up the leather thong that had been intended to bind him. Maximus had always been good with animals; the horses came to him, wary as they were of the smell of gore on the ground. He hobbled the first one with the piece of leather. Horses were herd animals, and it did not really matter if the other happened not to stay.
The man face down in the mud had a cloak of pale blue with a fancy gilded clasp. It appealed to Maximus, so he put it on. He tried the man's helmet, but it did not fit. He spread out his own muddied cloak and dropped the helmet in the middle of it. He went back to the dead man and searched him. The reasonable sum of coins he added to his own purse. He drew the man's sword and tossed that on to his cloak as well. Then he dragged the corpse to the edge of the causeway and rolled it into the water.
Maximus went over to the other man and — except for the cloak — repeated what he had done. When the water stilled, Maximus could see that this second corpse had settled partly on top, partly beside the other. They were not well hidden, but it was better than nothing.
The unhobbled horse had remained with its companion. The soldiers' shields, with their unit identification, Maximus unhitched from their saddles. They were added to the pile on his abandoned cloak. He tied the corners together and threw it as far as he could. In the water, it darkened, settled, then sank.
Maximus talked gently to the horses as he altered the hobble to a leading rein. Their breath was sweet on his face. He got into the saddle. He studied his work. The surface of the causeway was ploughed up and bloody. The mud would soon take care of that. The corpses were not deep enough to be invisible, but if you were not looking you might not notice them. It was a shame, more than a shame he had had to kill them. They had just been doing their duty. But then so was he. Turning the horses' heads, he trotted away towards the east and Palmyra. It was eight days since Quietus's court and army had arrived in Emesa. Time for Ballista to rent a house, for the familia to begin to settle in. Time for Ballista to begin to hope that Maximus had got away, that things would work out.
The boots in the street woke Ballista. When they stopped, he slipped out of bed. It was very dark, probably well past midnight. His hand closed on the scabbard of his sword, hanging in its accustomed place.
The pounding on the main door boomed dully through the house.
Ballista pulled on a tunic and opened the door of the bedroom. Light came in from the corridor. Julia was sitting up in bed. She did not say anything, but her dark eyes looked frightened.
There was more pounding on the door, a muffled shout.
'It will be fine,' Ballista said.
Actually, he had no idea. There were troops outside. Roman soldiers walked differently to anyone else. But it could be anything. Emperors, especially erratic ones like Quietus, could summon men to their consilium at any time of night or day. There, by lamplight, while the rest of the world slept, they might be called on to discuss anything from war in the east to the best way to cook a fish. Even under Quietus a nocturnal consilium was not necessarily something to fear, and it would be most strange if, as one of the two serving Praetorian Prefects, Ballista was not summoned. But there again, no one in the imperium would feel completely safe when the soldiers hammered on the door gone midnight. It could mean something altogether different.
'It will be fine,' Ballista said again.
Julia did not reply. There was something wrong with her, had been since he came back from Palestine. In the old days, she would not have looked frightened, even if she had been terrified. In the old days, she would have spoken to him. Mostly, she was the same, but something had changed. He did not know what.
More pounding on the door. From the depths of the house came the wheezing voice of Calgacus in full peevish flow. 'Middle of the fucking night, fucking hold your fucking horses, you will have the fucking thing off its hinges.'
Ballista went out on to the balcony that ran all around the atrium at the first floor. He walked to the stairs that faced the entrance and waited. He found he was shivering. Maybe, even in Syria in high summer, there was more of a chill to the night than he thought.
Calgacus appeared, holding a lamp for a centurion. They were followed by about twenty Praetorians, who fanned out around the courtyard. Too many soldiers for anything but bad news. Ballista had known from the start but had failed to acknowledge it. He did not know what had caused this, but if Maximus had been caught, this was the end. Ballista battened down his fear.
