Fire in the East (19 page)

The rains confounded local knowledge. The first rains of the winter always lasted three days; everyone said so. This year, the rains lasted five. By mid-morning on the sixth day the blustery north-east wind had blown away the big black clouds. The washed-out blue sky brought the inhabitants of Arete into the muddy streets and quite a large number found their way to the palace gates. They all arrived claiming it was vital that they saw the
Dux.
They brought reports, complaints, requests for justice or help. A section of the cliff in the northern ravine at the far end from the postern gate had tumbled down. A row of three houses near the
agora
had collapsed. Two men who had been foolish enough to try to row across to Mesopotamia were lost, presumed drowned. A soldier of Cohors XX had been accused of raping his landlord’s daughter. A woman had given birth to a monkey.

Ballista dealt with the flood of petitioners, at least to the extent of ordering the arrest of the soldier and, sending a messenger ahead, at midday he set out to meet Acilius Glabrio at the north-west tower, by the Temple of Bel, to begin a tour of inspection of both the artillery and the walls of Arete. He was accompanied by Mamurra, Demetrius, Maximus, the standard-bearer Romulus, the senior
haruspex,
two scribes, two messengers and two local architects. Five troopers of the
equites singulares
had been sent on horseback to clear the area outside the walls.

Ballista was not looking forward to this meeting. If only he had kept quiet at Iarhai’s dinner party. What had made him admit that his father, Isangrim, was a warrior dedicated to Woden, a warrior who at times felt the battle madness of wolves? Of course, he had been drunk. Possibly he had been affected by the confession of Iarhai. Certainly he had been angered by the supercilious attitude of Acilius Glabrio. But these were excuses.

It could have been worse. It was not a secret like the visits of the ghost of Maximinus Thrax. If he blurted that out, people would either think that he should be shunned because he was haunted by a powerful daemon or that he was completely insane. Further admitting to emperor-killing, even if the emperor you killed had been universally hated, was frowned on by reigning emperors. It might test the tolerance of even so mild and well disposed a pair of rulers as Valerian and Gallienus.

Ballista climbed the stairs and walked out on to the fighting platform at the top of the tower.

‘Dux Ripae.’
There was a barely suppressed smirk on Acilius Glabrio’s face, but Ballista’s attention was on something else. There, in the middle of the windswept platform, its covers off, stood a huge artillery piece, a
ballista.
It was a lifelong fascination with such weapons that had won the northerner his name.

Ballista knew that Arete possessed thirty-five pieces of artillery. One was stationed on top of each of her twenty-seven towers. The Palmyrene Gate and the Porta Aquaria each boasted four; two on the roof and two shooting through portholes on the first floor. Twenty-five of the weapons shot a two and a half foot bolt. These were anti-personnel weapons. Ten shot stones. These were primarily intended to destroy enemy siege engines but could also be used to kill men. All were crewed by legionaries of Legio IIII.

The northerner had chosen to begin his tour here because this tower housed one of the biggest
ballistae.
A rectangular frame of iron-reinforced hardwood some ten feet wide held near each end a torsion spring of twisted sinew, each as high as a very tall man. Inserted into these springs were the bow arms. The stock, some twenty feet long, projected back from the frame. A slider dovetailed on to it at the rear of which were catches which caught the bowstring. Two powerful winches pulled back the slider and bowstring, forcing back the bow arms. The missile was placed in the slider. A ratchet held the slider in place, and a universal joint allowed it to traverse easily from side to side, and up and down. The soldier took aim, and a trigger unleashed the awesome torsion power of the springs.

Ballista happily let his eyes run over the dark polished wood, the dull gleam of the metal. All
ballistae
worked on the same principles but this was a particularly fine example. A beautiful and deadly piece of engineering, this enormous weapon hurled a carefully rounded stone ball weighing no less than twenty pounds. Arete had three other such massive engines; two on the roof of the Palmyrene Gate and one on the fourth tower north of there. Arete’s six other stone-throwers threw six-pound missiles. All except one covered the western wall, the wall which faced the plain - for it was across the plain that any enemy siege engines must approach.

