‘Titus Cocceius Malchiana. We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
As the three men walked across the wide dock, the centurion Turpio kept up an anxious stream of talk. ‘As I am sure that you know, the Cohors XX Palmyrenorum Milliaria Equitata is a double-strength unit of archers, over one thousand men. It is a mixed unit, 960 infantry and 300 cavalry. What makes us unique in the army is our organization. The
cohors
has only six centuries of infantry and five
turmae
of cavalry, but all are at double strength. So we have 160 men not 80 in a century, and 60 not 30 cavalry in a
turma.
We have twenty men mounted on camels as well; mainly for messages and the like, although they are useful for scaring untrained horses - how horses do hate the smell of a camel, ha, ha.’ Ballista wondered at the mixture of obvious pride and extreme nervousness. The rapid flow of the centurion’s words stopped as it reached the line of soldiers.
There were indeed sixty men in the
turma
of Cocceius. The troopers were dismounted, horses nowhere to be seen. The men were drawn up in a line thirty across and two deep. Their cavalry helmets and waist-length scale armour were brightly polished. Swords hung in scabbards on left hips. Combined quivers and bowcases poked over left shoulders. Right hands grasped spears and on each left forearm was strapped a small round shield painted with a picture of a warrior god. Above their heads the standard of the
turma,
a rectangular green
signum,
fluttered in the westerly breeze.
Ballista took his time. He walked the lines, looking closely. The troopers were indeed well turned out. But they had had plenty of time to get ready. A parade was one thing, action quite another. He wondered if he detected a sullen, dumb insolence in the men’s faces - but possibly his stumble and the non-appearance of Scribonius Mucianus were making him oversensitive.
‘Very good, Centurion. Have the men had lunch?’ It was the eighth hour of daylight, nearly mid-afternoon. ‘No? Then let them be dismissed to their quarters. It is too late in the day to think of setting out to Antioch. We will march tomorrow. If we leave at dawn we should be there with plenty of time before nightfall. Isn’t that so?’
Having been assured that his understanding was correct, Ballista announced that he would make his way up to the acropolis of the town to make sacrifice for the safe arrival of the ship.
Assessing the defences of Seleuceia in Pieria under the cloak of honouring the gods was paradoxically depressing. The town was well fortified by nature. It had ravines on three sides and the sea close by on the fourth. It was well fortified by man. It had walls of fine ashlar masonry, with tall semicircular towers well placed at intervals. The great market gate on the road to Antioch was almost a fortress in itself. The only way up to the acropolis was by twisting and turning stairways cut steeply into the rock. It was eminently defendable. And yet, three years earlier, it had fallen to the Sassanids.
The bathhouse attached to the new imperial fortress in Antioch was sumptuously decorated. Turpio thought it typical of the
imperium Romanum
these days that it was fully functioning while the fortress was unfinished. He was waiting in the corridor outside the
apodyterium,
the changing room. Under his feet was a mosaic typical of bathhouses all over the empire: a black attendant, a water vessel in each hand, a wreath of laurel on his head.
Marcus Clodius Ballista, the new
Dux Ripae,
might rejoice in the three names which were the mark of a Roman citizen but he was a complete barbarian. On their ride into Antioch he had stared about him like a bumpkin. Turpio had lead him in by the bridge gate, through the town’s colonnaded streets, then over to the island in the Orontes where the new fortress was being built. Trust the present empire to send an imperial favourite - and a barbarian one at that - above a Roman who had worked his way through military service.
Turpio looked again at the mosaic. An enormous penis escaped from under the attendant’s tunic. The artist had carefully detailed the bell-end in purple. Turpio laughed, as the artist had intended. Laughter was good here. Bathhouses could be dangerous places and everyone knew that laughter drove away daemons.
At last they stepped out of the
apodyterium.
Like Turpio, they were naked except for the wooden clogs which would protect their feet from the hot floors. All except Ballista carried flasks of oil,
strigils,
towels.
‘Fuck me! Calgacus, it must be one of your relatives,’ said the one with the nose like a cat’s arse, pointing to the mosaic on the floor. ‘Look at the terrible size of the thing.’
