‘Maybe some of the husbands too.’
‘Of course, you will not know that this town has given its name to a whole type of erotic story. Would you like to hear a Milesian tale?’
‘That depends,’ Maximus said suspiciously.
‘“There was once a boy of Miletus, the first blush of down on his cheeks-”’
‘No, I really do not think I would enjoy that.’
‘Then how about this? “Once there was a woman of Miletus-”’
‘Better already, much more my end of the agora.’
Hippothous spun the tale, a depraved Penelope weaving an obscene account: a virtuous widow starving herself to death in her husband’s tomb; outside, a soldier guarding a crucified corpse; his blandishments; her acquiescence; the unspoken horror of their lovemaking by her husband’s decaying remains.
Maximus was listening intently, although with lines of suspicion on his face.
The disappearance of the corpse from the cross, the widow volunteering her husband’s cadaver to take its place, the discovery of the substitution, the laughter of the townsfolk, the unresolved ambiguities of the tale’s ending… What happened to them? Was he punished? Was she? Was the laughter enough to save them?
‘You Greeks are all fucking liars,’ Maximus exclaimed.
‘I think you will find that is just Cretans,’ Hippothous replied suavely.
‘You stole that story from Petronius’s Satyricon, and it happened in Ephesus.’
‘No, it is likely he took it from Aristides’ Milesian Tales.’
‘The Romans are right about you – thieves and liars, every fucking one of you.’
The acrimonious literary debate was cut short.
‘Health and great joy.’ The man appeared like an apparition conjured out of nothing. He was in middle age, respectable, right arm wrapped in his himation. ‘I am Marcus Aurelius Macarius, stephanephor of Miletus, and asiarch of the imperial cult in this polis.’
‘Health and great joy,’ Ballista replied formally.
Macarius smiled. He was good-looking, with a cleanshaven face reminiscent of a polished artefact of considerable value. ‘It is an honour to welcome Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Ementissimus, victor of Circesium, Soli and Sebaste, to Miletus.’
‘It is an honour to be here.’
‘If it is convenient, the Boule wishes to have your advice.’
Inside, the Bouleuterion was the shape and scale of a theatre. Curved tiers of seats banded up to the shadows of the tall beamed ceiling, upon them some two hundred men. There was room for six or seven times that number. Ballista noted the two doors high up in the back wall. That was how the councillors had got in unseen.
Macarius offered a little wine and a pinch of incense to the gods, and then made the proposal.
The men of Miletus had done well. Seven years ago, when the Goths had sacked Nicomedia and the other cities in Bithynia, the Boule and Demos of the Milesians had begun the repair of the walls. The number of men chosen for the watch had been doubled. Proper military training had been reintroduced to the instruction of the ephebes. Three days ago, when the news had come from Ephesus, they began stockpiling food. The men of Miletus had done well, but one thing had been lacking, a thing now made good by the providence of the gods. The city had lacked a man of proven military skill and experience to command the defence. Now, in answer to their prayers, the gods had sent such a man. Macarius called on the Boule of Miletus to appoint Marcus Clodius Ballista, the hero of Circesium, of Soli, of Sebaste, to be strategos , to save the city from the fury of Scythian Ares.
The councillors shook back their cloaks and applauded. The proposal was passed without debate, unanimously. Macarius called on the Vir Ementissimus Ballista to take the floor.
Ballista had been thinking about what he would say, but he had not prepared a speech. No stranger to what was expected, he would let the words come.
‘Once, long ago, they were brave, the men of Miletus.’
Unease ran through the Bouleuterion. No one knew the proverb better than the honourable men assembled. Who was this barbarian to insult them?
‘Once, long ago, they were brave, the men of Miletus, and they are brave still.’
Recognizing the rhetorical ploy, the councillors were mollified. They settled to listen.
‘What makes a people brave? We should believe Herodotus: it is geography, the nature of their land. The Maeander Plain may have grown, but the mountains and the sea do not change. The backbreaking limestone mountains, and the deep, widow-making sea remain. While they endure, the Milesians do not change.’
A murmur of approval came from the councillors. This general from the north spoke their language.
‘For twelve years, the Milesians defied the Lydian kings. It took the might of Persia and the genius of Alexander to take the walls of Miletus. There is no shame in going down fighting against overwhelming odds. Men do not speak ill of Leonidas and the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae. Athens fell to the Persians, Rome to the Gauls. There is no shame in it. Where would Rome have been if the Milesians had not avenged Julius Caesar and crucified the pirates? The Goths who will come are not a host led by a Darius or Alexander. They are no more than the pirates your forefathers routed on Pharmakousa.’
Again the cloaks were shaken back and applause rang to the gloomy rafters.
‘I cannot tell yet what measures may be necessary but, be warned, they will be a bitter medicine. But we have time. The Goths will not be here for several days.’
As soon as Ballista finished, before the sounds of approbation had died, Macarius was on his feet. ‘How do you know the Goths will not arrive for days?’
Ballista smiled. ‘I know too much about Goths.’
IX
Ballista looked at the lights on Lade. They were clustered down on the shoreline, some few straggling up the three low mounds of the island. They were the camp fires of the Goths.
From the roof of a tall house on the hill up above the theatre of Miletus, Ballista had a good vantage point. Lade was in full view, not much more than a mile away. To his left was the Theatre Harbour and to his right the Lion Harbour. Their waters were as still and dark as those of a well. It was a calm night, even on this high place on the peninsula. There was just the merest hint of an offshore breeze. It was different up above. Lines of clouds from the west marched across the face of the moon, like the tattered ranks of a disordered legion. The moon was still big. Counting inclusively, as almost everyone did, it was four nights since it had been full.
Ballista knew the ways of the Goths. When he had spoken to the Boule of Miletus, he had known the city had a few days’ grace. It had been the night before the full moon. The Goths marked the full moon with their festival of Dulths: animals were sacrificed, great and terrible oaths taken, a feast consumed and vast amounts of drink downed. The next day, they were always hung over. Sure enough, their sails had appeared before Miletus late on the day following that. The rest of that day and today they had remained quiet by their boats on Lade.
All in all, Ballista had had four days as strategos to organize the defence. First, he had learnt all he could about Miletus. Surprisingly, the Boule had produced a well-drawn, detailed map. Miletus was a planned city made up of neat, Hippodamian squares. Possibly that accounted for the existence of the map. Ballista had not contented himself with that. He had taken a small boat, and had himself rowed all around. On foot, he had surveyed the walls and tramped up and down the streets and open spaces.
Miletus, the ornament of Ionia, occupied a broad but tapering peninsula running towards the north-east. The Aegean lay to the west, the gulf of Latmos to the east. Gratifyingly, in the north and north-west, the land dipped sharply down to the sea. There were just six places where it would be practical to land a sizable force, such as a hansa of Goths. On the west was the long inlet of the Lion Harbour, the broader and deeper Theatre Harbour and, outside the land walls, a wide beach at the foot of a hill topped with suburban villas and temples. On the east there were two small bays with a few jetties used by local fishermen, and another open beach beyond the walls. It could have been a great deal worse.
What had already been accomplished by the Boule pleased Ballista. The walls were in good condition, and the
