The Lost Ten

by Harry Sidebottom

  A light flashed on the wall of one of the rear courtyards of the villa. The shuttered lantern opened three times. Volusianus heard Murena quietly give the orders. The complex was ringed with troops. Now, above the sussuration of the wind in the trees, came the distinctive sounds of armed men moving into position at the front and rear gates.

  It was what every member of the senate feared – the arrival of the Praetorians in the dead of night. But the soldiers approaching the entrances were a diversion. It would take time for the gates to be opened, time in which much incriminating evidence might be destroyed.

  ‘Open in the name of Gallienus Augustus!’

  The command was followed by a series of heavy blows to the front gate. Moments later, the commotion was repeated at the back gate.

  Volusianus started walking to where the light had shown. Murena and three Praetorians followed at his heels.

  At the foot of the wall Volusianus softly called the password: Iustitia.

  A pale circle of a face peered over. Then a rope ladder coiled down. Volusianus sent Murena and the Praetorians up first. He had not lived to his advanced age by taking unnecessary risks.

  It was difficult climbing in a mail shirt. Volusianus discarded his cloak to prevent being further encumbered.

  At the top, on the walkway, Volusianus took a moment to get his breath back. There was a fountain in the courtyard below. Apart from the splashing water it was empty and quiet. The uproar at the gates was at a distance.

  The frumentarius who had been placed in the household of Acilius Glabrio led them swiftly through the maze of the huge villa. Once or twice servants peeped out from behind half-open doors, but then vanished. Volusianus followed through opulent halls and libraries, and down mean service corridors, until they came to the dining room. Lights and noise issued from behind the curtains.

  As before, Volusianus indicated the others should precede him.

  There was an outcry when the armed men burst through the hangings.

  Volusianus drew his blade before stepping through.

  The conspirators were motionless, like a tableau: the two senators frozen in the act of throwing documents into a brazier, the pair of officers facing the opening with swords in their hands.

  For a heartbeat or two no one moved. Then one of the officers shouted something incomprehensible, and both armed men hurled themselves at Murena and the Praetorians.

  ‘Take one of them alive!’ Volusianus shouted.

  Through the clatter of the fight Volusianus saw Acilius Glabrio drop the papyri in his hands and bolt through a small door at the rear of the room. The other senator did not think to follow, but fell to his knees, holding his hands out in supplication.

  Unarmoured and outnumbered two to one, the officers had no chance. One of them was clutching his stomach, trying to hold in his own entrails. The other was being wrestled to the ground.

  Volusianus moved to the cowering senator.

  ‘Have no fear, Thrasea. I know what you have done.’

  The senator whimpered with terror. Volusianus took his hands, gently raised him up.

  ‘Your loyalty to the Emperor is an example to us all,’ Volusianus said. ‘It took courage to infiltrate the conspiracy.’

  A desperate hope dawned in the senator’s eyes. ‘Yes, that was it. I did not know who to trust, so I told no one.’

  ‘And now you can tell everything,’ Volusianus said gently.

  ‘Everything . . . that was always my intention.’

  ‘Later tonight, my friend.’

  Volusianus released the senator’s hands, and looked over his shoulder. The Praetorians were still struggling with the officer who was not mortally wounded.

  ‘Where does the passage go?’ he asked the frumentarius.

  ‘Just to the roof garden.’

  ‘Good. Stay with the senator. Murena, with me.’

  Volusianus was blowing hard when he reached the roof garden. After the stairs it was bright in the starlight. Acilius Glabrio was by the balustrade at the far end. Out beyond the villa the grounds were lit by the torches of the troops.

  Volusianus put out a hand to stop Murena when he went to apprehend the fugitive.

  ‘It is over,’ Volusianus said. ‘There is nowhere to run.’

  ‘You jumped-up peasant,’ Acilius Glabrio spat. ‘You sent my cousin to his death.’

  ‘Men die in war. It happens.’

  ‘If not me, someone will kill the degenerate Gallienus.’ Acilius Glabrio drew himself up, as if to address the senate or posterity. ‘The tyrant is hated by all his subjects.’