The Greek boy blushed. Ballista and Calgacus ignored the comment. Turpio, unaccustomed to such bold talk from a slave, followed their example. Ballista in the lead, they went into the
caldarium,
the hot room, the way indicated by the attendant’s jutting cock.
‘Is it not true, Calgacus dear, that for years you were known in Rome as Buticosus, “the big stuffer”?’ The bodyguard was enjoying himself.
Turpio noted that the slave called Calgacus actually did have a large penis. Well, barbarians were notorious for it. Their big cocks were indicative of their lack of self-control in matters of sex, as in all other matters. A small penis had always been the mark of a civilized man.
‘They say that only the untimely death of that magnificently perverted emperor Elagabalus prevented the
frumentarii
kidnapping Calgacus here from the public baths so that he could employ that mighty weapon on his imperial majesty.’
It was amazing that this new
Dux
let one of his slaves go on in this way in the company of freemen, of Roman citizens. It was a sign of weakness, of stupidity, a sign of his barbarian nature. All of which was good, very good. It would make it less likely that Ballista would find anything out.
It was cold and foggy. The weather had closed in during the week in Antioch. Ballista pulled his waxed cloak up around his ears. It was just before dawn, and there was no wind at all. He sat on his new grey horse by the side of the road to Beroea. He was warm enough so far, and well fed: Calgacus had somehow produced a hot porridge of oats, with honey and cream. Ballista looked up at the outside of the gate: brick built, two huge projecting square towers. There would be double gates inside, creating a good killing ground, and shuttered ports for artillery among the ornamental brickwork.
Ballista’s feeling of relative well-being began to fade as he studied the scorch marks around the artillery port holes. Seven days of buying supplies and organizing a caravan had allowed time to confirm his initial impression that Antioch was a reasonably strong site. To the east, Antioch climbed up the slopes of Mount Silpius to a citadel, while the Orontes river curled round the other three sides, creating a moat. At the northern extent of the city an oxbow lake enclosed a large island. The town walls looked in decent repair. Apart from the citadel and the fortress on the island, there were several large buildings (amphitheatre, theatre, hippodrome) which could serve as improvised strong points. The wide main streets made for good interior lines of communication and reinforcement. There was a fine supply of water from the Orontes and two small streams that ran off the mountain. And, despite all this, it had fallen to the Persians.
It was a typically Greek story of personal betrayal. A member of the aristocracy of Antioch, Mariades, had been caught embezzling funds from one of the chariot teams. Escaping from certain conviction, he had turned outlaw. After a brief but initially successful career as a bandit, he had fled across the Euphrates. When Shapur invaded Syria three years ago, Mariades had acted as his guide. When the Persians encamped a short distance from Antioch, the rich fled the city. The poor, maybe more ready for a change, maybe without means of escape, stayed put. Friends of Mariades opened the gates. If promises had been made to the traitors, it seems they were not kept. The city was looted and large parts of it burnt. Mariades had returned to Persia with Shapur.
For a man ordered to look to its safety, for a siege engineer, Antioch, like Seleuceia, was most depressing. There were two straightforward conclusions to be drawn. First, the Sassanid Persians were good at taking strong, fortified places. Second, the locals were bad at defending them. Ballista wondered how many locals would prove to be like Mariades, how many might decide to go over to the Persians, or would, at least, not fight against them. The more he saw of Syria, the worse his mission looked. He wondered what had happened to Mariades.
His thoughts turned to Turpio. Why was he taking so bloody long to get this
turma
of cavalry in order of march? He and Cocceius, the
decurion,
were riding up and down the column, in and out of the pools of torchlight, shouting.
To Ballista’s eyes, individually, the troopers looked the part - horses in good condition, helmets and armour cared for, weaponry complete and ready to hand. They looked tough. They handled their mounts well. But something was wrong. They did not work together as a unit. Men were getting in each other’s way. They appeared sullen. There was none of the banter Ballista expected in a happy unit.
At last, Turpio appeared. He was bareheaded, his helmet strapped to his saddle. His short-cropped hair and beard were damp from the fog.
