’
Valens hushed him.
‘By the gods, who are you?’ In the face of the armed men, and Narses’s assured intransigence, the tone of the eunuch had changed to a whine of entreaty.
‘Since you asked me with politeness this time, I will tell you. I am Narses, son of Rastak of the Suren, caravan guard in the service of Marcus Aelius Valens, merchant out of Antioch. We carry carved gemstones and jewellery to trade in Hyrkania.’
As if by magic, the attitude of the eunuch became civil, even obsequious. Although a gleam in his eyes indicated this might have been caused by him scenting his own perquisites on these valuable commodities.
‘If you would be so kind as to accompany me to the customs house.’
Inside the building, the merchandise was brought out. In the negotiation, Narses was gracious but firm. The tax across the border was set at twenty-five per cent, the highest known in the world. A contribution to the official brought the sum down.
Even when Valens had handed over the money, the business was far from over. Through Narses the eunuch asked each man his name and family, what was his profession, from where he came, and his reason for travelling. As there was no reason not to, they gave their real names. The official wrote everything down in a book, although all the answers except the names were the same. It seemed to take an inordinately long time.
‘He is recording our dress and appearance,’ Hairan quietly told Valens. ‘They will be passed on to the Ears of the King – the Persian King, like the Roman Emperor, has those who watch and listen.’
‘One last formality.’ The eunuch went to a sort of shrine, and brought back a small statuette. It was made of gold, and looked incongruous in this poor village.
‘What is this?’ Hairan asked.
The eunuch looked surprised that another in the party spoke his language.
‘Shapur the King of Kings has decreed that everyone entering his territory must pay their respects by kissing his image.’
‘Romans are exempt from this ceremony.’ Hairan said with finality.
The official wrung his hands apologetically. ‘Only envoys from the Roman Emperor.’
When Hairan translated the exchange, Clemens bristled. ‘A free man only gives such a tribute to a god.’
Unexpectedly, Iudex also refused. ‘It is anathema in the eyes of the Lord to venerate idols.’
‘They are right,’ Hairan said. ‘I will not abase myself to an image of that murderous bastard.’
Although unable to follow the Latin words, the eunuch understood their refusal. ‘It is the law. Anyone has to be arrested with dishonour unless he pays honour to the image.’
‘Never,’ Clemens said.
‘It is an abomination,’ Iudex said.
‘There are no soldiers here,’ Clemens said. ‘We have nothing to fear from this excuse of a man.’
‘Fuck the Persian bastard,’ Hairan added.
‘Have you three lost your minds?’ Valens snapped. ‘There are no soldiers here, but there are tens of thousands in Persia. We are hundreds of miles from our objective.’
They stared back at him.
Valens rounded on Clemens and Hairan. ‘You will have done worse as . . .’ he checked himself, avoided the word frumentarii ‘. . . in your duties.’
Both men looked at Iudex.
‘As for you, Iudex, an oath taken under duress is no oath at all. Your god will absolve you.’
It was difficult to face down the huge bald man.
‘We are merchants, not an invading army. We must behave as such.’
The small childlike features regarded Valens with great solemnity.
‘Everywhere, custom is king. Kiss the fucking thing!’
With no expression on his face, Iudex did as he was told.
One by one, with more or less evident reluctance, every man did the same.
Last of all, Valens bent and put his lips to the image.
‘It is all good, my friends.’ The eunuch was beaming with relief. ‘All very good. At the edge of the village is a caravanserai. It is basic for such honoured guests, but it is clean, and the food is excellent, and they tell me that the girls are skilled.’
The cameos were wrapped and packed away.
The eunuch quickly wrote a note, recording them as a merchant caravan that had paid the import duties and was bound for Hyrkania, which he presented to Narses.
‘You can get provisions in our market – wine, venison and bacon, leavened bread and vegetables, palm dates like amber. You must stock up. The land downstream is full of wormwood, everything that grows there is bitter. There are few villages there, and the people are thieves.’
