built rectangular homes of the dead. Maximus had been this way before, six years previously, on his way to Arete. One of a company then, he had not really looked at the tombs. Alone now, he gazed at them. They spoke of wealth and power. And, to his mind, there was something more. Halfway up the steep slope on one side, three, four storeys tall, their masonry so well squared off, doors and windows so neatly cut, the ring of towers spoke of permanence. They were like a smoother version of the jagged rocks poking through the sand at the summit; grown out of nature, but shaped by man. Like the living rocks, they intended to be here for ever.
Looked at in a certain way, they seemed to be the walls, the natural rocks the city; the dead men guarding the living rocks. Gods below, any more of this drivel and you would think I had been educated in Athens, thought Maximus. He had been out in the sun a long time. It had been a long, tough journey since the killings in the mere. Over the terrible hard mountains — Ballista's bloody hills — then monotonous days of dun-coloured, sun-blasted, rocky desert. But at last he was here: Palmyra, Tadmor to the locals, the oasis city of Odenathus, the Lion of the Sun.
There was a crowd at the gate jostling to get in. Most were farmers from the villages to the north-west, their donkeys, camels and wives laden with wheat, wine and fodder, olive oil, animal fat and pine cones. There were fewer traders from the west than there had been the last time Maximus had been here. But there were a couple. War or not, profits can drive a man from home. One of these hardy souls traded in Italian wool, the other in salt fish. It was very hot, and tempers were short. Men shouted and donkeys brayed; the camels spat.
Maximus sat on one of his two horses and looked at the city walls. He remembered his old drinking companion Mamurra sneering at them the last time they were here. The Hibernian checked the thought — as if that square-headed bastard Mamurra would ever be going anywhere again, buried as the poor bugger was in a collapsed siege tunnel under the walls of Arete. He was never the quickest man in the world, old Mamurra, but in time he had got things right. The low mud-brick walls of Palmyra would be as much use in a siege as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking competition. It was a good job the Palmyrenes were on the attack. They had better pray the tables were never turned.
Eventually, Maximus reached the customs post in the gate.
'What do you have to declare?' The telones spoke without looking up.
Maximus did not reply.
With a tut of irritation, the telones took his eyes from his tally. He took in the mail coat; the worn leather grip of the sword; the missing tip of the nose; the two horses and the dust engrained thick in everything that told of a long journey at speed. 'Carry on,' he said. 'Next.'
Inside the gate, Maximus threw a street child a coin and said he wanted the house of Haddudad. He followed the lively bundle of rags and brown limbs up one fine, bustling colonnaded street, down another, through a monument of sixteen columns of swirling black and gold, passed a full agora and an empty theatre. The strong but not unpleasant smell of spices, horses and humanity, all with a slight edge of camel, was familiar. Maximus recognized the route to the palace of Odenathus. Three houses beyond it, his guide stopped, pointed at the marble entrance to a huge townhouse and jabbered excitedly in whatever language he or she spoke. Haddudad the mercenary had come up in the world.
Maximus showed the child — on balance, probably a girl — a quite high-denomination coin, mimed holding the horses and put the coin back in his wallet. Laughing, the child took the reins.
The porter created no fuss. It was as if armed, violent-looking men covered in dirt arrived at the door every day. Given that his kyrios was an ex-mercenary and his kyria the daughter of a caravan protector, quite possibly, they did. He showed Maximus to a small room and asked him to wait. He expressed no surprise when the visitor declined his offer to look after his weapons.
Maximus sat down and stretched out his legs. He assumed he was being watched. He looked around, unconcerned. The walls were painted and depicted some Greek myth. Large, near-naked and hairy men were running about on an improbable range of mountains. They were throwing huge boulders down at anchored warships. Most of the ships had been hit, and some were already beyond salvation. Their crews stretched their hands to the heavens in appeal or reproach. A shifty-looking man on the last vessel had the right idea. He was cutting the mooring rope. The galley was so far unscathed but, given the hairy boys' skills with a rock, Maximus did not fancy its chances.
