your outrages, your lives will be spared.' Ballista sounded implacable.
'Spared for what?'
'I will give you better terms than are customary. The emperor Alexander Severus settled Persian prisoners as farmers in Phrygia. But your men do not strike me as suited for a bucolic life. If they will swear the sacramentum, they will be enrolled into the Roman army. They will be split up into different units, but I will give you my word they will not be called upon to fight against their own people.'
Given Ballista's record, it was quite commendable of the framadar to accede with no hesitation. The salt was produced, hands clasped, the right words spoken.
Up on the tower above the docks, the tension was getting to Ballista. So far, things had been reasonably smooth, but the handover was tricky. There were many things that could go wrong. Ordered to remain outside the town, Trebellianus had protested civilly enough, his men more truculently. At any moment they might swarm forward to get at the Persians, maybe even sack the town itself.
Ballista had hurried Castricius's soldiers up on to the walls. The legionaries were under military discipline, but they had no love of the Persians and civilians were always a tempting target. Estate guards could turn brigand; in fact they often did.
And then there were the problems posed by the Persians themselves. The easterners had been very reluctant to be parted from their horses. Now they were far from keen to be herded aboard the six big transports. They had no knowledge of the places to which they were being sent. One thousand of them were bound for Egypt — the Roman garrison there was large enough to keep a check on them. The others, in four units of five hundred, were to be shipped to Cyprus, Rhodes, Lesbos and Lemnos. They could be effectively contained on the islands. There were religious objections also. Magi were forbidden to travel by water. A solution had been found for the five priests in the Persian ranks. The root cause was the prohibition on Magi soiling water with human waste: they had been issued with big amphorae with stoppers. How they disposed of the contents at their destination was their own concern.
Some of Trebellianus's Cilicians had advanced down the hill. They were shouting, demanding admittance, hammering on the gate with the pommels of their swords. If more followed, it could be serious.
'Dominus, a liburnian has come from Antioch. There is a messenger.'
'Not now, Calgacus.'
'Yes, now. You need to hear him now.' The old Caledonian was grinning like an idiot.
Maximus shouldered Calgacus aside. Inexplicably, the Hibernian was crying.
'Ballista — your boys — Julia — they are alive — in Antioch.' Julia looked away across the atrium. From the corridor to the main door came the tap, tap, tapping of the mosaicist replacing the horrible image of the deformed dwarf which someone had defaced. Julia was not sure why she felt put out. It was not Ballista's reaction when reunited with his sons. Even a senator of the old Res Publica would have broken down and cried, would have gone first to them.
Surely it was not the children. Admittedly, Isangrim had continually interrupted her account of their escape. But the boy was rightly proud of his behaviour, above all of stabbing the Sassanid with his miniature sword. Carefully schooled by her, he had not mentioned her torn clothing. And it was not Dernhelm repeating words at random, squeaking intermittently with pleasure. However, she did have to admit to a flash of irritation when Isangrim pre-empted her telling of her ingenious ploy of scattering the gold from her purse to distract their pursuers by the postern gate. Ballista had made that worse, smiling and saying it was clever of her to remember his doing the same with his gold mural crown at the riot in the hippodrome the other year. Men, they always had to take the credit for themselves.
No, it was not the children. It was something about Ballista. He looked haunted, or maybe merely hangdog. No, not really either of those. It was more that he was distant, strange. He had even seemed reluctant to give Isangrim his little sword back.
Julia listened as Ballista finished his tale of what had happened to him and the armies. Like married men often do, he spoke to her through their children. She knew it gave him licence to edit the story.
So he had put the Persian prince and his companions ashore somewhere south of Tarsus. He had given them horses, arms, money and a letter of safe conduct. No, he did not know if they had made it, but it was quite likely. Shapur had forced the Cilician Gates. The Roman force under Ragonius Clarus had given up its pursuit almost before it had begun. North of the Taurus mountains, Tyana had been the first of many cities taken by the Persians. A group of them had split off to sack Cybistra, Barata, Laranda and Iconium. The main body of men under Shapur had gone on to seize Caesarea Masaca — a heroic defence by the retreating Demosthenes had come to nothing in the face of treachery. From there they had ridden to Comana. The two groups reunited at Sebasteia; the Persians had marched south. As they rode by the governor of Cappadocia, Pomponius Bassus had not stirred from behind the walls of Melitene. The governor of Osrhoene, Aurelius Dasius, had shown more spirit. But then, the King of Kings was said to have bribed him and his men to let them pass Edessa, back into the safety of Mesopotamia.
'It may not be as safe as Shapur thinks,' interjected Julia. 'Rumour has it that since you defeated the King of Kings, revolts have broken out in the east of the Sassanid empire, around the Caspian Sea and beyond. And, closer to home, Odenathus has marched north from Palmyra to oppose Shapur in Mesopotamia.'
Ballista looked up sharply. 'So the Lion of the Sun has finally declared for Macrianus and Quietus?'
'No,' said Julia. 'He has declared for Rome against Persia. But not for any emperor. Did you know the Sassanid still has Valerian with him?'
Yes, Ballista had seen the pathetic figure of the captive emperor at the battle of Soli.
'If Odenathus defeats Shapur, frees Valerian, or captures him…' She did not finish the sentence. There was no need. If he held Valerian, the Lion of the Sun could deal as an equal — more than an equal — with Macrianus's sons or Gallienus.
'My old friend Mamurra never trusted Odenathus.' Thinking out loud, Ballista had retreated into his distance.
Julia very much wanted to be alone with her husband. Imperiously, she dismissed the others and led him to their bedchamber.
Physically, he was fine, but even as they made love, his mind seemed somehow elsewhere. She decided to approach this indirectly.
'Where is Demetrius?'
For a time he was silent. 'I have a new secretary; a Greek called Hippothous. I sent Demetrius away. To the west.'
Again Ballista fell silent.
She waited.
'It was a bad time.'
She regarded him calmly. Of course it had been a bad time. You do not win two battles against the Sassanids at a symposium. He had thought his family slaughtered.
'It is over now,' she said.
'Is it? The oath I made to Shapur?' His voice was flat: 'Not to your face, no fear, not to any miscreant's Will Justice strike the fatal blow; but soft And slow of tread, she will, in her own season, Stalking the wicked, seize them unawares.'
'Euripides,' Julia said.
'I have been reading a lot of him; often his Medea. It is confused in my mind.' Again, he recited quietly: 'Soft and slow of tread… The sins of the parents on the children, the gods turn.'
Julia remained silent.
'Jason and me — both oath-breakers. Why were his sons killed and not mine? Or is the divine vengeance delayed? 'Soft and slow…'' Ballista's voice trailed off.
'The gods do not exist.' Julia's voice was crisp, decisive. 'Even if they do, they are far away, and have no interest in mankind. They do not care.'
She paused for Ballista to respond. He did not.
'Even if they were real and did care, punishing the children of the wicked would be more ludicrous than a doctor administering medicine to the son of a sick man.'
Ballista appeared to be only half listening. 'There is the proverb: the mills of the gods are slow in grinding, but grind fine.'