As the fat official prattled on, Valens still felt the cold press of the metal on his lips. If the gods existed, they had no interest in mankind. There could be no sacrilege. Yet somehow he felt vitiated, as if he had betrayed some part of himself.
*
Valens lay back on the narrow bed. The cheap, stained sheets were rumpled.
Alexander the Great had said that only sex reminded him that he was mortal.
The girl ran her palm across his chest, murmuring incomprehensible endearments or compliments.
Her skin was brown, smooth like silk, her dark nipples almost as black as her hair. The first coupling had been brief. It was a long time since the girl in Resaina. In the second, she had feigned pleasure.
Now Valens felt an overwhelming urge to get away, to be downstairs drinking with his men. He removed her hand, and got up. Finding his wallet, he gave her a few extra coins as a tip. When she spoke her tone sounded grateful, but he could not tell if she murmured thanks or was cursing him.
‘Our officer returns.’ Clemens was in fine humour, his air of archaic republican morality set aside for the evening. The armourer flourished his cup, and recited a poem in Greek.
Looking at her beauty, I melt like wax before the fire.
And if she is dusky, what is that to me?
So are the coals, but when we light them,
They shine as bright as roses.
Valens sat down, took the proffered drink. In a crowded room full of good cheer, Iudex alone looked disapproving, as he quietly ate a melon and sipped water.
‘Cheer up, you old bugger,’ Clemens called over. ‘Even stern old Cato said a young man should visit a brothel, as long as he did not – like that whore-chasing Hatrene Hairan – make it his home.’
Iudex stopped eating. With the solemnity of a religious rite, he broke wind loudly.
‘Sanctimonious in public, but we know what your cult gets up to behind closed doors – at it like sparrows.’ Clemens winked, adopting a conspiratorial air. ‘They say you spread a lot of flour over the floor, and hump on top of it. The men pull out, shoot their load, and then you make bread out of the flour.’
‘A foolish calumny.’
‘A calumny? I need a dictionary to talk to you.’
A look of infinite sadness passed across Iudex’s features. ‘The Lord has spoken, but you are deaf. A man loses the divine light through semen. It is the fault of Eve. She was created for a diabolical purpose. When Adam saw her, garlanded and naked, he gave way to lust. From their copulation was born Seth, the ancestor of the sinful race of mankind. Adam repented, tore his hair, beat his breast. Woe to the maker of my body, the cha
iner of my soul, woe to me who is reduced to servitude!’
Clemens grinned. ‘Old Iudex is always such an adornment at a drinking party.’
All the men laughed, except Decimus. The horse master, becoming maudlin with the drink, did not join their merriment. He was hunched over the table, his gaze fixed on something no one else could see. As men often did in their cups, he too turned to verse.
Women are a curse,
They may be good in bed
But they are better off dead.
‘Gods below,’ Aulus broke in, ‘not more fucking poetry.’ His watery old eyes expressed utter contempt. ‘If a man has something to say, let him say it openly and straightforwardly. Poets are nearly as big liars as philosophers.’
Clemens shook his head. ‘You miserable bastards.’
A group of musicians had arrived, and were tuning their instruments.
Valens turned to Iudex. ‘You never drink?’
‘Wine is the evil bile of daemons.’
‘And I have never seen you eat meat.’
‘It is wrong to butcher animals.’
‘Because they are sacred?’
‘No, because they are filth.’
‘So you will not kill an animal, but a man?’
‘That is different.’ The musicians had started playing, and Iudex looked distracted.
Suddenly he leapt to his feet. Beaming, he placed one of his enormous hands on Valens’s shoulder. ‘Music and dance, nothing is holier in the sight of the Lord.’
His body already swaying to the rhythm, Iudex made his way to the open space at the centre of the room.
‘All this talk of Eve and Adam,’ Valens said, ‘are we sure he is not a Christian?’
‘He once told me he followed some prophet called Mani,’ Clemens said. ‘Whatever, touched by one god or another. Utterly insane, but he does dance well.’
Valens took a drink.
‘That eunuch was full of shit,’ Aulus said. ‘There was no venison at all to be had in the market, but I did get some bacon.’
