the time when two thirds of the day had gone, the time when exhausted labourers pray for the dark to hurry, the camarae fought their way around the last corner, and gratefully moored at Sarapanis.
Sarapanis was a neat, small village of tiled houses, a touch run down. It clustered at the foot of a steep, conical hill. At the top was the fort. Its garrison proved to consist of only sixty men. But the walls were sound and they had two pieces of artillery. The whole – fort and village – was almost entirely encircled by the confluence of the Phasis and another river. To make good the fort’s lack of a natural spring, an underground tunnel had been dug down to one of the rivers. It was an eminently defensible site, dominating the crossing from Colchis to Iberia. It was easy to see why the garrison of locals had been replaced with Roman regulars. It was a pity there were not more of them. Freed from the noble shadow of Felix, Ballista slipped easily into the role of senior Roman army commander: touring, inspecting, questioning, speaking words of encouragement. At such times, Hippothous thought, the northerner had an air of competent authority.
At Sarapanis, the expedition was to divide again. Rutilus and Castricius were to travel together as far as Harmozica, the capital of Iberia, to the court of King Hamazasp, the king whose son Ballista had killed. Whenever Hamazasp was mentioned, Hippothous noted, Ballista’s face became hard, closed in: most likely guilt, possibly with an edge of fear. From Hamazasp’s palace at Harmozica, Castricius would journey on to Albania to deal with King Cosis. The latest report placed Cosis at Tzour on the Caspian coast. Undoubtedly, the Albanian king was there keeping an eye on and ingratiating himself with the Sassanid prince Narseh, who was finishing off rebels among the Mardi and the Cadusii just to the south.
As their contubernium was to end, Ballista – subtly, if not indeed unconsciously asserting his primacy – decided that a feast was in order. Hippothous was instructed to produce money from their travelling funds, and soldiers were dispatched to procure the good things necessary. Ballista demanded these include his favourite suckling pig and black pudding, and amphorae of local wine – dozens of amphorae of local wine.
Hippothous came back to life reluctantly. His one servant, Narcissus, was talking to him. Hippothous wished he would stop. The slave continued talking. Hippothous opened his eyes. His head hurt. Narcissus passed him a cup of water. Hippothous sat up and drank it, held it out for more.
The local wine had not come in amphorae but goatskins. It had tasted of goatskins. Hippothous’s mouth still tasted of goatskins. However, he did not feel quite as bad as he had expected. Probably he was still drunk. It meant the full horror of the hangover would overwhelm him later.
‘ Kyrios, the eunuch Mastabates is to talk to you all in an hour.’
In the small headquarters, Ballista, Rutilus and most of the others were waiting. They all looked crapulous. Castricius had not appeared yet.
‘You do not look well, Accensus,’ said Maximus.
Hippothous did not reply.
‘I feel fine.’ Maximus pulled down the neck of his tunic. ‘You should get one of these amethysts. Sure, they are the finest preventative of the effects of over-indulgence. Drink all you want, stay sober, feel good.’
Hippothous noticed that, as well as the gemstone on a thong, the freedman wore a fine golden necklace, Sassanid work. And where did you steal that? he wondered.
‘Cabbage.’ said Rutilus. ‘Fried is best, but boiled will do. Or eat almonds before you start drinking.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Ballista. ‘Old wives’ tales. None of them works, amulets and gemstones least of all. Drink milk first, lines the stomach.’
‘Olive oil, if you are not a barbarian,’ said Rutilus.
Castricius entered to laughter from the rest. The little man looked half-dead.
‘Now we are all here,’ said Mastabates. ‘Before we go our separate ways, I was ordered to remind you all of what information our noble Augustus Gallienus, long may he reign, has received of the three Caucasian kings whose fortifications you will repair and whose allegiance you must secure.’ The young eunuch paused, seemed to swell slightly with pride. ‘I do not think it indiscreet to mention that this order was given to me personally by the Praetorian Prefect Lucius Calpurnius Piso Censorinus. He assured me the information was as accurate as could be found, having been gathered from previous diplomacy, from merchants, and from specially instructed frumentarii .’