Acilius Glabrio introduced Ballista to the crew - the one trained artilleryman, the
ballistarius
in charge of the piece, and his unskilled helpers: four winch men and two loaders. They seemed delighted when Ballista requested a demonstration shot. He pointed out a rock some 400 yards away, towards the limit of the machine’s range. It was all Ballista could do not to take over as they spanned and lay the weapon.

Twang, slide, thump went the artillery piece, and the missile shot away. The stone shone white in the eight or nine seconds it was airborne. A fountain of mud showed where it landed; some thirty yards short and at least twenty to the right.

‘What rate of shooting can you maintain?’

The artilleryman did not attempt to answer Ballista’s question but looked rather helplessly at Acilius Glabrio. The latter for once looked vaguely embarrassed.

‘I cannot say. The previous
Dux Ripae
did not encourage - actually, he specifically forbade - practice shooting. He said that it was a waste of expensive ammunition, a danger to passers-by and would damage the tombs out on the plain. My men have never been allowed to shoot before.’

‘How many trained
ballistarii
are there?’

‘Two in each century, just twenty-four,’ replied Acilius Glabrio, making a brave show of things.

Ballista grinned. ‘All that is going to change.’

The party, now augmented by Acilius Glabrio, set off south on their tour of inspection. They halted to consider the walls, the two architects to the fore. Built directly on to the bedrock, the walls were about thirty-five feet high, with crenellations on top. They were broad, with wall walks of about five paces across. The towers reached up some ten feet above them and extended out both front and back. The crenellations of the towers extended to the sides, interdicting easy movement along the wall walk by any enemy who had managed to scale the walls.

The local architects were as one in assuring their audience that the walls were in good repair; probably there were no finer walls in the
imperium,
none behind which one could rest more secure.

Ballista thanked them. A century of Cohors XX marching out to drill on the
campus martius
caught his eye. Turpio was taking his orders seriously. Ballista returned his attention to the walls.

‘The walls are good,’ continued Ballista, ‘but they are not enough on their own. We must dig a ditch in front of the western wall to prevent rams or siege towers having an easy run up.’ He glanced at Demetrius, who was already making notes. ‘The spoil from the ditch can form part of the glacis, the earth bank we need to cushion the walls from both rams and artillery.’ He paused to consider how he would phrase the next bit. ‘If there is a glacis, there has to be a counter-glacis on the reverse of the wall. Otherwise, the pressure of the earth bank on the outside will collapse the wall.’ He looked at the architects, who both nodded.

One of the architects gazed over the wall, imagining the ditch and glacis. ‘The ditch would have to be superhumanly deep to provide enough material for a glacis on one side, let alone both,’ he ventured. ‘And where else can the material come from?’

‘Do not worry about that.’ Ballista smiled enigmatically. ‘I have a plan.’

 

By mid-afternoon of the second day Ballista had finished off his inspection with a lengthy tour of the artillery magazine, a large complex in the open ground south of the palace where new machines were built, old ones repaired, spare parts kept and missiles created - stones chipped to the right weight and near-perfect roundness, the evil iron points of the bolts forged and fitted to their wooden shafts.

It was only then that Demetrius found time finally to pursue his guilty secret passion:
oneiromanteia,
divining the future through dreams. He slipped out of the servants’ door and into the streets. The grid plan of the town and broad daylight should have made things easy, but the young Greek still managed to get lost on the four-block walk to the
agora.

It was surprisingly small for a town of this size and it was easy for Demetrius to find what he wanted: an
oneiroskopos,
a dream-scout. He was sitting in the far corner, by the entrance to the alley where the prostitutes stood. Despite the chill in the wind he was clad in just a ragged cloak and a loincloth. His milky eyes gazed unseeingly upwards. His neck was emaciated, the veins standing up; pulsing through the almost translucent skin. He could be nothing but.

At Demetrius’s footfall the unnerving white eyes moved in his direction.

‘You have a dream that may reveal the future,’ the old man said in Greek, his voice a hoarse croak. The dream-diviner asked for three
antoniniani
to unveil its meaning, and settled for one. ‘First I need to know you. What is your name, the name of your father, your home town?’

