grinning fiend who’d taken his farewell of the few persons of quality he’d somehow managed not to impale in Alexandria.
‘Shall we go up on the main deck?’ I asked. ‘There may be sod all to look at. But I fancy some last impression of liberty.’
Beneath an awning that caught most of the rain, I looked into a wall of grey mist. Unless I’d lost all sense of direction, I was looking towards Salamis. It was now more than eleven hundred and twenty years since the Athenians had fought their decisive battle there. While he was still up to any pretence of conversation, Priscus had assured me that the figure of three million given by Herodotus was impossible. But, if you divided all his numbers by ten, they began to make sense. The Spartans had held the pass at Thermopylae longer than anyone could think possible. Even so, the Persians had come on like a charging elephant. Nothing could have kept them from eventually sweeping through the pass. Their single weakness had been the long lines of communication back to Asia. By a stroke of genius, Themistocles had got the Athenians to abandon their city and concentrate all their naval force in the Bay of Salamis. There, the crushing weight of Persian shipping had been taken completely by surprise. Once they’d lost control of the sea, their whole land force was cut off and could be destroyed at leisure.
‘The problem with Herodotus,’ Priscus had said to me before the storms sent him scurrying to his cabin like a monk to his cell, ‘is that he just wasn’t a soldier. He was fine at repeating the gossip he’d picked up from the lower class of those who lived long enough to be his sources. But he had no understanding of grand strategy. The Persian attack was a combined operation. Knock away either of its legs, and the whole mass would fall to the ground. Realise this, and the Spartan counter-attack at Plataea becomes little more than a side skirmish. For myself, I’d never have risked a battle. Instead, I’d have kept up the sea blockade, and waited for the Persians to make a dash back towards Byzantium. All the way back, I’d have followed them by sea — wearing them down without ever coming to a full battle.’
He’d gone from this into a lecture on the need to keep your forces in being, and never risking a battle unless forced, or unless sure of victory. Had he given this lecture to Heraclius outside Caesarea? Priscus had spent the better part of a year obeying his own advice. It had worked so well, the Emperor had come out in person to take the Persian surrender. Of course, the booby had no sooner arrived than he gave orders for a battle — a battle that ended in our own catastrophic defeat.
We leaned together in silence and looked out into the mist. As members of the Imperial Council, it should have been our duty to suggest mitigations for what Heraclius had brought on us — the loss of Cappadocia and the exposing of Syria to invasion. But Priscus hadn’t been in Constantinople since the defeat, and I’d left before its news could arrive. Did it now matter what we thought? Were we still members of the Council?
I thought instead of Salamis, over a thousand years before. That still mattered, and always would matter. This one battle had cleared the way for the flowering of Greek civilisation. Then, after another century and a half, Alexander had gone on the offensive and destroyed the Persian Empire, and spread the light of Greece over all the East. Before that could fade, the Romans had taken up the burden of defence. Their legions, half protective, half exploitative, had given the light of Greece another seven hundred years. Now, at last, the Empire established by Rome, and inherited by Constantinople, was falling, one province at a time, to a revived Persia. This time, the decisive battle would be on land, and probably deep within Syria. Athens and the cities of Achaean Greece could have no influence in this battle. So far as their few inhabitants were even aware of it, they would await the outcome of this conflict as passive spectators.
‘None of this really matters,’ I said, breaking the long silence. ‘The end of things is often far less important than what went before. A thousand years from now, I really doubt if anyone will be thinking of you or me or Heraclius. But they’ll surely still be thinking of Salamis and what it made possible.’ What I’d said made no sense in itself, and I didn’t feel up to explaining the train of thought that preceded it.
Leaning beside me on the rail, Priscus continued staring down at the dark, still waters.
Chapter 9
Somewhere in front of us, the sun must now be rising fully out of the sea. It might eventually burn off the mist. Or it might not. It hadn’t shown itself to us in days, and might never do so again. But the sense of a new day was taking some hold in both our minds.
Priscus sighed. He coughed and spat. He sighed again. ‘If only that bastard ship had missed us off Cyprus,’ he said, ‘we’d now be putting into the Senatorial Dock. We could hurry off to the palace and give our side of things to Heraclius. Whatever else happened there, we stopped the Brotherhood from taking over Alexandria. We stopped the Persians from invading Egypt. It’s thanks to us that those seven million bushels of Egyptian corn will put in every year at Constantinople. Perhaps I did get carried away in pacifying Alexandria. You certainly fluffed your introduction of the new land law. But we did save the breadbasket of the whole Empire. No one could take that away. .’ He trailed off into a mumble about friends in Constantinople.
Perhaps he was right. I’d completed the final draft of my report a day after the Alexandrian lighthouse had vanished below the horizon. Before handing it to Martin for copying in his best hand, I’d read it to Priscus. He’d laughed and clapped his hands at its persuasive force. I’d said nothing in it of the overflowing mass graves outside Alexandria, or the plague that had drifted back into the city with the spreading miasma of corruption. I’d said nothing of the burned-out centre, or of the silent, grieving survivors. Without saying anything openly bad about the Emperor’s cousin, I’d managed to throw the whole blame for what I did admit on to Nicetas. And, if the useless bastard of a Viceroy had only done his plain duty and published the new land law at once, none of this could have happened. No doubt, I’d failed miserably in my side of things. No doubt at all, Priscus had gone raving mad once he’d gathered enough force to take on the mob. But who’d let the mob go out of control in the first place? Who’d given the landed interest enough time to choose between handing over a third of their land to the peasants and calling in the Persians? It really was stupid, bloody Nicetas who’d allowed everything to go tits up. Given the slightest regard for truth and justice, Heraclius should have had him dragged off to Constantinople to answer for an incompetence amounting all the way to treason.
‘We stand or fall together,’ Priscus had said between reciting some of my choicer sentences in a fair imitation of Our Lord and Master’s flat and whiny voice. ‘Yes, dearest Alaric,’ he’d said, separating the syllables of the name by which I was known in the Empire, ‘we stand or fall together.’
Then we’d been intercepted off Cyprus and sent west with that sheet of utterly ambiguous parchment. If Priscus had been too overcome by seasickness to sit talking everything over with me, his mind couldn’t but have been moving in the same direction.
‘Do you think you were set up from the beginning?’ he asked.
There was a sudden chorus of shouts behind and above us. There was none of the shifting and pitching that would suggest we were about to dock. But something was going on. I ignored this. We could wait for whatever bad news it surely meant.
I thought back to the beginning of March. I’d been called to the Imperial Palace. Heraclius had taken me to the great marble balcony that looked over the ship-crowded straits to the Asiatic shore. He’d spoken with such enthusiasm of my land law — what glorious sense it made to give land to the peasants and then arm them as a static defence force. It had worked so well in the Asiatic provinces, where a century of spreading banditry had been checked in just one season, and where, day by day, a rabble of passive starvelings was turning into a race of proud and loyal and productive defenders of their own soil. ‘I can hardly spare you from the Imperial Council here,’ he’d said caressingly. ‘You are my one support, my choicest and most resourceful adviser. But I
So I’d set out for Alexandria, and Nicetas had embraced me and called me ‘brother’. And, then, month had followed month, and the law I’d carried out with every necessary seal and form of words sat, unpublished, on his desk. He’d given me an army of clerks and surveyors, and smiled at every land allocation I’d suggested. He’d fobbed me off with a mass of routine administration. The Lesser Seal he gave me had made me the second man in Alexandria and in Egypt. If he noticed at all, he’d looked the other way when my speculations on the future price of corn had brought me riches beyond counting. And, all this time, the landowning interest had been spinning further
