The Lost Ten

by Harry Sidebottom

  Murena felt a chill of apprehension that he prayed did not appear on his face.

  ‘Any news from Severus?’ Volusianus asked.

  ‘None,’ Murena said. ‘But none is to be expected. They are deep behind enemy lines.’

  ‘They should be near the Caspian by now. If they succeed, we should get word from the Black Sea by the end of winter.’

  Murena said nothing.

  Volusianus gazed at the pincers and the claws and the other instruments of torture, as if he were a shrewd farmer at market, wondering which to buy. ‘You have heard the rumours that Shapur has threatened to mutilate the Emperor?’

  ‘From a good source,’ Murena said, ‘one of our spies at Ctesiphon. The King of Kings announced that he might release Valerian from captivity, but that first he would cut off the Emperor’s nose. The Persian knows that in Rome no mutilated man can wear the purple.’

  ‘The gods willing, it will not come to that.’ Volusianus sighed, dismissing the unhappy train of thought.

  ‘What shall I do with the messenger?’

  Volusianus glanced at the man hanging in the middle of the cell. ‘Keep him alive, in solitary confinement. Don’t let him talk to anyone. We may need him as a witness.’

  *

  A bitter wind whipped down the Sacred Way as Murena walked past the Temple of Venus and Rome. The street was nearly deserted. The weather was inclement, but tens of thousands of Romans had thronged to the Colosseum. It was five days before the Nones of October, the opening of the Ludi Augustales. The first Emperor Augustus might have taken their political freedom, but the people loved the games held in his honour.

  It was mid-afternoon, the courts had been shut for hours, and the Forum was not busy. Murena angled across towards the far corner and the Senate House.

  Why had Volusianus asked about Severus and his men? As the Praetorian Prefect had said – assuming that they were not already dead or captured – they should be near the Caspian Sea. There was no possibility that there could be any news. Did Volusianus suspect Murena’s hand in the mission? No, it was not that. If Volusianus had been suspicious, Murena would have been the one strung up from the hook. The Praetorian Prefect was thorough, his actions decisive and never hampered by sentiment.

  Before he reached the Senate House, Murena turned into the Argiletum that ran between the Curia and the Aemilian Basilica.

  It was no more than wishful thinking on the part of Volusianus. The unpremeditated comment about the possible mutilation of the old Emperor gave it away. For all his intelligence, Volusianus was a westerner. They lacked the deep subtlety and cunning of the east. Murena was descended from good Italian stock, but his ancestors had lived in Syria for generations. Climate and geography and the surrounding culture had had their effect. Just as Volusianus could unravel the poetry employed by alienated senators, so Murena could read the preoccupations of the Praetorian Prefect.

  Volusianus was determined that Gallienus would campaign in the east. The Praetorian Prefect would move Olympus to secure the release from Persian captivity of his great patron, the old Emperor Valerian. If Volusianus could bring that about, it would secure his influence over the imperial court. But Gallienus was set on marching over the Alps to avenge his son. If Prince Sasan fell into Roman hands, it would precipitate war along the Euphrates. If the King of Kings attacked Syria, Gallienus must march to its defence, and Volusianus would get his wish.

  Still, Volusianus’s question had unsettled Murena. That was why he was walking down to the Subura, to remind himself that he had power over the lives of others, and thus over his own destiny.

  There was only one other pedestrian making his way up the Via Fornicata when Murena turned into the Vicus Caeseris. The wine shop was small and dark, with one side of the single public room occupied by great barrels taller than a man. The air smelt agreeably of the merchandise and the sawdust on the floor.

  ‘Health and great joy, Gaius,’ the vintner said. ‘Not seen you in some time. I have some of the Raetian you like, a good one, well matured in the vats. Would you care to have a taste?’

  ‘That is most kind.’

  The wine was a deep red. It smelt and tasted of the pitch with which the barrels were treated. Tullia came in from the family’s quarters at the back to help her father. She too greeted Murena as a valued customer.

