looked away.
'I suppose you are right.' He looked up into the sky. 'Only just over an hour to nightfall. Let's go in and talk to the others. We have a lot to organize for the unpleasant surprise that is going to befall the King of Kings tonight.'
XIII
It was dark under the high barrelled arch of the Palmyrene Gate. The outer gate was still closed and, although the inner was open, little light found its way in. The larger-than-life personification of the Tyche of Arete painted on the northern wall was nothing but a blur to Turpio, and he could see nothing of the graffiti thanking her for safe journeys he knew to be scrawled below.
Turpio had always had a particularly developed sense of smell. The prevailing smell here was of the cool, possibly even damp, dust which lay in the shade of the gatehouse and which the sun never reached. There was also the smell of the worked wood of the great gate in front of him and, surprising because it was so out of context, there was a strong, a very strong scent of perfume: oil of myrrh. The hinges of the gate were soaked in it to prevent them squeaking.
Turpio was tense, but he was glad to be there in the dark waiting to lead the raid. He had had to argue his case hard in the consilium. Acilius Glabrio had pointed out that two centuries of his legionaries amounted to 140 men, while two turmae of Turpio's auxiliaries came only to 72 troopers so, in fairness, it should be Acilius Glabrio himself who commanded. Turpio had been reduced to appealing to Ballista on the grounds that, while the northerner could not afford to risk the patrician commander of the legionaries in his garrison, an ex-centurion who commanded auxiliaries was more expendable. Eventually the Dux Ripae had given his assent.
Turpio was aware that everyone in the consilium had known why he was just so keen to lead this raid: he still needed to prove his worth after the stain that Scribonius Mucianus had left on his character. Over the winter he had trained Cohors XX well. Certainly there was no corruption now. It was an efficient unit, a unit of which one could be proud. But if Turpio were to do well here in Arete, win the trust of Ballista, do everything that he wanted, he needed more. He needed a chance to prove himself in action. What could be better than a straightforward, desperate night raid into the heart of the enemy camp? Of course the risks were enormous, but so was the possibility of glory. 'Decapitate the Persian reptile. Aim for the huge purple tent in the centre of the Sassanid camp. Catch the King of Kings sleeping or with his baggy trousers down. Bring me his head. No one will ever forget your name.' Turpio was not the only one to have been stirred by Ballista's words.
Turpio detected another scent – cloves, or possibly carnations; a clean pleasant smell. It had to be Acilius Glabrio. The young patrician moved slowly, carefully, along the passageway. Turpio spoke his name quietly and held out his hand. The two men shook hands. Acilius Glabrio handed over some burnt cork, wished Turpio good luck, and left. As Turpio blackened his face and forearms, he wondered if he had misjudged the young nobleman.
He smiled to himself in the dark. No, he had not totally misjudged him. The young nobleman was still a prick. Turpio could feel laughter bubbling up in his chest as he thought of the meeting of the consilium. When Ballista walked in Acilius Glabrio had approached him full of patrician self-importance. 'A word if you please, Dux Ripae.' The northerner had slowly turned on him his unsettling barbarian blue eyes. He looked as if he had never seen the speaker before. His reply had been couched in terms of the frostiest civility: 'With pleasure, Tribunus Laticlavius, in just a moment.' Ballista had asked his new standard-bearer, Antigonus, to attend him and had led the Batavian to the far corner of the room. There he had spoken in low, emphatic sentences. At the end Antigonus had saluted and left. Walking back, Ballista's face was open and guileless. 'What was it you wanted, Tribunus Laticlavius?' The wind having been taken from his sails, the fuming young patrician had muttered that it could wait.
A muted commotion in the passageway behind Turpio indicated the approach of the Dux Ripae. Against the gloom, the greater darkness of the northerner's height and bulk, the strange bird crest above his helm could just be distinguished. The northerner seemed to have no smell at all. In his heightened, pre-battle state, Turpio wondered for a moment if that were like casting no shadow.