‘First, Polemo the king of Suania. He is a man who cares little for either Rome or Persia. He is dominated by two passions – survival, a tricky proposition for a monarch of his race, and the acquisition of as much wealth as Croesus. Polemo’s spirit is dominated by avarice. He taxes heavily those crossing the passes in his territories, and his mountains are said to produce much gold and many gems. Yet none of it is enough to satisfy him. So, he takes gifts from both the imperium and Persia, while keeping faith with neither. Frequently, his men raid the lowlands, as far as the client cities of Rome on the Black Sea coast. Pityous, Sebastopolis, Cygnus – all have suffered. Of course, he always denies responsibility; his warriors act without his permission – which, given his subjects, often may be true.’
Hippothous reached for some water on the table. He was annoyed that his hand was unsteady. He saw Maximus smile. You had better watch yourself, barbarian bastard, Hippothous thought savagely, I might yet mark you down for death.
‘Polemo,’ continued Mastabates, ‘is important to Rome in two ways. First, as a check on the kings of Iberia and Albania, in case they should be misguided enough to throw in their lot with Shapur. Second, Polemo holds the Caspian or Caucasian Gates, the best pass through the central Caucasus. It keeps the nomadic hordes of the Alani away from civilization. There is a fort in the pass, but it is said to be in grave disrepair – hence our opportunity for the Vir Ementissimus Marcus Clodius Ballista to bring his experience as a siege engineer to win the favour of the king.’
‘Now, as to the forces available to Polemo…’
The eunuch began to explore Polemo’s military capabilities (large) in conjunction with the byways of his soul (devious, if not warped). Hippothous’s attention wandered. He was running a cold sweat, felt sick. Fragments of the night before floated through the wine fumes clouding his thoughts. Castricius teasing Ballista about a girl from Arete, called Bathshiba or some such Syrian name: how had he not fucked her? Maximus joining in: tits and arse that would have made even Hippothous here change his position. It was shocking the informality Ballista allowed. But, then, they were all really barbarians; Rutilus was nothing but a Thracian, and Castricius a Celt from Nemausus; generations of Roman rule had hardly civilized them at all.
Deep into the comissatio, long after the food, drink flowing, the conversation had turned maudlin. That poor bastard Mamurra. He had been a Roman officer. For some reason, which the drink temporarily had removed from Hippothous’s memory, Ballista had left him to die in a siege tunnel in Arete. The others who had been there – Castricius, Maximus, Calgacus – had vehemently and repetitively denied that Ballista should blame himself – there was nothing else he could have done. That was it – if Ballista had not collapsed the mine, the Persians would have poured into the town, killed everyone. That poor, square-headed bastard Mamurra – sure, what a very square head he had – the squarest head you ever saw, like a block of fucking marble it was . They had moved from misery to childish hilarity in a moment, wine sloshing from their cups. Mamurra was destined to die, not like Castricius. Nothing could kill him. Sent to the mines, the little bastard survived; volunteered for a night raid, only three survivors, sure enough one of them was Castricius; the Sassanids massacre every living thing in Arete, but not the little man. Castricius had risen to his feet, struck a mock-heroic pose: it was all true, even the spirits of death dare not touch me.
Hippothous felt his gorge rising. He looked around the headquarters – a sea of faces, the eunuch still talking. By the Graces, do not let me throw up. It would be too humiliating. Practise physiognomy: take your mind off your physical condition. Which one? Not Ballista: Hippothous was reserving judgement on him. Not Calgacus or Maximus: one too ugly, the other too disfigured – leave them for a later date. Hippothous thought physiognomy was easier with children, before a face became weathered by time and accident. Experience writes its story on the face, but chance – a broken nose, a scar – confuses things. Certainly not one of the eunuchs: he was feeling sick enough without dwelling on those monstrous, disgusting creatures. Castricius: he would do – little Castricius the survivor.
Slim lips in a small mouth, indicative of cowardice, weakness and complicity. The lower lip protruded, a sign of tenderness and a love of well being. But a sharp, pointed, small chin, meaning badness entering into evil, also boldness and killing. A thin nose, showing the presence of great anger. And, now Hippothous studied him, he saw that Castricius had beautiful eyes. There was nothing redeeming about that. A man with beautiful eyes was treacherous, concealing what was in his heart; also, he was bold, had potency of spirit and strength in action.
