'Historiography not your strong point?' Bathshiba's voice was pitched low, so as not to carry. She did not wait for an answer. 'Nicostratus is a pompous bore — failings not unknown among men of his calling. Zenobia summoned him here to Tadmor. She has commissioned him to write a history from the reign of Philip the Arab to the glorious victories of Odenathus. It will be ghastly — no chance of it standing the test of time.'
Maximus studied the reclining Greek historian. He had thin, pursed lips in a self-satisfied face. He did not appear a man much troubled by curiosity. Under his Greek himation, a pair of oriental embroidered trousers and finely tooled soft leather boots peeped out. This standard bearer of Hellenic culture had gone half native already. Not that Maximus cared.
'Odenathus's second wife is not the beautiful but submissive young girl we were all expecting. Zenobia is deeply ambitious. More ambitious even than Odenathus himself. And she is warlike.'
Maximus glanced sharply at Bathshiba, who ignored it.
'It frustrates her. Odenathus has a grown son, Haeranes, from his first marriage. The young man is a natural warrior. In Zabda and Zabbai, Odenathus has two generals he trusts. Now there is my husband. No need for a twenty-year-old girl in the councils of war of the Lion of the Sun.'
Bathshiba stopped as a servant replaced the empty dishes with ones of fruit, nuts and sweet things.
'So,' she continued, 'Zenobia has set herself up as the great patroness of culture. From all over the east, philosophers and sophists, historians and poets, flock to the court. These men of paideia infest the palace. Every one of them is more greedy and ambitious than the last. But every one of them owes his position to Zenobia. And that is why Nicostratus is here, and why poor Haddudad is putting himself out to be so charming.'
Bathshiba smiled charmingly as Nicostratus looked around.
'Not that Zenobia does not get to ride with the army.' Bathshiba's eyes sparkled with her old mischief. 'They say she will not let Odenathus have what a husband needs unless he lets her have her way.'
The last tack of her conversation sent Maximus's thoughts wandering. Under all these eastern fabrics, was Bathshiba still the nicely rounded armful she had been? She had been one of the likeliest-looking bits of tumble you could imagine. Lucky old Haddudad.
'Ow.' She had prodded him with a fruit knife. Maximus quickly smiled blandly over at the others.
'That is better. My face is up here.' Bathshiba's teeth were very white when she laughed. 'And I said, what are you doing here?'
'Ballista wants Haddudad to arrange for me to see Odenathus in secret.' There was no point in beating around the bush.
'Why?'
'To give him a letter.'
'Saying what?'
'I have no idea.'
'Really?'
Maximus looked at Bathshiba. Surely she was not being so unsubtle as to push her shoulders back to accentuate her breasts. How shallow did she think he was? 'All I know is I have to make sure Odenathus knows which is the Tower of Desolation at Emesa.'
'The tall, thin one at the extreme south-east of the walls.' Bathshiba spoke, but her thoughts were elsewhere. 'Of course Haddudad will do it. But…' She paused. 'I am not sure what sort of a reception you will get. Your friend is a leading general of Odenathus's enemy. Obviously, much depends on the contents of the letter. But it is far easier to read Herodian's History than the Lord of Tadmor. He is unpredictable. It is part of what has made him so powerful. He is like a capricious elemental force. The Lion of the Sun may shower you with gold and make you his drinking companion — or he may kill you like a dog.'
Maximus shrugged. 'Sure, life would be terrible dull if we knew all the outcomes. Is there any chance of a bath?'
'Of course. Would you like some company?' At Maximus's grin, she quickly added, 'No, not me, you fool. One of the maids.'
'Well, that would be better than either your husband or the historian. I don't suppose there would be two of your maids at a loose end?'
Before she made the arrangements, Bathshiba spoke seriously one more time. 'It is lucky you have come now. You are nearly too late. The Lion of the Sun marches on Emesa in three days.' It may have been the best cell to be found in the gaol under the palace of Emesa, but it was still dark, airless and insufferably hot. And familiarity did not stop the stink of it catching in Ballista's throat.
