billows, breaking then forming again. The weather had held fair, but it was obvious the shore was a cruel one. Ballista counted eight ships wrecked; some still almost intact, others little more than discoloured lines in the sand. Maximus, of course, counted fourteen. The new secretary Hippothous claimed to have seen no fewer than twenty.
Caesarea Maritima, the city built by King Herod, was a fine place. Ballista had been busy there: endless sessions with the governor Achaeus, his legates — including the stony-faced senator Astyrius — and other officers to plan operations to scour the land of bandits. It had soon become clear why Achaeus needed aid. Several districts were overrun: Samaria, Galilee, Judea itself. Detachments to the emperors' field armies had cut the governor's command to the bone. There were no more than two thousand men with the eagle of Legio X Fretensis at Aelia Capitolina, and just a thousand with that of Legio VI Ferrata at Caporcotani. The number of auxiliary units had been slashed. There were only two alae of cavalry and six cohorts of infantry: nominally four thousand men, but these likewise were under strength. They were spread thin throughout the province.
The troops of Ballista would act as a strike column in Galilee. It was a large area for their very limited force. The northerner had led down a vexillatio of five hundred drawn from Legio III Gallica commanded by an amiable centurion called Lerus, and a wing of Dalmatian cavalry of the same number under the big red-headed prefect Rutilus.
The mission was important. It was no fool's errand. Yet Ballista was unhappy to have left Julia and his sons behind in the palace. He prayed they would be all right. He did not trust Quietus.
His worries aside, the stay at Caesarea would have been pleasant — certainly the palace on the headland by the sea was more than comfortable, and Ballista usually enjoyed throwing himself into military planning — but for the personality of the governor. Not only was Achaeus a close amicus of Macrianus the Elder, he was also a bore and a bigot. A Praetorian Prefect Ballista may be, but the rules of society demanded that he frequently accept the governor's hospitality and, at least outwardly, give some small sign of enjoyment. And then he had to campaign with him. Ballista had reclined through meal after meal as Achaeus dilated on his favourite topic: the iniquities of the Jews he ruled.
'I tell you, they are far more pernicious even than the disgusting Christians. Those superstitious fools, when they are not shouting 'I am a Christian and I want to die,' they at least keep repeating, like the cawing of so many trained crows, 'Thou shalt not kill; Thou shalt not kill.' If the god of the Jews had mentioned the latter to them, the circumcised ones were not listening. Three massive uprisings under the emperors Nero, Trajan and Hadrian. Continuous trouble the rest of the time. A nightmare to govern, like living with a stepmother. The Jews hate mankind. As the saying goes, they would not show a non-Jew the way or give him a drink of water. More likely, they would cut his throat. They're always fighting. When they're not persecuting good citizens who worship the natural gods or attacking the Christians and the Samaritans, they turn on each other. Do you know, I asked the emperor Valerian why we did not deal with them once and for all? Do you know what he said? 'They may be mad, but unlike the Christians, their madness is ancestral.' Addled old fool, thank the gods he has gone. When I mentioned it to the father of the noble emperors set over us now, may the gods preserve them, I got far more sense. 'One enemy at a time,' Macrianus said. 'The Christians first, then the Jews.''
Every evening, when the eating was done, when Ballista could have been enjoying his wine while listening to the roar of the surf on the harbour walls, the boom of more distant breakers, Achaeus told stories that only a child or a Greek geographer could believe: 'Everyone knows what they used to do before the divine Titus destroyed their temple. They would catch a Greek, hold him prisoner, fatten him up, then kill and eat him. They are probably still at it, up in the hills of Galilee under their so-called patriarchs.'
Red-faced, Achaeus would warm to his topic: 'Do you know why they will not eat pigs? No, I will tell you. Because they worship them! Do you know they will not eat hares either? Why? Because hares look like miniature donkeys, and they worship donkeys too!' On and on the calumnies rolled, by turns vile and ludicrous, drowning out the clean roar of the sea.