Ballista was puzzled to see a centurion that he did not recognize. In the reduced numbers of the Praetorian Guard of Quietus, there were not that many of them. Yet the centurion looked familiar. If Demetrius had been there, he could have put a name to him.
'Dominus,' said Calgacus, 'this is Marcus Aurelius Jucundus.' The Caledonian's face was woeful.
Ballista did not recognize the name either.
'Dominus.' The centurion's tone was stiff, official. He read from a papyrus roll with a purple seal. 'The order of the most noble Caesar, Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus, Pius Felix, Pater Patriae, Restitutor Orbis, Invictus. Marcus Clodius Ballista is relieved of his command as Praetorian Prefect. Furthermore, he is to be placed under arrest immediately and conveyed to the central gaol under the palace of the kings of Emesa.' The centurion paused. Very quietly, he said, 'I am sorry, Dominus.' Presumably that was not written on the papyrus. He took a breath and continued. 'The barbarian is to be confined there at our pleasure… together with his wife and his sons.'
The centurion was most kind, consideration personified: they could have time to collect some things, as much as they needed, could take what they wished. They roused the children. At two, Dernhelm was too young to understand. He smiled at the lights glittering and moving in the Praetorians' armour then fell asleep on his mother's shoulder. With Isangrim, a thoughtful nine-year-old, things were different. Ballista spoke to him alone. Isangrim must be brave as an example to his younger brother, and to his mother. Isangrim and Ballista must be brave for each other. The boy nodded. He stood, straight-backed, a slight tremble to his chin. Father and son embraced. Ballista told his freedman Calgacus that he was in charge of the remaining familia; the accensus Hippothous would help him supervise the porters, cooks, maids owned or employed in the house. Ballista and Calgacus embraced.
As they walked through the darkened streets, Centurion Jucundus said he had been to see the gaoler before coming to Ballista's house. He had instructed the man that Ballista's family were to be allocated the outermost cell — it had a little natural light and ventilation. By now it should have been scrupulously cleaned and given furniture. The prefect and the domina could have their servants bring them any food or anything else they liked. Jucundus himself, or one of his men, would come every day to check that everything was as well as the circumstances permitted. It was notable that Jucundus still employed Ballista's title.
Reaching the palace, passing through its dark, squat walls, under its fantastic, soaring towers, all was as the centurion had said. Lamps were lit in the cell. There was a bed, a table, a few chairs. The bare walls and floor were clean. It had been scented, although nothing could quite mask the underlying prison stench.
Julia, her brisk, capable self again, was in constant motion, putting the children to bed, unpacking their hasty possessions, instilling order.
At the door, Ballista thanked Centurion Jucundus for his trouble.
'It is the least I could do, Dominus. The new prefect Rutilus — your replacement — promoted me into the Praetorians late yesterday. All my life, man and boy, I have been with Legio IIII Scythica. I served under you, in the ranks of Castricius's vexillatio, at Circesium. You never got the credit you deserved for that victory.'
Ballista smiled. 'I thought you looked familiar.'
Jucundus smiled ruefully. 'Castricius — a long time ago he was my contubernalis — has been appointed to replace Rutilus as Prefect of Cavalry. Not done badly, old Castricius, for a man who was once in the mines.'
Ballista also smiled. 'He is a resourceful man.'
'That is one word for him. I remember that night at Caeciliana — gods below, the two of you were drunk — when you burned that patrician officer's baggage. The boys and me could hardly stand for laughing. It was magnificent.'
Ballista dropped his voice. 'Jucundus, has my freedman Maximus been arrested?'
Jucundus shook his head. 'Not that I have heard.'
Ballista sighed. 'That is something at least.'
'I will see you tomorrow.' Jucundus snapped a salute, incongruous in the degraded surroundings.
Jucundus turned back. His eyes took in the small cell. 'Your wife and children too… Dominus, I am so very sorry.'
The dead lived well in Palmyra. Maximus rode through the Valley of the Tombs; everywhere, the tall, well-