Two armed men entered the room. Hands on their hilts, they hard-eyed Maximus. After them came a woman in eastern costume, fully veiled, only her eyes visible.
Maximus politely stood up. The guards tensed.
The woman passed the guards, came close. With her left hand, she reached up and across and undid her veil. Gods below, but Bathshiba was still attractive.
'It has been a long time,' she said in Greek. Her voice was as he remembered; the sort of thing that could take a man's wits.
'Five years.'
'I would kiss you, but you are filthy.' She smiled, stepped back.
Ballista, my old friend, thought Maximus, you were a fool not to fuck her when you had the chance. If it had been me she set her cap at in Arete, her bed would have been no place of solitude and quiet contemplation.
'As you can see, I am in my best demure-wife clothes. We are entertaining — just the one guest. You will join us; no need to bath or change.' She came close again, closer than before. He could smell her, beneath her perfume. Ballista, you were such a fool. She leant closer still and, her breath in his ear, whispered, 'Be very careful what you say in front of Nicostratus. No mention of coming from the army of Quietus. No mention of Ballista.'
The dining room was light and shady at the same time. For a Syrian afternoon in high summer, it was cool. A water feature played somewhere.
Haddudad rose from his couch. Prosperity suited him. His hair was longer, flat on top, curled at the sides, very artful. From behind his full, curled and perfumed beard, he grinned.
'Maximus,' Haddudad said. Although his clothes were yet more gorgeous and ornate than those of his wife, he hugged the Hibernian to him. They pounded each other on the back. Clouds of dun-coloured dust drifted up through the shafts of sunlight.
Haddudad gestured at the occupied couch. 'Maximus, this is the renowned historian Nicostratus of Trapezus.' Haddudad gestured back again. 'Nicostratus, this is an old systratiotes of mine from the siege of Arete, Marcus Aurelius Maximus.'
The man of letters got to his feet. There was no overt show of reluctance, but Maximus had the impression that Nicostratus of Trapezus did not often shake the hand of mercenaries, old companion of his host or not.
Servants brought in a third couch. Haddudad guided Maximus over to it. All three men reclined. Bathshiba sat on an upright chair behind and at the foot of her husband's couch. Maximus felt like laughing. He remembered the wild Amazonian girl from Arete: dressed like a man, fighting alongside her father's men, quite probably — much to his fury — saving Ballista's life.
First they brought him a bowl and ewer to wash his hands. Then a servant positioned a small table at Maximus's right hand. Another placed a selection of small dishes of pastries, olives and cheese and an empty wine cup on the table. A third poured the mixed wine. Maximus made a libation and drank the health of his host.
Haddudad and Nicostratus resumed a conversation they had obviously been having before Maximus arrived. It was about a historian called Herodian. Nicostratus tried to include Maximus. The Hibernian said he was usually paid to kill men not read books. Nicostratus did not try again.
Maximus drank his wine. He was impressed by Haddudad. The ex-mercenary had taken to this life as if born to it. His fine, embroidered tunic, trousers and boots — all dusty now — hung easily on him. He lounged elegantly and was more than holding his own in bookish discussion: 'So would you agree, my dear Nicostratus, that Herodian sacrifices certain trivial details in order to bring out more clearly what he regards as deeper and more profound levels of historical truth?' The false nomen he had given Maximus was clever. Since the emperor Caracalla — about fifty years earlier — had given Roman citizenship to all the free inhabitants of the imperium who did not already have it, almost every other person carried the Caracalla's praenomen and nomen: Marcus Aurelius.
A servant came and refilled Maximus's wine cup. That was another creditable thing about Haddudad — not just that he kept the drink flowing but that he had followed Bathshiba's father's way of employing fighting men at table. Much more use than some pretty boys or naked girls in the event of trouble.
Bathshiba leant forward and spoke to her husband. Haddudad inclined his head, smiling. She got up. At her sign, a servant placed another upright chair by Maximus's couch.