  ‘How is your husband?’ Murena asked.

  A look of concern crossed her face. ‘He has been seconded to his old legion in the east.’

  ‘Not for long, I hope?’ Murena said politely. Tullia was in her mid-twenties, tall, full bodied, not unattractive.

  ‘We do not expect him to be back until next summer.’

  ‘Then we must pray that his duties do not detain him, and that he makes a safe return.’

  She thanked him, and took some empty amphorae through the curtains into the back.

  ‘What do you think of the Raetian?’ The wine merchant rubbed his palms on the high-belted leather apron of his calling.

  ‘Very good, but I am in the mood for something stronger, something to unknit the cares of life.’

  ‘I have just the thing, a Thurine from Lucania. The grapes are not harvested until after the first frost, makes it very sweet and strong.’

  ‘That would be ideal. I will take a flask with me.’

  There was rain in the wind as Murena walked back to the Caelian.

  The visit had achieved its purpose. There was something godlike about knowing the destiny of the wine seller and his family was in his hands. But, even so, he was not totally reassured. It would have been better if he had chosen an easterner for the mission. The necessary subterfuge came more naturally. But there had been no alternative. At the time he had not been long in command, and there had been no other frumentarius in the camp on whom he had incriminating evidence. Threats of violence alone, even to loved ones, were seldom enough.

  The rain had picked up, and Murena was soaked by the time he got back to his office in the Camp of the Strangers. He dismissed his secretary, sat at his desk, and poured some of the Lucanian wine.

  That Tullia was not at all unattractive. Come what may, it would be necessary to have her brought to the camp. Murena did not expect her husband to return. If he did, he could not be allowed to survive. The man knew far too much. A discreet accident would be arranged. And he might have talked to his wife before he departed. Murena would conduct her interrogation himself. There was no denying the erotic charge of having an attractive woman stripped and helpless. She might as well give him some pleasure, before she had to die.

  An underling could kill her father and daughter.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Southern Shores of the Caspian Sea

  WITH THE SEA TO THEIR LEFT, they travelled east. Although it was not mentioned again, the possibility of pursuit was on everyone’s mind, and they went at a good pace. At times a chill wind blew from the north, lifting whitecaps out on the water. Here summer was long gone, and autumn well advanced. But the going was good and level, and the horses moved easily, as if, like the men, they were glad to be out of high country, at least for a time.

  By the end of the first day the mountains had closed in from the south, and ran in a great crescent like a huge rampart almost up against the shore. For four days they followed the narrow track between the waves and the rock wall. Lucia said that the sea level was lower now than in the past. In the time of her father the breakers had beaten directly into the base of the cliffs, and merchants had used another route through the hills. There were no dwellings along the path, and they saw no one. Yet a few times, when the wind dropped, pale-blue coils of smoke showed high above on the heights.

  Streams gushed from dark caverns in the rock. Some formed strong wild waterfalls, foaming white and plunging straight down the cliffs. Others, fanning out in numerous rivulets, and flowing more gently over stepped shelves of rock, resembled the sort of elaborate architectural water feature that might grace a wealthy city, like an elaborate fountain
or nymphaeum. Where the streams cut the track, the surface of their beds was slippery and treacherous. Men and horses descended cautiously, and both were soaked by the spray and the icy water when they clambered out. One river, however, threw itself from the top of the precipice with such force that its waters arced clear over the track to crash straight into the sea. The column was able to ride, wondering and dry-shod, underneath.

  On the fifth morning the mountains fell back, and they emerged onto a wide plain. The land was smooth and rich and well worked. It was dotted with settlements. In the fields the stubble of the harvest lay under vines and fig trees, some still heavy with fruit. Small plots of vegetables were tended in among the main produce. Never put all your eggs in one basket, as the saying went. If a blight or storm hit the plain, with luck not all the crops would be lost. Something should remain to feed the farmer’s family, or to be bartered in the village. In Italy, the peasants around Valens’s family estate employed the same strategy to survive.