  ‘This is not the time for a speech,’ Volusianus said.

  ‘Your master will die, and you will be cast down. Vice brings retribution. The gods—’

  ‘No more words.’

  Acilius Glabrio stopped talking. He took a ring from his finger and turned it in his hands.

  Again Volusianus restrained Murena.

  The secret compartment unscrewed, Acilius Glabrio raised the ring to his lips, and drank the poison.

  They stood watching each other, the wind sighing around them.

  Acilius Glabrio choked, and staggered back against the balustrade.

  Volusianus and Murena did not move.

  Acilius Glabrio collapsed to the floor.

  ‘Why?’ Murena asked. ‘We could have uncovered everything.’

  ‘His family are well connected. A trial, even in the palace, behind closed doors, would have been an embarrassment.’

  Acilius Glabrio’s body went into convulsions.

  ‘Gods below, it is bitter up here,’ Volusianus said to Murena. ‘Would you fetch me another cloak?’

  Evidently surprised, Murena did as he was bidden. Volusianus made himself comfortable on a nearby bench to watch Acilius Glabrio die. It occurred to Volusianus that the death of Acilius Glabrio removed the need to keep alive the senator’s messenger to Postumus. The man would never be called as a witness, and he had no more information to divulge. The messenger had been thoroughly tortured – if anything his death would be a kindness.

  *

  The spasms of Acilius Glabrio had ended. Now he was motionless, hardly breathing.

  It was right to have sent Murena away. In his agony, Acilius Glabrio might say something best not overheard. Murena had done well pursuing this conspiracy, but he was no longer to be trusted.

  When they had been questioning the messenger in the cells, and Volusianus had mentioned the Castle of Silence, Murena had nearly pissed himself. Murena had been watched since, his secretary suborned, his movements followed. Why did Murena visit the family of one of the ten sent to rescue Prince Sasan?

  CHAPTER 27

  The Elburz Mountains

  THEY WAITED IN THE CAMP for three days.

  The goats that Aulus and Clemens had shot were butchered and cooked. The men only lit a fire during daylight, taking care that it did not smoke. The depression was sheltered from the wind, but it was cold, and when it rained their spirits flagged. They heated stones in the ashes and placed them in their bedrolls. The stones soon lost their warmth, and did little to help them sleep.

  Two men remained on watch night and day at the top of the ridge. They were out of sight of the fortress, a couple of miles from its main gate. From their lookout they could see a long stretch of the road as it toiled up from the plains. They were confident that nothing could pass unobserved.

  On the second day, Narses asked to speak with Valens. The duty roster was altered, and they stood watch together.

  ‘There were three thousand of us that surrendered at Corycus,’ the Persian said. ‘We swore the Roman military oath. They made us leave our horses. We were unhappy about that.’

  They were lying close together at the top of the slope. Narses was wearing perfume. It was strong, and had the sweet and spicy aroma of spikenard. Valens had learnt that sometimes it was best to let a man talk. Narses would get to the point eventually.

  ‘And then there was a problem abou
t the boats. We are forbidden to soil water with human waste.’ Narses smiled. ‘We were given big amphorae. The boats were enormous, several hundred aboard each. Privacy was hard to find in the cramped conditions. It matters to a Persian. Those boats soon stank. The sailors did not love us.’

  Narses paused. His dark eyes flicked from the road to the camp and back with the lidless intensity of a bird. He did not look at Valens.

  ‘A thousand were sent to the garrison in Egypt, the rest sailed first to islands in the Aegean. I went to Lemnos. From there, five hundred of us were ordered to join the imperial field army at Milan. Later we were joined by those who had been held on Rhodes. We went north across the Alps when Gallienus recaptured the province of Raetia from Postumus. There were almost a thousand of us at the battle near Curia, high in the mountains. We were led by our own officers. Things were not bad. I was a scout. After that I became a frumentarius.’

  Narses stopped talking.

  Again Valens said nothing.

