Fire in the East (53 page)

Two towers north of the Palmyrene Gate the red
vexillum
of the detachment of Legio IIII flew. When Ballista climbed to the fighting platform on the roof, he found Acilius Glabrio sitting on a stool drinking wine. A good-looking slave boy was holding a parasol over his head. Another was fanning him. He was holding court over his soldiers, talking to them and praising them in the manner of a patrician, affable but always letting them remain aware of a certain distance. The young nobleman made no hurry to rise and greet his superior officer.

‘Dux Ripae,
I give you joy of your victory,’ he said when eventually he was on his feet. ‘A wondrous result, especially given all the things against you.’

‘Thank you,
Tribunus Laticlavius.’
Ballista ignored the ambiguous implications the other had opened up. ‘A lion’s share of the victory must go to you and your legionaries of Legio IIII Scythica.’ The northerner’s words brought a cheer from the legionaries present. Acilius Glabrio did not look pleased. He took another long drink of wine.

‘Some idiot of a messenger came here. The fool claimed to come from you. I knew it was nonsense. He said you had ordered the sentries doubled tonight. I told him in no uncertain terms that our
Dux
would not have issued such a ridiculous order. I sent him on his way.’ Acilius Glabrio took another long drink. He looked flushed.

‘I am afraid there has been a misunderstanding’ - Ballista tried to keep his voice neutral - ‘the messenger was from me. I have ordered the sentries doubled for tonight.’

‘But why?’ Acilius Glabrio laughed. ‘The battle is done and over. We have won. They have lost. It is over.’ He looked round for moral support from his legionaries. Some nodded. More avoided his eye. They looked down at the ground, unwilling to be drawn into the escalating tension between these two senior officers.

‘Yes, we have won today. But there are huge numbers of Sassanid warriors still out there. Shapur will now be desperate. He will know that we will celebrate hard. It would be an ideal time for him to strike, when we have let our guard down because we think we are safe.’ Ballista could hear the anger creeping into his own voice. He was thinking angry thoughts: You may be a good officer, but do not push me too far, you perfumed and crimped little fucker.

‘Pshhah.’ Acilius Glabrio made a noise of dismissal and gestured with his wine cup. Some of the wine slopped over the edge. ‘There is nothing whatsoever to fear. Shapur could never force them to attack again tonight.’ Acilius Glabrio was swaying slightly. ‘I see no reason to stop my boys having a good time.’ He smiled round at his men. A few smiled back. Noticing that he was not receiving unanimous support, the young nobleman scowled.

‘Tribunus Laticlavius,
you will order your men to double the sentries tonight.’ No one could now mistake the anger in the big northerner’s voice.

‘I will not.’ Acilius Glabrio glared defiance.

‘You are disobeying the direct order of your superior officer.’

‘No,’ Acilius Glabrio spat, ‘I am ignoring the ludicrous whim of a jumped-up hairy barbarian who should have stayed in the squalor of his native hut somewhere in the woods.’

There was a deep silence on the fighting platform. From beyond the tower came the sounds of revelry.

‘Acilius Glabrio, you are removed from command. You will disarm yourself. Go to your home and place yourself under house arrest. You will report to the palace of the
Dux Ripae
tomorrow at the fourth hour of daylight to face court-martial.’

Ballista sought out a centurion. ‘Seleucus, you will inform the Senior Centurion Antoninus Prior that he is to assume command of the detachment of Legio IIII here in Arete. He is to ensure that enough of his men remain sober to double the sentries tonight. And tell him that I want a blue lantern prepared on every tower. They are to be lit at the first sign of any enemy activity.’

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ There was no emotion in the centurion’s words.

Acilius Glabrio looked round. No one caught his eye. Realizing that what he had said was irrevocable, he raised his chin and assumed a pose of nobility wrongly arraigned. He put down the wine cup, undid his sword belt, pulled the cross belt over his head and let it fall to the floor. Looking neither right nor left, he walked to the stairs. After a moment’s indecision his two slave boys scampered after him.

‘Nobody knows what the late evening may have in store,’ Bathshiba said. She was laughing. Her eyes were very black.