'Everything is ready. Time to go,' Ballista said quietly.
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.'
They shook hands. Ballista half turned, raised his voice slightly. 'Try not to get too many of the boys killed.' The nearer soldiers chuckled. Turning back, Ballista dropped his voice. 'Remember, Turpio – straight in and straight out. If you reach Shapur's tent, excellent, but if not no problem. Do not get into a fight. You have a couple of hundred men. They have about 50,000. If you can, surprise them, kill a few, burn a few tents, shake them up. But then get out quickly. Do not get trapped. At the first sign of organized resistance, head for home.' They shook hands again. Ballista stepped back to the side of the passage just below the pale shape of the Tyche. He called softly over the heads of the waiting soldiers.
'Time to go, boys, time to start the venationes, the beast-hunts.'
Despite the oil of myrrh the gates seemed to creak alarmingly as they ponderously opened. Turpio set off.
As good luck would have it, it was the night before the new moon. Yet even lit just by starlight, the western plain looked very bright after the darkness of the gate. The road shone very white as it stretched arrow-straight ahead. The flickering campfires of the Persians seemed infinitely distant.
For a time Turpio just concentrated on walking quickly. Soon he was breathing more deeply. The road under his feet felt smooth but unnaturally hard. Behind him the 140 legionaries of Legio IIII Scythica marched as quietly as Roman soldiers could. They were not talking and were taking care not to clash their weapons and armour. Some had even tied rags around their military boots to deaden the sound of their hobnails. Yet there was a steady series of small chinking sounds. Nothing could ever completely persuade Roman soldiers of the necessity of removing all the good-luck charms from their belts.
Once he had remembered to do so, Turpio counted off 200 paces and then stepped to one side and looked around to take stock. Ten wide and fourteen deep, the small column of legionaries appeared tiny in the immensity of the plain. Turpio looked back at the town. True to his word, Ballista had managed to persuade the priests to organize a religious ceremony at the Temple of Bel. Designed to draw any sleepless Sassanid eyes and ears, a big procession with bright lights and loud chanting was making its way slowly along the extreme northern end of the city wall. To help the raiding party orientate itself, a single torch burnt over the Palmyrene Gate and another on the last tower to the south. The rest of the wall was in darkness.
Turpio had to run to regain his position at the front of the column. Like him, the legionaries wore dark clothes and had blackened their equipment and exposed skin. To Turpio, they seemed hideously exposed on the gleaming white road.
Ahead, quite widely separated individual fires marked the Sassanid picket line. Behind them was the more general glow of the camp, spreading as far as the eye could see. The picket lines suddenly were much nearer. Surely the Persian sentries could not fail to notice the legionaries? Turpio's own breathing seemed loud enough to carry across the plain and wake the dead.
Nearer and nearer to the picket on the road. Turpio could make out the single rope tethering the nearest horse, individual flames in the fire, dark shapes swathed in blankets on the ground. Without a word he broke into a run, faster and faster, drawing his sword. Close behind him heavy footfalls, laboured breathing.
Turpio vaulted over the first sleeping sentry and swerved around the fire to reach the far side of the picket. The sentry nearest the Sassanid camp sat up, his mouth forming an 'O' to shout, and Turpio smashed his spatha down on his head with all his force. It needed a boot on the man's shoulder to withdraw the blade. Behind, a brief flurry of grunts, cut-off yells and a series of sounds that always reminded Turpio of knives cutting through cabbages. Then near-silence. Just 140 men panting.
He took stock. There were no shouts, no trumpet calls, no shadowy figures fleeing across the dark plain to raise the alarm. The nearest picket fires on either side were at least a hundred paces away. There was no movement around them. All was quiet. Ballista had been right; the big barbarian bastard had been right. The Sassanids lacked discipline, good old-fashioned Roman disciplina. Tired after the march, contemptuous of the small numbers of soldiers against them, the Persian pickets had laid down to sleep. The first night of the siege,