But Valens was not listening. His eyes followed Iudex as, despite his sobriety, the soldier capered like a Bacchant in time to the music. Could such a strange man be trusted?
*
At first they thought it was another Tower of Silence. In the distance, the vultures wheeled black against the hot azure sky. When they got nearer, they saw it was not.
The column had spent two further days resting in the caravanserai. They had not drunk as much as the first night, but Hairan looked exhausted by the time they left. Valens had not visited the dark girl again. For three days they had been riding south, the river on their right. On the second they had come to Nineveh. Little remained of the fabled city of the once mighty Assyrian empire, except low humps in the ground and a squalid settlement sprawled among them.
What I have eaten and wantoned, the pleasures I have had of my loves,
These alone have I now. The rest of my blessings have vanished.
It was Hairan who had recited the notorious lines. Valens had accompanied the Hatrene in searching the site. But for all their efforts they found no trace of the stone on which the poem was said to be inscribed, nor any of the sculptures with which the last Assyrian king had adorned his ancient capital.
They had spent the night in Nineveh. Setting out the next morning, they expected a long day would bring them to the Lykos River, which they would follow east into the mountains. Somewhere upstream they would hire a local to guide them through the passes.
It was in the afternoon, the sun arcing down, when they spotted the vultures. As before, something unspoken drew them away from their route. Coming closer, they saw the burnt wagon, the scatter of debris about it. Valens sent Hairan and Aulus out to scout the surroundings.
The wagon was still smouldering, occasional little licks of flame running across its planks. Pathetic belongings lay abandoned on the ground: a smashed amphora, a lone shoe, a woman’s torn veil. The first corpse was slumped by the wagon. The vultures rose at their approach, ungainly and reluctant. Dressed in a coarse tunic, the man lay on his back. The carrion birds had not been long at their feast. Despite their feeding, the two wounds were still evident in his chest. The tearing of the flesh showed the killers had taken trouble to retrieve their arrows. The other corpse was further off. This victim was stark naked, staked out. He had been tortured. Valens looked in horror at the blackened, burnt soles of his feet, and the bloody mess where his genitals had been.
‘Arabs,’ Narses said.
Valens gestured at the wagon. ‘What hidden treasure could they think he might reveal?’
‘Arabs,’ Narses said again. ‘It gives the tent-dwellers pleasure.’
The scouts clattered back.
‘Tracks heading north-east. Camels and horses, a couple of mules, probably from the wagon, a few are going on foot,’ Aulus reported.
‘How many?’ Valens asked.
‘In total, more than ten, less than twenty.’
‘How long?’
‘Recent, an hour, maybe two.’
‘We should either bury or cremate the dead,’ Decimus said.
‘There are no trees,’ Aulus said, ‘and the wagon is already charcoal.’
‘If they were locals, they were followers of Zoroaster,’ Narses said. ‘We should leave them exposed.’
‘We cannot leave them to the vultures.’ The idea appalled Valens.
‘So custom is only king when it fits your sensibilities?’ Narses said.
Although it was repugnant, Valens knew the Persian was right. ‘Untie that one, lay them both out respectfully. In case they worshipped the Olympian gods, put a coin in their mouths and sprinkle a pinch of earth on each.’
As they carried out the order, Valens stood respectfully by. But there was something else that had to be done.
‘Aulus, can you track the tent-dwellers?’
‘I am a Gaul. We are born hunters.’
‘You could follow their trail in darkness?’
‘Of course.’ Aulus looked somewhat affronted. ‘Anyone with eyes could, and I was a scout for the Third Augusta in Africa. But why?’
Valens picked up the ripped veil. ‘There was a woman with the wagon.’
‘She was unlucky.’
‘We are going to rescue her.’
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, sir?’ The last word was an afterthought. ‘Our mission is to free some Sassanid princeling, not every woman taken by the nomads.’
Valens steeled himself to face this new challenge to his authority. Before he could speak, unexpected aid came from Narses.