After fifteen days, Ballista had been glad to get away from the odious governor. But he wished the weather had not finally broken. It had been merely overcast when they set out from Caesarea three days earlier. The first night had been spent in the echoing near-emptiness of the legionary fortress of Legio VI at Caporcotani, the second in the town of Sepphoris. They had waited there a day. At dusk the force had divided and marched out as the rain began to fall. Their target was a village called Arbela which was overrun with bandits. It was to be a pincer attack at first light. The legionaries from III Gallica under Lerus were to march to the Sea of Tiberias and approach the village from the east. Ballista and Rutilus, with the Dalmatian troopers, were to come in from the west. Ballista suspected that Lerus and his men had drawn the better lot. It was as well the cavalrymen had left their mounts at Sepphoris: Ballista was glad Pale Horse was safe in a stable. The hill path was hard going for men on foot. And it was cold, very cold.
Winter had come with a vengeance. In the dark, the wind tore down the rocky Galilean hills. It tugged at the olive trees and dwarf oaks. It gusted rain. The weather would choose tonight to turn, Ballista thought sourly.
The wind had veered straight into their faces. The men marched hunched over, heads down and turned away, trying to find some shelter from the blasts.
Not long after midnight, the rain had stopped. Soon after, the first watch fires glittered on the hills. The bandits of Arbela knew they were coming. Ballista was unsurprised. As far as he had gathered, the Jews had no love of the Roman occupiers. Caesarea had a large Jewish population, and Sepphoris was a Jewish town. It was no wonder the brigands had been forewarned. One man's bandit was another's freedom fighter. Ballista set his shoulders. There was nothing to be done but press on.
Ballista trudged behind the native guides. The strap of the shield slung over his back dug painfully into his left shoulder. The sword belt over his right was only a little less painful. He did nothing to shift the weights. Any movement would expose part of him to the wind. Allfather, it was cold.
'Dominus.' Maximus's voice broke into Ballista's discomfort. 'I cannot see Calgacus. The old bastard must have dropped back.'
Reluctantly, Ballista looked around. It was a dark night. He could not see far, but Maximus was right. Raising his voice over the keening wind, Ballista told Rutilus to take command and keep going; the standard bearer Gratius and secretary Hippothous were to carry on with the troops.
Ballista and Maximus stepped off the path. Slowly the soldiers passed, like mourners in a procession, only quieter.
Calgacus was near the rear of the column. He was staggering slightly. Ballista and Maximus fell in on either side. The Caledonian did not appear to notice.
'Calgacus,' Ballista called.
The old man did not respond. Swaying slightly, he carried on walking.
Calgacus stumbled, almost fell. They caught his arms.
'I'm fine. Leave me alone.' Calgacus's speech was slurred.
'Halt — that is an order.'
Calgacus stopped. He started to fall. Maximus grabbed him.
'Halt the column,' Ballista shouted to the nearest trooper. 'Pass the order up the line.'
The backs of the nearest troops stopped moving. They stood bent over like beasts of burden.
Ballista and Maximus manoeuvred Calgacus to the side of the track, lowered him to lean against the trunk of a tree.
'I am fine. Get the fuck off me.' Calgacus's words were thick, like those of a drunk. He shut his eyes and groaned. Now they had stopped, Ballista could feel the muscles in his own legs twitching, trying to cramp.
'Dominus.' It was a Dalmatian trooper. 'Dominus, the rest of them, they have gone.'
Ballista peered into the night. His eyes streamed from the wind. The soldier was right. Six troopers and an empty path. Fuck. Someone had not heard the command over the noise of the marching and the wind. Or someone had been too far sunk in cold misery to understand what had been said. Fuck.
Ballista stood, wondering what to do. The wind plucked at his cloak. There were four watch fires visible on higher ground around them. Nine men left behind, one of them incapacitated. They were cut off, surrounded.
Ballista crouched down, gazed into Calgacus's face. It was very pale in the darkness. The old man was shivering violently. That was good — he was not yet in the last stages of dying from exposure.
'How goes it, old man?'
Calgacus smiled. 'Fine.' Drowsily, he shut his eyes.