  The hamlets through which they passed were peaceful and unfortified. Their inhabitants were happy to sell eggs and chickens, bread and cheese to the travellers, who paid over the odds in good coins. In the evenings the sky to the north, out over the gulf, turned a livid purple and orange on the horizon, below dark, threatening clouds. But the rain held off.

  On the third day on the plain they came in sight of the main settlement in these parts. Lucia knew it as Sariya, but Narses called it Zadrakarta. The Persian had been here many years before. He said there was a frontier wall two days beyond, which ran from the sea to the mountains, and closed the approach to the plain from the north-east. There was a second another day beyond, and a third further off, which ran due east from the Caspian. They were all said to have been built by Alexander the Great. Now they were garrisoned by Sassanid soldiers to protect the plain from the nomad tribes of the Steppe, and allow the farmers to continue their bucolic life undisturbed.

  From Zadrakarta it was planned that Narses would guide them on the final leg of their quest. Before they reached the first of the fortified walls, they would unobtrusively slip off the road, turn south-east, and follow a river valley up into the mountains, and eventually by unfrequented paths come to the Castle of Silence.

  Asked how they would get through the Walls of Alexander to the Steppe on their coming down from the mountains, Narses enigmatically replied that Mazda had inspired him with a plan. As it still seemed unlikely that they would ever return from the Castle of Silence, there was little point in pressing him on the subject.

  Not far from the outskirts of Zadrakarta, Valens heard the fierce barking of dogs. Off the path, a pack of a dozen strays ringed a figure on the ground. Whether the man was injured, exhausted or both was initially unclear. Feebly, propped on one elbow, he fended the animals off with a stick. As one, Valens and Hairan at the head of the column turned their mounts, and set off to his aid.

  The dogs heard them coming and reluctantly fell back, hackles up and snarling.

  They were no distance from the man when Narses galloped past. The Persian skidded his horse to a halt, so violently he almost brought it back on its haunches. Turning the horse, Narses blocked their path.

  ‘Stay back!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t go any closer. He has the plague.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It is our custom. When someone has a disease that threatens others, he is driven out.’

  ‘To die on his own? That is inhuman,’ Hairan said.

  ‘The outcast is given a lump of bread, water and a stick.’

  ‘But when he gets too weak, the dogs will devour him alive.’ Valens was as horrified as Hairan.

  ‘It will be as Mazda wills.’

  The rest of the party had approached now.

  ‘We can’t just leave him to die,’ Decimus said.

  ‘You are all foreigners in this land,’ Narses said, ‘strangers to our laws.’

  ‘We must take him with us,’ Valens said.

  ‘The townsfolk would not accept him. They would turn on us.’ Narses was adamant. ‘Even if he returns from the Gates of Darkness, his family will shun him as though he is accursed and still in the service of the infernal powers. If he recovers, they will have nothing to do with him until the pollution has been exorcised by the magi.’

  The others sat their horses without speaking.

  ‘Narses is right.’ Lucia was the first to break the silence. ‘It is our custom. There is nothing to be done.’

  Valens looked at the pathetic and emaciated victim. He wished that he had not.

  ‘Life is not easy,’ Iudex said. ‘Sometimes we have to harden our hearts.’

  *

  The men were subdued as they ate that evening in a caravanserai. Lucia had taken herself off to the home of some acquaintance in the town.

  Feeling the need to justify the practices of his people, Narses was holding forth. ‘Dogs or birds, it makes no difference. It is sacrilege to pollute the earth with a corpse. If the birds do not fly down on a body quickly, or if the dogs do not come at once and tear it to pieces, we hold that the dead man was profane in his ways, and that his soul is wicked and doomed, given over to the power of evil. So then his relatives mourn all the more, thinking him truly perished, and with no share in the higher life. But if a man is devoured quickly, they congratulate the dead man on his good fortune and marvel at his soul, believing that it is virtuous and godlike, and destined for the dwelling of the power of good.’