How the hell did you get in here? Ballista was thinking. Obviously Demetrius was not near by. The young Greek disliked Bathshiba. He would have done all that he could to keep her away from his
kyrios.
But Maximus and Calgacus were definitely in the living quarters, through which she would have had to pass to reach the terrace of the palace. Ballista had no doubts about what had been in their minds when they let her through.

She walked across the terrace towards him. She was dressed as one of her father’s mercenaries, but the tunic and trousers, the boots, the sword on her hip, did little to conceal that she was a woman. Ballista found himself watching the movement of her breasts, the roll of her hips. She stopped in front of him, just out of reach. Ballista felt a hollowness in his chest.

‘Does your father know you are here?’ As he spoke the words sounded ridiculous to Ballista.

Bathshiba laughed. ‘He is part of the reason that I am here. But no, he does not know that I am here.’

‘You did not cross town alone?’ Ballista thought of what he had seen as he walked to the palace. By now, hours later, the whole town would resemble a wild Dionysian orgy. The celebrating soldiers would have no more trouble than Ballista in seeing through Bathshiba’s disguise. Many among them would have fewer qualms than the northerner in stripping that disguise from her. Ballista did not doubt that she could use the sword on her hip, but against a gang it would do her little good. Her resistance, the edge of danger, would only increase their pleasure in taking her.

‘No. I’m not a fool. There are two well-armed men waiting in the great courtyard. By now they will be drinking in the guardroom.’

‘And is one of them again your father’s faithful captain Haddudad with his sharp sword?’

She smiled. ‘No, I thought it better to bring others this time. Men whose discretion I think I can trust.’

Ballista stared at her. He could think of nothing to say.

Bathshiba took off her cap. As she shook out her long, tumbling black hair, her breasts swayed, heavy, full, inviting. ‘Are you not going to offer a girl who is risking her reputation so much as a drink?’

‘I am sorry. Of course. I will get Calgacus to bring some more wine.’

‘Is that necessary?’ She stepped round Ballista, just out of arm’s reach, and picked up his cup from the wall. ‘Do you mind?’ She lifted the cup to her lips and drank.

‘Why are you here?’ He knew that his behaviour was awkward, even unwelcoming. He was unsure what he wanted, what he would do.

‘As I said, in part because of my father. He did not go to the walls today. He stayed in the house, locked in his private rooms. I think he was praying. He has not been himself for some time. In part I am here to apologize.’ She took another drink.

‘There is no need. One more man would never have made a difference. He left his men in the hands of Haddudad. He is capable.’

She poured what remained in the jug and handed the cup to Ballista. He took it and drank. She was closer now. He could smell her perfume, her skin. Her long hair curled black round the olive skin of her neck, down over her tunic, over the swell of her breasts. ‘Your soldiers know how to celebrate a victory. Do you?’ She looked up at him. Her eyes were very black, knowing, full of promise. He said nothing. He did not move. ‘Tell me, do you think that Shapur and his nobles would have restrained themselves had they taken the town?’

‘I doubt it.’ His voice was thick.

‘Should the saviour of a town enjoy the same rights as a conqueror?’

Allfather, Ballista thought, if ever a woman has offered herself to me this is it. He was breathing hard. Her scent was strong in his nostrils. He could feel himself starting to get an erection. He wanted her. He wanted to rip the neck of that tunic, to expose her breasts. He wanted to pull down those trousers, lift her up on to the low wall, spread her legs and enter her. He wanted to take her there and then, her bottom on the wall, him standing in front of her, thrusting into her.

He did not move. Something stopped him. The fierce, smothering morality of his northern upbringing, the thought of his wife, the superstition that had grown in him about infidelity and battle - he did not know what, but something stopped him. He did not move.

Bathshiba stepped back offended. Her eyes were hard and angry. ‘You fool. You may know how to defend a town, but I doubt that you could take one.’ She swept up her cap, turned and walked furiously back across the terrace.

 

For a time after Bathshiba left Ballista stood by the wall. His desire slipped away and he was left with a feeling of frustration and an ill-defined sense of foreboding. The cup was still in his hand. He finished the wine.

At length he walked back into the palace. He called for Maximus. The Hibernian came clattering down the stairs from the flat roof.

