The inside of the women's quarters of the palace of the king of Emesa would have confirmed every prejudice against the Orient of every stern Roman moralist of old. Cincinnatus would have fled back to his plough. Cato the Censor would have had apoplexy.
The room was bathed in a lurid red light. There was an almost overpowering smell of perfume and wine. The emperor Quietus lay on a couch. The priest-king reclined against his chest. Both men were half naked. Quietus absent-mindedly toyed with Sampsigeramus's hair. On another couch, the emperor's cousin Macer lay on his back unconscious. An equally comatose girl lay across him.
In the gloom at the rear of the room was an enormous bed. Girls moved in the shadows behind it. Four more slept on it. They were naked apart from the odd wisp of material, limbs sprawled in abandonment. Another girl had collapsed and lay with the crushed flowers and spilt wine on the floor.
Ballista started to make the daily report. It was a carefully worded thing, keeping to the official line and troop numbers. Even so, Quietus clearly was not interested. He quickly interrupted.
'It is written in the stars that this is a turning point for us. The gods turn their anger on the camel herder of Palmyra. The storm howls around Odenathus's impious ears.'
Ballista broke the ensuing silence. 'Dominus, the storm is unlikely to delay the Palmyrenes for long, not more than a day.'
'They say Odenathus has a beautiful wife.' Quietus's voice was reflective. 'I will enjoy her when he is defeated.'
Sampsigeramus giggled knowingly.
Rutilus spoke. 'Dominus, Odenathus will be here by dusk tomorrow.'
Quietus ignored him.
'We will form a new legion.' Suddenly the emperor sat up, full of manic energy. 'Legio XXXI Macriana Victrix. Its symbol will be the symbol of my family, the image of Alexander the Great. My father always said that those who wear the likeness of the Macedonian are aided in all they do. It will be the same with the legion. After its first victory, we will add the title 'Invictus'. Rutilus, conscript men from Emesa, and make up the numbers with drafts from the existing legions.'
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,' said Rutilus.
Quietus looked momentarily downcast. 'Treachery all around me. Maeonius Astyanax — my father trusted him. Now Pomponius Bassus — he will lead no army down the Euphrates.'
With no warning, the emperor brightened. 'But it is of no account, none at all. My Princeps Peregrinorum has arranged everything.' He looked over to where Macer lay, stunned by alcohol. The emperor laughed fondly. 'Before he took his deserved rest — otium must always follow negotium, it is the ancestral Roman way — my beloved cousin sent envoys bearing princely gifts to the leader of the Arab confederation of the deep desert. Jadhima of the Tanukh will ride at the head of his horde. The Arabs will fall on Odenathus, scatter his army like chaff on the threshing floor.'
The news was received in silence. The officers tried not to give away their feelings. The idea that any confederation of Arabs could ever come out of the desert and defeat a regular army in open battle was too ridiculous for words.
Rutilus tried again. 'Dominus, our scouts say the storm will blow out quickly. Odenathus will be here by dusk tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow, the day after, it makes no difference.' Quietus waved a hand at Ballista. 'The night he arrives, you will lead a raid into the heart of his camp. If you cannot bring him to me alive, you will bring me his head. It will be finished.'
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.'
And Odenathus will be ready too, thought Ballista. Now a collection of Emesene guards and palace girls know of the plan. Odenathus knew what he was about. He would have spies in the palace.
'By the next dawn, the Lion of the Sun will be dead,' Quietus added softly, 'or others will suffer.' Night and not enough darkness. The flames of the torches sawed in the wind. The orange glow illuminated the inside of the Palmyra Gate. Only at the very top of the tall arch night still held sway. Lower down, the sculptures of the eagle, altar and conical stone of Elagabalus were thrown into shifting heavy relief. Below them, the palimpsest of graffiti — thanks to the god for safe arrivals or pleas for help getting across the desert unharmed — was almost legible.
Night and far too much noise. The five hundred or so Praetorians gathering for the raid stamped their feet against the chill breeze, or just out of boredom. The unbound hobnails of their boots rang on the paving stones. There was a continual jingle and chink of equipment; several thousand metallic awards for valour, and good-luck charms hung on their harnesses. There was a low buzz of talk. One or two groups were passing around wine- skins.
Disciplina was not good in the army of Quietus. But there was a deeper reason for the men's behaviour. The Praetorians had been seconded from the eastern legions, and they had a reputation among officers for lack of disciplina. How could it be otherwise? Their camps were not in bleak frontier fastnesses like Caledonia or Germania but near comfortable towns. Sometimes they were even billeted in the towns themselves. And the towns were eastern. Most of the men had been recruited locally. At bottom, they were easterners, with all that implied about insolence and loose living.
No one had told the Praetorians to bind rags round their hobnails, to take off their charms. No one had ordered them to stop talking or drinking. There was no absolute certainty of being obeyed. Ask any legionary or auxiliary out on the frontier — the Praetorians were overpaid, arrogant and pampered; all plumes and sashes; parade-ground soldiers, useless in a fight.
Ignoring the commotion, Ballista leant against the wall. He pulled an old black cloak around himself and shut his eyes. The usual smell of Roman soldiers: unwashed men, with undernotes of garlic, cheap perfume and sour wine. Once — when the centurion and his men had come to the hall of his father — it had been alien and frightening. Now — twenty-three winters later — it was homely and reassuring. Like everything else we think innate, the evocations of smell are often shaped by circumstances outside our control.
Ballista found himself thinking about Turpio. His old friend had boasted of a particularly keen sense of smell. Ballista wondered what scents had come to Turpio five years earlier as he had waited under another gate to Palmyra, the one at Arete, to lead a mission with a different target but the same aim. Turpio had so nearly taken the Persian King of Kings unaware in his tent. But he had not. All he had taken was a golden bracelet. And years later, it had proved his death. For mortals, mortal things. And all things leave us. Or if they do not, then we leave them.
The lines ran through Ballista's mind. Turpio had been fond of modern poetry, but Ballista had no intention of letting this nocturnal raid be the death of him.
'Have a rest, you poor little thing.' Calgacus puffed up and put down the two lanterns he was carrying. 'After tonight, we may have all fucking eternity to rest.'
Somewhere in the town, dogs were barking. In Aeneas Tacticus's book on defending a town under siege, the general was advised that, to avoid noise and confusion, all dogs, strays and otherwise, should be rounded up and killed. Ballista had read the book at least twice. In this town, he had not acted on that piece of advice.
'Here comes Jucundus,' said Calgacus.
Ballista opened his eyes.
Jucundus marched up and saluted. The noise from the Praetorians had dropped appreciably with his arrival. Jucundus was solid dependability personified. He reported his men ready; a column five wide and a hundred deep to pass through the gate; once outside, they would redeploy ten wide.
Ballista thanked him. They waited for Castricius.
The sometime convict now Prefect of Cavalry came down the steps from the artillery platform two at a time. The stone-thrower and the two bolt-throwers were ready. Ballista thanked him.
The northerner drew Jucundus close to quietly explain the stratagem, for should Ballista fall, Jucundus must carry it out. The artillery pieces were drawn back but unloaded. At night you could seldom see the missiles fly. If the raid got into trouble, these two blue lanterns should be hoisted. Castricius would release the artillery — they sound the same whether they are loaded or not. With luck, Odenathus's men would think they were being shot at — there is little more frightening than incoming missiles you cannot see — and retreat out of range. It had worked before with the Persians at the siege of Arete. The gods willing, it would work again now.
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' The two officers went to withdraw.