‘Dio, son of Pasicrates of Prusa,’ Demetrius lied. His fluency came from always using the same name.

The aged head tipped to one side, as if considering whether to make some comment. He decided against it. Instead he rattled out a series of further questions: slave or free? Occupation? Financial status? State of health? Age?

‘I am a slave, a secretary. I have some savings. My health is good. I am nineteen.’ Demetrius answered truthfully.

‘When did you have the dream?’

‘Six nights ago,’ Demetrius answered, counting inclusively, as everyone did.

‘At what hour of the night?’

‘In the eleventh hour of darkness. The effects of the previous evening’s wine had long since passed off. It was well after midnight when the door of ivory through which the gods send false dreams shuts and the door of horn through which pass true dreams opens.’

The blind man nodded. ‘Now tell me your dream. You must tell me the truth. You must add nothing, nor must you omit anything. If you do, the prophecy will be false. The fault will not be mine, but your own.’

Demetrius nodded in turn. When he had finished recounting his dream the
oneiroskopos
held up a hand for silence. The hand trembled slightly and was marked with the liver spots of age. Time stretched on. The
agora
was emptying fast.

Suddenly, the old man began to speak. ‘There are no male vultures; all are female. They are impregnated by the breath of the east wind. As vultures do not experience the frenzy of sexual desire, they are calm and steadfast. In a dream they signify the truth, the certainty of the prophecy. This is a dream from the gods.’

He paused before asking, ‘Does your
kyrios
inhabit the
agora?’
On being told that he did not, the old man sighed. Just so. A pity. A busy
agora
would have been an auspicious sign but, as it is ...’ he shrugged, ‘it is not good. It is a symbol of confusion and tumult because of the crowds that flock there. There are Greeks, Romans and barbarians in your dream. There will be confusion and tumult caused by all these, experienced by all these.

‘At the heart of it is the statue.’ He winced slightly as if in discomfort. ‘Did the statue move?’ Demetrius murmured that he did not think so. The aged man’s hand shot out and, with a bony, hard grip, grabbed the youth’s arm. ‘Think! Think very carefully. It is of the greatest importance.’

‘No - no, I am certain it did not.’

‘That, at least, is something.’ A drool of saliva hung from the dream-diviner’s lips. ‘The statue was of gold. If your
kyrios
were a poor man, it would have indicated future riches, but your
kyrios
is not a poor man, he is a wealthy and powerful man. The golden statue indicates that he will be surrounded by treachery and plotting, for everything about gold incites designing people.’

Without warning, the old man rose. Standing, he was surprisingly big. Peremptorily he croaked that the session was over. He was sorry the prophecy had not been better. He started to shuffle off towards the alley.

‘Wait,’ called Demetrius. ‘Wait. Is there not anything else? Something you are not telling me?’

The old man turned at the entrance to the alley. ‘Was the statue larger than life?’

‘I am not sure. I ... do not think it was.’

The old man laughed a horrible laugh. ‘You had better hope that you are right, boy. If it
was,
it spells death for your beloved
kyrios
Ballista.’

 

Once again it was being brought home to Maximus that, natural fighter though he was, he would never make an officer. It was the boredom, the sheer grinding bloody boredom of it. The last two days had been bad enough. Watching the artillery shoot had been all right, if a bit repetitive. Undoubtedly it was more fun when there was someone on the receiving end. But looking at them making the missiles had been insufferable. And, as for the walls, if you’ve seen one big wall you’ve seen them all. Yet all that had been as nothing compared with this morning.

As every good Roman commander with something on his mind should, Ballista had summoned his
consilium,
his council. It consisted of just Mamurra, Acilius Glabrio and Turpio, with Demetrius and Maximus in attendance. In a way fitting to antique Roman virtue, they had met very early in the morning, at the first hour of daylight. Since then, they had been discussing the size of the population of Arete. At great length. At the last census there had been 40,000 men, women and children registered in the city and, of these, 10,000 were slaves. But could these figures be trusted? The census had been taken before the Sassanids seized the town and since then many would have died or fled. Some would have returned, and with the invasion next spring, many would flood in from the villages. Perhaps it all balanced out.