man risen from the ranks. That poor bastard Mamurra. Ballista had left him to die in a siege tunnel at Arete in Syria. It had been that or let the Persians swarm in and take the town, kill everyone. But Ballista did not like to think about having given the order that had collapsed the entrance to the tunnel and entombed his friend — may the earth lie lightly on him.
'And now the Persians have divided their forces, as the prefect Marcus Clodius Ballista said they would.'
Clever bastard, thought Ballista. Quicker than Mamurra. You will repay watching. Was it possible Rutilus was a frumentarius? Usually those who spied on the emperor's own subjects were of lower rank. But you could never be sure.
Ragonius Clarus, with only the barest nod in Ballista's direction to ask for permission to speak, launched into a repetition of the substance of Rutilus's words interleaved with a eulogy on the wisdom of 'our beloved, noble young emperors' for designing this so very successful strategy.
Down below Ballista, the liburnian skimmed past the rocks of the western breakwater and bumped to a halt against a jetty. A man sprang off the ship and ran pell-mell towards the shore.
'Quite so,' Ballista interrupted as Clarus was settling into an extended discussion of the foresight of Quietus and Macrianus the Younger. 'Unexpected providentia in ones so young — could not have put it better myself, Legate.'
Although one or two of the officers grinned, Clarus forced himself to smile.
'Rutilus and Ragonius Clarus are right,' Ballista continued. 'The Sassanids at Selinus are in a poor position. Trebellianus at Korakesion blocks them to the west. It would not be easy for a force of cavalry to withdraw into the Taurus mountains to the north. We will land to their east at Charadros. With luck, they will be trapped. There are only about three thousand of them. Shapur and his men are far away. We have four and a half thousand infantry. The narrow coast road should favour us.'
There was a commotion at the rear of the consilium. An officer pushed to the front. Red-faced, out of breath, it was the man from the liburnian. This messenger did not bring good news.
'Dominus, Antioch the Great has fallen.'
Amid the general shout of horror, Ballista was silent. There was a terrible hollowness in his chest.
'My sons? My wife?' Ballista asked quietly.
The officer looked down. 'They are gone.'
'Gone?'
'They have not been seen since. The Sassanids killed many. Took no prisoners. Many of the bodies are burnt… gone.' Maximus was watching Ballista. He had been for days, almost unsleeping. He had watched Ballista throughout — his silence during the night of frantic preparations for sailing, sitting alone at the prow of the ship for the two days it took them to cross to Seleuceia, disembarking at the smoking port, riding to Antioch, tearing through the streets to the house, finding the pool of dried blood on the mosaic just over the threshold, and by it the discarded miniature sword.
Four days in which Ballista had eaten and drunk next to nothing, had not washed, shaved or slept. Four days in which Ballista had hardly spoken.
Now, the stench of burning and corruption in his nostrils, Maximus watched his friend leaning against one of the columns by the door of the ransacked house, waiting for news. Any news.
Withdrawn in his grief, Ballista had effectively relinquished command. The senatorial legate Ragonius Clarus was incapable. Some of the junior officers, Castricius and Rutilus to the fore, had taken charge. The troops had secured the walls, sent out patrols. Work parties were dealing with the bodies. Selected men were searching among them for Ballista's wife and children. Calgacus and Demetrius were scouring the city for witnesses.
Having sacked Antioch, the Persians had turned on the great city's port of Seleuceia. Then they had left the city and ridden north, possibly to retrace their steps to the obscure, unguarded pass south of the Amanikai Gates by which they had come, possibly to take the small garrison of the Syrian Gates from behind. Macrianus the Younger had escaped the palace, hustled to safety by a unit of the Equites Singulares. He had been taken towards the army of his father and brother, now belatedly rushing north from Emesa. All of this Ballista neither knew nor cared about. Maximus did not care either.
There was a rattle of hooves and Calgacus and Demetrius returned. On foot between them was an old, dishevelled man.
'The custos. He was at the theatre with them.' Calgacus pushed him forward.
The old man started talking. 'The kyria had sent me for sweets. For the boys. The reptiles came out of nowhere. It was chaos. I could not get back to them.'
For a time Ballista looked at him, seemingly uncomprehending. Then he fished in the purse at his belt. He took out a coin and passed it over.
The old man took it.
'In your mouth.' Ballista's tone was flat.
The custos did not move.
'Put it in your mouth,' Ballista said, 'to pay the ferryman.'
Ballista hefted the miniature sword.
The old man fell to his knees. Pleading, he clasped Ballista's thighs.
'Too late.' Ballista aimed the blow.
Maximus caught Ballista's arm. Quick as a flash, the Hibernian's hand was knocked away. The tip of his friend's blade was at Maximus's throat.
'Ballista, it is me. Killing the old man will not help.'
The sword clattered to the ground. Ballista sank down. Both hands clawing in the soot and filth, he poured it over his head, fouled his face. Black ashes settled on his tunic.
Maximus shoved the old man out of sight.
Overpowered by loss, Ballista sprawled in the dirt. 'A man who has killed his father is sewn in a sack… a dog, snake, monkey and cock for company… all drown together. What punishment for a man who by his perjury has killed his sons?'
'Dominus,' said Maximus, 'this is not you.'
'What punishment for him? Something worse? Nothing special? Just an old-style Roman death — tied to the stake and beaten to death?'
Then Maximus, raising his voice at Ballista's rambling, 'Marcus Clodius Ballista, stop! This is not you. This is fucking unseemly shit.'
Ballista seemed surprised. He gazed at the sky. 'Gentle breezes, a benign zephyr — most unseemly shit. No rain, wind, thunder and fire. Unseemly. The sky should fall, drench our temples, drown our priests, drown the Galloi, drown every cock.' He made a sound a little like laughter. 'Drown every monkey, snake and dog. Drown every man, woman and child. A second flood, with no boat for Deucalion and the good and deserving. Drown every god. Cut them down. Ragnarok — the death of gods and men. The sun swallowed by the wolf Skoll. The stars vanish from the sky.'
Maximus bent to get the miniature sword.
'Leave it!' Ballista snatched it up.
'Kyrios' — Demetrius spoke quietly — 'it is not your fault.'
On all fours, Ballista scurried over the threshold like an animal. He crouched on the blood-stained mosaic of the deformed dwarf. The blade in his fist flickered this way and that.
Maximus made to go to him. Calgacus's hand held him back.
Ballista's voice came from a faraway place. 'At Arete, my friend Iarhai told me his nightmare. Under the dark poplars he crosses the Styx, and there waiting for him on the fields of Tartarus by the ocean stream are the 'kindly ones', and behind them every person he had killed. An eternity of retribution.'
He took a deep breath and turned from Greek to his native language. 'Now I can cross the icy river Gjoll, pass the gates of Hel, come to Nastrond, the shore of corpses. A different destination, the same fate. The faces of the dead, all turned to me. So many — the newly dead, the green and rotting, those more bone than flesh, those I remember — Maximinus Thrax, Mamurra — those I have forgotten, but at the front my own dear boys.'
Abruptly he reverted to Greek: mangled phrases of poetry. 'Set on me those maidens with gory eyes and snaky hair, with their dog-faces and gorgon-eyes, those priestesses of the dead, goddesses of terror — spare my boys.'