‘The column is ready to march.’ It always sounded to Ballista as if Turpio were challenging him to question what he said while at the same time dreading just that. He had not called Ballista
Dominus .
‘Very good. Maximus, unfurl my personal banner, and we will inspect the men.’
The bodyguard took the protective covering from the white draco. The windsock shaped like a dragon hung limp in the still air when he held it aloft.
Ballista squeezed his horse with his thighs, and the grey set off at a walk. They first passed the rearguard, thirty troopers under Cocceius, then the staff and baggage train under Mamurra and, finally, the advance guard of the other thirty troopers, which would be under the direct command of Turpio. Leaving aside the usual problems with the hired civilians of the baggage train, all seemed serviceable enough.
‘Good. I will ride here with you, Centurion. Send out two scouts ahead of the column.’
‘There is no need. There are no enemy for hundreds of miles.’
Ballista knew he needed to assert his authority. ‘Have them ride about half a mile in front of the column.’
‘We are just outside the main gate of the provincial capital. There is not a Persian this side of the Euphrates. No bandit would take on this number of men.’
‘We need to get used to being on a war footing. Give the order.’
Turpio gave it, and two troopers clattered off into the thick fog. Ballista then gave the command to begin the march, their long march to the client kingdoms of Emesa and Palmyra, and then to the city of Arete, that isolated outpost of the
imperium Romanum.
‘It was only three years ago that there were a lot of Persians here,’ he said.
‘Yes,
Dominus.’
Despite the man’s attitude, Ballista decided to tread carefully. ‘How long have you been with Cohors XX?’
‘Two years.’
‘How do you find them?’
‘Good men.’
‘Was Scribonius Mucianus already in command when you joined?’
‘Yes.’ Again, at the mention of the absent tribune’s name, Turpio took on that aggressive, hunted look.
‘How do you find him?’
‘He is my commanding officer. It is not my place to discuss him with you. No more than it would be my place to discuss you with the Governor of Syria.’ There was no great effort to hide the implicit threat.
‘Did you fight the Sassanids?’
‘I was at Barbalissos.’
Ballista encouraged Turpio to tell the story of the terrible defeat of the Roman army of Syria, the defeat which had led directly to the sack of Antioch, Seleuceia, and so many other towns, to so much misery in the time of troubles just three years earlier. The attack by swarms of Sassanid horse archers had seen the Romans caught in a cleft stick. If they opened ranks and tried to chase the archers away, they were run down by heavy cavalry, the
clibanarii,
mailed men riding armoured horses. If they stayed in close order to hold off the
clibanarii,
they made an ideal, dense target for the archers. Hours in the ranks under the Syrian sun, tormented by fear with the safety of the walls of Barbalissos visible in one direction, tormented by thirst with the glittering waters of the Euphrates visible in another. Then the inevitable panic, flight and slaughter.
While Ballista heard little about the battle that he had not heard before, he did gain the impression that Turpio was a proficient officer - so why then was this
turma
of Cohors XX so miserable and unhandy?
‘What were the Persian numbers?’
Turpio took his time replying. ‘Hard to say. A lot of dust, confusion. Probably fewer than most people think. The horse archers keep moving. Makes them look more than they are. Possibly no more than ten to fifteen thousand all told.’
‘What about the proportion of horse archers to
clibanarii?’
Turpio looked over at Ballista. ‘Again, hard to be sure. But a lot more light horsemen than heavy. Somewhere between five to one. and ten to one. Quite a lot of the
clibanarii
carry bows, which confuses things.’
‘They were all cavalry?’
‘No. The cavalry are the noblemen, they are the Sassanids’ best troops, but they have infantry as well - the mercenary slingers and bowmen are the most effective; the rest are levies of peasant spearmen.’
The fog was lifting. Ballista could see Turpio’s face clearly. It had lost some of its defensive look. ‘How do they manage sieges?’
‘They use all the devices we do: mines, rams, towers, artillery. Some say they learnt from us; maybe when the old king Ardashir took the city of Hatra some fifteen years ago.’