Ballista knew he had failed. Everything he had done during these years in the east had been to protect his family, and he had failed. He did not know why, but they were in gaol with him.
True to his word, Jucundus, or one of his men, had come every day to check that things were no worse than they had to be. This may have gone some way to explaining why the behaviour of the gaoler and his assistants had shifted from its customary and ingrained cruelty to a grudging near-politeness. The open-handedness of the prisoners with money and an unexpressed and incoherent fear of the mutability of fortune probably also came into play.
Under the supervision of Calgacus, servants delivered fresh food and drink. Every morning, maids dressed the hair and did the make-up of the domina. Other girls produced newly cut flowers. The women swept and cleaned, strategically arranged the flowers, lit scented lamps and liberally dispensed scented oils. Yet, no matter how many aromatics were deployed, still the prison stench seeped up from the lower cells, where those lacking in fortune and influence lay in their own filth, devoid of hope.
The children were doing surprisingly well. Admittedly, they had no fresh air, nowhere near enough space to run, and sometimes their own noise crashing back from the walls seemed momentarily to stun even them. But they had the rarity of near-undivided attention from their parents, all their favourite playthings, and were largely being fed things of their own choice. To all these benefactions, Isangrim added the absence of his schoolmaster.
If the boys were bearing up well, the same could not be said of Julia. Her usual disposition towards order had been elevated almost to the level of mania. She was always moving, tutting and complaining under her breath as she put things back in their right place after her husband or children had moved them. It was, thought Ballista, rather like being locked up with a better-looking version of Calgacus, but with his irony gone.
Ballista himself, as far as he could in the din of the confined space, retreated into reading. The second day, he had Calgacus bring him Arrian's Discourses of Epictetus. It was hard to think of a circumstance where some hard-line Stoic philosophy should not be more appropriate or sustaining. On the third morning, as instructed, the Caledonian arrived with a novel, The Aithiopika of Heliodorus of Emesa. Ballista wondered if he might learn some interesting things about the mentality of the town in which he was a prisoner. He did not. But it was a diverting enough series of picaresque stories within stories. After another day, he asked Calgacus to bring him some of Plutarch's Parallel Lives. They were far more like it — examples of men bearing changes in fortune set in exciting stories; philosophy in action for those like Ballista who could not quite stomach the unalloyed thing. He started with the lives of Demetrius and Antony: Antony turned back to Rome. He disguised himself as a slave, made out he was carrying a letter to Fulvia from Antony and was admitted to her presence with his face all muffled. Fulvia was distracted and, before taking the letter, asked him whether Antony was alive. He handed it to her in silence, and no sooner had she opened it and begun to read it than he flung his arms around her and kissed her.
'Dominus.' Jucundus stood in the doorway. 'I am ordered to convey you to the sacred presence of our emperor. Your wife and sons are to remain here.'
There was only time for hurried farewells. Julia looked openly terrified, and her fear transferred itself to the boys — Isangrim cried, Dernhelm howled. An inauspicious way to leave.
Quietus was in the great temple of Elagabalus. As they marched through the streets, Jucundus, talking out of the corner of his mouth like a legionary on parade, said he had no idea what the summons portended.
When they had reached the sacred precinct and were rounding the altar, Ballista and his escort had to check their progress. A procession of members of the Boule of Emesa crossed their path. The councillors were clad in formal Roman togas, the majority with the narrow stripe of an equestrian, one or two with the broad purple denoting senatorial status. Each carried on his head a golden bowl of reeking intestines. Try as they might, the local worthies could not prevent the odd slop of blood landing on the snowy-white material of their robes.
Ballista took in his surroundings. The three fires on the altar hissed and spat, burning unnaturally bright colours: blue-green, yellow, red. Slaves were busy spreading clean sand on the ground. Mingled with the smell of