‘What were you doing up there?’

‘I do not know to be sure. Certain, I was not spying on you. As always these days, fuck all to see there. I was just looking around. Sure, I cannot put my finger on it, but something is not right.’

‘For once I know what you mean. Fetch a cloak. Tell Calgacus we are going out. We will walk the defences.’

The orders of the
Dux Ripae
had been obeyed to the letter. All along the wall walks and at every tower were twice the usual number of sentries. Blue warning lanterns hung ready on every tower. Looking mulish, the sentries paced slowly or leant against the parapets feeling resentful at their enforced sobriety and envious of their fellow soldiers’ celebrations. From within the town came the noise of the celebrations: bursts of laughter, indecipherable shouts, girls’ squeals, the sounds of running feet and cups being smashed - the distinctive cacophany of Roman soldiers baying for alcohol and women.

The sentries saluted Ballista and Maximus as they walked south along the desert wall. ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ There was unhappy resignation, sometimes bordering on insubordination, in their voices. Ballista shook their hands, praised their
disciplina,
promised them three days’ leave and a carefully unspecified sum of money as a donative. It did not seem to do an iota of good.

To the west the great dark plain stretched away. Beyond it were the lights of the Persian camp. There were men awake there. Lights flickered as they passed in front of the torches or fires. Yet it was strangely quiet. There was none of the keening mourning, the plaintive music and high-pitched wailing Ballista had expected. The silence of the Sassanids was unnerving. It added to Ballista’s feeling of foreboding.

In the depth of the night Ballista and Maximus returned to the palace. They had a cup of warmed wine and Ballista retired to his sleeping quarters. He stripped off his clothes and lay down in the big, very empty bed. After a few moments’ regret, he fell asleep.

It was well after midnight, maybe towards the end of the third watch, when Ballista heard the noise. Instinctively, his hand closed on the pommel of his sword. He knew it was pointless: somehow he knew what he would see. Ballista forced himself to look. There by the door was the big man, the great pale face under the deep hood of the shabby dark-red
caracallus.
The big man walked forward. He stood by the foot of the bed. The light of the oil lamp glittered on the thick golden torque and the eagle carved in the gem set in the heavy gold ring.

‘Speak,’ said Ballista.

‘I will see you again at Aquileia.’ The great grey eyes shone with malice and contempt.

‘I will see you then.’

The big man laughed, a horrible grating sound. He turned and left the room.

The smell of the wax that waterproofed the hooded cloak lingered.

Ballista was sweating heavily. He threw back the covers, got out of bed and opened the window to let in the fresh night air. Naked, he stood by the window, letting the sweat dry on his skin. Outside, he saw the Pleiades low on the horizon.

It would all fall out as the Allfather willed.

Ballista went to the washbowl, splashed cold water on his face, towelled himself dry and got back into bed. After what seemed an eternity he fell into a deep sleep.

 

‘Wake up! Wake up!’

Ballista struggled to the surface.

‘Wake up, you lazy little shit.’

Ballista opened his eyes. Calgacus was standing by the bed shaking his shoulder.

‘What?’ Ballista felt drugged, stupid with sleep. Calgacus’s sour, thin mouth was more pinched than ever.

‘The Sassanids are in the town.’

Ballista swung himself out of bed. Calgacus talked as he handed the northerner his clothes and he dressed.

‘I relieved Maximus up on the roof. I saw a blue warning lantern on one of the towers on the south wall. It shone for a moment, then went out. Pudens is raising the alarm. Castricius is turning out the guard. Maximus is saddling the horses. Demetrius and Bagoas are taking your armour down to the stables.’

‘Which tower?’

‘The one nearest the desert wall.’

Dressed, Ballista picked up his sword belt. ‘Then we should go.’

The stables, when they reached them, were in a state of just controlled chaos. Grooms ran here and there carrying saddles, bridles and other bits of tack. The horses shook their heads, stamped their feet and called out in indignation or excitement at being woken at this unusual hour. In one of the further stalls a horse was misbehaving, rearing up and plunging against its headstall. Calgacus went off to find what had become of Demetrius and Bagoas.