  ‘The Emperor himself awarded me citizenship. Now I am no longer Narses son of Rastak, but Publius Licinius Narses. I have married a Roman woman. Well, Greek actually. We have a child. They are in Rome. I would return to them.’

  For the first time Narses glanced at Valens, but then looked away.

  ‘I have had news from my father. He does not approve. He has disowned me. It is hurtful. I have a new life, but I am still a Persian.’

  At last Narses had raised what was troubling him.

  ‘You are worried about fighting your own kind?’ Valens said.

  Narses fixed his gaze back on the road. His black beard nodded.

  ‘It is rather late to mention your concern,’ Valens said. ‘You should have told Murena before you left Rome.’

  ‘I did.’ Narses bared his teeth in a smile which lacked any humour. ‘The little shit told me I had to go – no other soldier in the Roman army had served in the Persian garrison of the Castle of Silence. If my conscience troubled me, I should raise the issue with the Praetorian Prefect. Volusianus himself had instructed Murena to send me on the mission.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Now Narses actually laughed. ‘Would you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When we surrendered, the general Ballista gave us his word that we would never have to fight our own people.’

  ‘You have sworn the sacramentum to the Roman Emperor,’ Valens said, ‘and at Zadrakarta you took an oath by Mazda never to desert or betray our brotherhood.’

  ‘I need no reminding. We are raised to ride, shoot the bow, and abhor the Lie.’

  ‘What will you do?’ Valens asked.

  Narses blew out his cheeks, exhaling noisily. ‘I will not betray or desert the brotherhood. But, if I can avoid it, I will not take a Persian life.’

  ‘A man cannot go into a fight with one hand tied behind his back,’ Valens said. ‘You will get yourself killed.’

  Narses did not reply.

  ‘You might get one of us killed.’

  Narses sighed, but still did not speak.

  ‘An oath taken under duress is not binding,’ Valens said. ‘Perhaps an action born out of necessity is not blameworthy.’

  Narses would have snorted with derision had it not been impolite. ‘You sound like one of those hairy Greeks, a sophist or a philosopher.’

  Valens grinned. ‘Gods below, I loathed my philosophy tutor. All that logic-chopping and convoluted semantics do nothing to prepare a man for life.’ He stopped smiling, suddenly very serious. ‘You must do what you think is right, but we have to trust one another.’

  ‘We have to trust one another,’ Narses repeated.

  *

  The convoy plodded slowly up the track between the cliff and the precipice. They had been on the road for days, but in a couple of hours they would reach the Castle of Silence. The eight draught horses were labouring against the incline to pull the heavily loaded wagon. The squeal and rumble of its wheels drowned the sound of the hooves. The men were as tired as the animals, too tired to talk. There was nothing to see but the endless ravines and bare slopes and the little gullies choked with juniper and mountain scrub. It was cold and threatened to rain.

  A hot meal and a warm fire were the only good things to anticipate about their arrival. The fortress was a dismal place, its warden feared almost as much by the soldiers as the prisoners. The few whores provided for the troops were pale, sad and listless things. At least the convoy would not remain longer than a few days, just long enough to restore the horses. They were better off than the poor devils of the garrison. Two months cramped in that remote eyrie was a harsh penance, even in summer, and winter was fast approaching.

  They crested a rise and saw something on the road at the foot of a gully.

  The outriders stiffened in their saddles.

  It was a man. He was on his back, unmoving.

  The mounted officer looked around. The wagon was piled with supplies. There was always the fear of bandits, and other men, the hungry and the desperate, would kill for food and wine. There was a famine in the province of Bactria. But this was not Bactria. These mountains were empty. The shepherds would have driven their flocks down to pastures in the plains for the winter. At this time of year there was no one at all in this high wasteland.

  The officer nudged his horse into a trot. The other five riders followed. The wagon lumbered after them.

  The man on the track was a Persian, judging by his square-cut dark beard and hair. His clothes had once been fine, but were stained and torn by hard travel. He wore a sword on his belt, and a bow case and quiver lay near him in the dirt. Evidently the soldier had not been robbed.

  The officer swung down from his horse, tossed the reins to a soldier.