‘I would not leave anyone in the hands of the Arabs.’
Aulus, furious and truculent, looked for support from the others.
‘The officer is right,’ Clemens said.
‘But there are more of them than us,’ Aulus exclaimed. ‘Why put your hand in a nest of rats?’
‘We are soldiers,’ Valens said, ‘and they are nothing but ragged tent-dwellers.’
Aulus turned away. ‘Either the sun has addled your minds, or some daemon is leading us to destruction.’
CHAPTER 13
The Castle of Silence
THE WOMAN HAD DANCED SLOWLY and sensuously. Beneath a glittering veil, her robe was sheer and clinging. It revealed all the contours of her body. Barbad had taken her breasts in his hands, felt the nipples harden against his palms.
Only fragments of the dream remained, but his semi-erect member told the story. Barbad smiled: a seventy-five-year-old eunuch with an erection. The good god Mazda be praised. It depended when you were cut. If a boy had reached puberty before the knife, as a eunuch he might achieve an erection, although obviously he would be sterile. Some women sought out certain eunuchs for those qualities.
Barbad half remembered a simile employed by a Greek philosopher. Something or other was as frustrating as a woman attempting to have sex with a eunuch. They could spend the whole night together, and he could do no more than a
nnoy her. Greek philosophers were not always as wise as they claimed.
Barbad had been old to be cut. Later, in his youth, he had lain with women. He was not one of those eunuchs who had run to fat. His muscles had not withered. His voice was not effeminate. He had shared the bed of women into his vigorous middle age. They had not seemed annoyed at all. Some had appeared to enjoy the experience.
It was late summer, warm even here in the mountains. The shutters were wide open. Barbad looked out at the night sky. A garment of stars was stretched across the heavens. The boy was fast asleep in his own bed. The young lived in the moment. Although he still did not want to pass the night alone in his sleeping chamber, it had been more than a month since Sasan had had a nightmare. Perhaps the young were just more resilient, or it could be that life had yet to crush their natural optimism.
Barbad regarded the stars. The Hyades, the Bear, Orion, and the Dolphin; they were as familiar to him by their Greek names as their Persian. As scribe to Prince Papak, Barbad had learnt Greek. It was the language of diplomacy. When a Persian met a Roman, they talked Greek. And some of the prince’s tenants were Greek; either prisoners recently taken in the campaigns of Shapur, or the descendants of those settled long ago by Alexander and his successors.
The Greeks and Romans were hypocritical about eunuchs. They condemned them as evidence of eastern cruelty and decadence. Castration was illegal in the Roman empire. Yet they imported them in their thousands. Provided they were cut beyond their frontiers, in out-of-the-way places like Abasgia by the Black Sea, it seemed not to matter. It was said that in their palaces the Caesars and the senators were served by eunuchs. There had always been eunuchs in Persia – their uses had been recognised since the time of Cyrus the Great. Unable to sire a family of their own, they were loyal. If cut young, it was safe for them to guard the women of the family. A pretty young eunuch made a good bed companion for a man. And, if anything went wrong, if scandal touched their master, the blame could be placed upon his eunuchs.
Of course there was another reason that boys, even men, were castrated. Vengeance. Barbad knew the story of Hermotimus. It was in Herodotus, one of the first works that he had read when learning Greek. As a prisoner of war, Hermotimus had fallen into the hands of Panionius, a slave trader. Panionius had castrated Hermotimus, and sold him in the market at Sardis. By chance, or the will of the gods, Hermotimus had been bought for the household of the Persian king. Later, when Hermotimus had become the King’s most valued eunuch, he sought out Panionius. Listing all the benefits that had come his way thanks to the slave trader, Hermotimus persuaded Panionius to come with his family to live with him, so that he could do as much good in return. When Hermotimus had Panionius in his power, he dropped the pretence, took him prisoner, and cursed him. For his crimes, the gods had delivered Panionius into his hands. Hermotimus had the four sons of Panionius dragged in. One by one he forced the slave trader to castrate his sons, then the sons to castrate the father.
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