  Hairan looked far from convinced, and Clemens, who never had any sympathy for easterners, muttered something derogatory under his breath. There was an air of tension at the table.

  Keen to avoid any confrontation, Valens tried to think of something emollient to say. It was not easy. The image of sharp teeth gnawing at the living flesh of a defenceless man not half a mile away was preying on his mind.

  ‘Every people consider any practice to which it is accustomed to be admirable and hallowed. To an outsider they may seem ridiculous and incredible, even dreadful and cruel.’

  The sentiments were clichéd, but the best Valens could find. They were far from satisfying Hairan.

  ‘Explanations are not justifications,’ Hairan said. ‘To understand something is not to condone it.’ He had already had several drinks, and now he rounded on Narses. ‘You Persians are a cruel race.’

  ‘No crueller than any other.’ Narses sounded defensive.

  ‘Only jackals and wild asses now live where Hatra once stood. Those of my people who were not killed were driven off into captivity.’

  ‘A great misfortune for you, brother, but such are the laws of war,’ Narses said. ‘Once a battering ram touches the wall of a city, the lives of its inhabitants are forfeit.’

  Hairan tugged angrily at his long moustache. ‘After the Sassanid army left, my home was desolate, my family massacred. Once my father died in exile, I was consigned to a lifetime of solitude. What point is there in marrying and having children when all you will do is grieve when a cruel fate takes them, or leave them to mourn you when you die?’

  ‘Would things have been better if the Romans had taken Hatra? If either of the sieges of the Emperor Septimius Severus had succeeded, your city would have been a desert before you were born. Thanks to the Romans you would never have existed.’ Narses was trying to be conciliatory.

  ‘Only treachery breached the double walls of Hatra, whose foundations were like sheets of iron.’ Hairan turned to Valens. ‘King Daizan had a daughter. Nadira was the most beautiful woman of her time. Her skin was so delicate you could see right through to the marrow of her bones. She gave the troops wine, and, when they were drunk, opened the gates to the enemy. Shapur had promised to marry her, raise her above his other wives. Instead he commanded a man to mount a wild horse – she was tied by her hair to its tail, and the horse was made to gallop until her body was torn to pieces.’ He looked back at Narses. ‘And you deny cruelty runs deep in Persian blood?’

&n
bsp; ‘Shapur is one man. Not all Persians are like him.’ Narses spoke abruptly, his patience wearing thin. ‘As you bemoan your fate, remember that I too live in exile.’

  ‘Desert or betray us, and your road home is open.’

  There was silence after Hairan’s words.

  Narses hand was on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Enough of these old, unhappy things,’ Valens said. ‘None of us would have chosen the path that has led us here. If any of us are to win through, we must be united.’

  The six men regarded him. Even Hairan was sobered.

  ‘Let each of us now take an oath, swear in the name of whatever deity he worships, never to desert or betray our brotherhood.’

  Solemnly, one by one, invoking Jupiter Optimus Maximus, Ahuramazda, Bel, the Demiurge, or whatever other divine powers to which they prayed, each man at the table took the oath.

  ‘Now,’ Narses said, ‘let us get drunk. For once, I will set aside the custom of my ancestors, and not reconsider what we have decided in the morning.’

  As ever, Iudex could not be prevailed upon to touch a drop of wine. Instead, as the others drank, then drank some more, he sang to them.

  In their inebriation, Hairan and Narses seemed reconciled.

  After a time Iudex got up and danced. His feet – so small they seemed unsuited to bearing his weight – measured intricate patterns, his huge hands cut through the air, and his great bald head bobbed and weaved to the rhythm. All the while a beatific smile lit up his childlike features.

  *

  Lucia was waiting in Valens’s room.

  The light of the one lamp softened the long features of her face. Well gone with wine, Valens saw only her knowing eyes, the sensuality of her mouth. He stepped towards her.

  Firmly, she placed her hand on his chest, held him away. ‘I came to talk to you.’

  Embarrassed, he moved back, mumbling an incoherent apology.

  She smiled, not unkindly.