  The prone man grimaced as he tried to raise himself on one elbow. His face was ashen.

  ‘Rest easy, brother,’ the officer said. With a groan the man fell back. He clutched his right leg. ‘What happened?’

  The injured man tried to speak, but no words came.

  ‘Get him some wine.’

  At the command, three of the soldiers dismounted. The two remaining in the saddle held their reins.

  ‘Give him some room.’ The officer took one of the proffered flasks. The others fell back a pace. ‘Drink.’ The officer lifted the man’s head, trickled a little wine between his cracked lips.

  The man spluttered and coughed. The officer waited, then gave him another drink.

  ‘My thanks.’ The voice was little more than a whisper. ‘My horse threw me. I think my leg is broken.’

  Now he managed to get on one elbow, and reached for the wine. He drank thirstily, his throat working beneath the black beard. He sighed and gave back the flask. There was great pain in his eyes.

  ‘My name is Narses, son of Rastak of the clan Suren. I am a messenger of the King of Kings.’

  The soldiers straightened up, the officer too. This was a man of importance. It was their duty to give him assistance.

  ‘You are the supply convoy bound for the Castle of Silence.’

  ‘Yes, Framadar.’ The officer addressed him by the title due to a superior. ‘Can you ride?’

  ‘No, put me on the wagon.’

  All eyes turned to the approaching vehicle. The wagoner cracked his whip above the animals’ ears, but it was still some way off.

  ‘Let me look at your leg,’ the officer bent over. ‘I can put it in a splint.’

  ‘Leave it!’ The framadar spoke sharply.

  The officer straightened up, as if rebuked.

  ‘I am so very sorry,’ the framadar said with utter sincerity.

  Suspicion dawned on the face of the officer.

  Suddenly the air was filled with awful motion. Like a swarm of bees, the arrows thrummed past. The two soldiers still on horseback were hit. One slumped forward in the saddle, a look of disbelief rather than pain across his features. The other screamed and twisted, hopelessly reaching for the shaft embedded between his shoulde
rs.

  ‘You bastard!’ The officer drew his sword.

  The man on the ground hooked his supposedly broken leg behind the officer’s leading knee, and swept him off balance.

  Landing on his back, the officer’s hilt was knocked from his grasp. Dragging air back into his chest, he scrabbled for his blade. Clutching it, he hauled himself back to his feet. The impostor was also up, sword out, well balanced, but backing away towards the lip of the precipice. Behind the officer the loose horses were milling, their hooves stamping on the hard surface.

  The officer spat at the man’s feet; the worst insult for a Persian. ‘Whoever is a sinner shall be cast down to Hell.’

  Valens could not get a clear shot.

  After they had toppled the two mounted men from their saddles, all the horses were loose. Now the beasts sidled, rolling their eyes and throwing their heads up, alarmed by the shouts of the men, the smell of blood and the nervous movements of each other. The horses were between the six concealed archers and the Persians.

  ‘Swords!’ Valens yelled.

  This had to be done quickly. No one could get away. He dropped his bow, snatched up his shield, and set off.

  Bursting through the low shrubs, he drew his sword. Behind him he could hear the others clattering down the gully.

  Emerging onto the road, he startled the nearest horse. It spun around and set off back down the way it had come. Obeying the imperative of the herd, most of the others took off after. Valens jumped back as a big chestnut almost ran him down.

  The horse flashed past, and, like a warrior sprung from the very rocks of the track, a Persian stood in its place.

  For a frozen moment the two men stared at each other.

  Valens caught a glimpse of Narses, at the edge of the road, back to the ravine. The officer leading the supply train was attacking Narses hard, unleashing a flurry of blows. Narses was standing his ground, his blade moving like lightning to block and parry.

  Then the Persian in front of Valens lunged, and the world narrowed to a circumference of just the reach of a blade.

  Valens got his shield across his body. The point of the sword clanged off the metal boss of the shield, ripped through the leather cover, and gouged along its wooden surface. The impact made Valens stagger a couple of paces to regain his balance.