‘Ah, it is you again,’ said the
telones.
‘Business is good.’
‘No, business is bad,’ replied the courier.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Downriver. To Charax. To Persia.’
‘Men of business need their letters to get through no matter what politics says. What do you have to declare?’ The customs officer began to open the near-side pannier on the camel.
‘Nothing. There is nothing in there except my spare clothes and bedding.’
‘I had a philosopher come through here not long ago,’ said the customs officer, rummaging in a desultory way. ‘He looked the complete part - naked except for a rough cloak, big bushy beard, hair down to his arse. Dirty. Absolutely fucking filthy. But he was no poor Cynic. Had a pretty-boy attendant, a shorthand writer and a calligrapher to write down his wisdom.’
The courier watched the
boukolos,
the controller of herds, on the other side of the road counting a herd of goats a tent-dweller wanted to bring into town to sell. He wondered how soon it would rain.
‘So, I say to the philosopher, “What are you taking out of the town?” and he says, “Temperance, Justice, Discipline” ... and a couple more forget.’ The customs official moved round the camel, and started to open the other pannier.
‘There is nothing in there except the three sealed writing blocks that I have to deliver.’
‘So then I say, “Well, it does not matter what fancy names you have given them, you will have to pay export duty on these whores!” And he says something like, “You cannot tax virtue!”’ The customs official laughed. The courier smiled politely.
The
telones
did up the pannier, the writing tablets undisturbed inside. The courier passed some coins into his hand. ‘Talk about not getting a joke. Silly fucker is standing just where you are, in the middle of the road, with his pretty boy, shorthand writer and calligrapher. Not a girl in sight! Silly fucker!’
The courier climbed into his saddle, flicked his whip and the camel got to its feet.
‘Safe journey.’
And so it was that the traitor’s letter left Arete.
Big dark clouds were piling up in the north-west. Now and then a rumble of thunder was just audible. Ballista had a nagging headache. It would get better when the storm reached Arete.
Several hours had passed since the manoeuvres on the
campus martius.
What had promised to be a long day had become even longer. As ordered, prompt at the fourth hour, Acilius Glabrio, his accountant, and his secretary had presented themselves at the
principia.
The
exactor
and the
librarius
had explained all the relevant paperwork in minute detail to the new
Dux Ripae,
his
praefectus fabrum
and his
accensus.
Ballista, Mamurra and Demetrius had concentrated hard. Acilius Glabrio had sat in a chair examining his highly ornate sword belt. Absolutely everything with the
vexillatio
of Legio IIII Scythica was in good order. The unit was virtually at full strength; very few men were missing, in hospital or in jail. Pay and provisions were up to date. Not only were the men fully equipped but there was quite some number of weapons, shields and armour in reserve. After nearly two hours Ballista had turned to Acilius Glabrio, who was now reading a book of poetry, Ovid’s
The Art of Love,
and congratulated him on the state of his unit. The young patrician took it as no more than his due. If anything, he seemed somewhat put out to find himself in a position where he could be commended by the likes of Ballista.
The sixth hour, of course, was lunchtime. Yet that was when Ballista had ordered Turpio to present the accounts of Cohors XX. Hunger never improved Ballista’s temper. When the first centurion had arrived, with the unit’s
exactor
and
librarius
in tow but without its commanding officer, the northerner had made a conscious effort to rein in his anger. Not even asking about Gaius Scribonius Mucianus, he ordered all the paperwork they had with them to be handed over. Next, he announced that they would go next door to the headquarters of the cohors. Military clerks had scattered like chickens as the party, headed by Ballista, swept into the converted Temple of Azzanathcona. In the record office Ballista had demanded the two general registers previous to the current one, and the register of soldiers’ money on deposit ‘with the standards’ in the unit’s bank. Deciding to enlist hunger on his side, Ballista commanded that Turpio, the accountant and librarian should attend him at the palace at the tenth hour, dinner-time (and if by some miracle he appears before then, you can bring your
tribunus
with you - under arrest). He said heavily that this would allow time for he and his staff to study the documents closely, very closely indeed.
Back at the palace, Calgacus had produced a late lunch: cold roast partridge, black olives, the local round unleavened bread, figs, nuts and dried damsons. This was spread at one end of a long table in the dining room. At the other were the accounts of Cohors XX.
After they had eaten they had got down to work. Mamurra had gone through the current general register reading out the name of each soldier and the annotation that indicated his posting. A straight line meant that the soldier was with the unit and available for duty;
ad frum(entum)
that he had gone to secure supplies of wheat;
ad hord(eum)
that he was getting barley for the horses;
ad leones
that he was hunting lions; and so on. Finally, there were the unlucky ones against whose name was just the Greek letter
theta,
the army shorthand for dead. Other annotations indicated where detachments of the
cohors
were stationed - Appadana, Becchufrayn, Barbalissus, Birtha, Castellum Arabum, Chafer Avira and Magdala.
At last they had finished. But the pattern had emerged almost from the start: on paper the unit was at full strength - but there were far too few straight lines and far too many soldiers off hunting lions or stationed in places with strange names. There were just two
thetas.
The next stage was to cross-reference the information in the general register with the list of deposits ‘with the standards’ to find those who did and did not have savings in each type of posting.
It was approaching the ninth hour, and they were about two-thirds of the way through. Again a pattern had emerged: almost all those with just a line against their name had savings. Next to none of those on detached duty had a
denarius
to their name.
The thunder was closer now. Flashes of lightning lit the interior of the line of black clouds. There was a yellow tinge to the rest of the sky. Ballista’s headache was no better. He had ordered food, and issued instructions that, when they arrived, the accountant and librarian were to be put in a room off the first courtyard. Calgacus was to make sure that Turpio heard them being offered food and drink. Turpio himself was to wait in the main reception hall off the second courtyard. He was not to be offered even a chair and Maximus was to keep an eye on him - or hang about in such a way that Turpio thought he was keeping an eye on him.
Calgacus coughed. ‘They are here.’
‘Good, let him sweat a bit.’
Ballista walked up and down the terrace for a while. On the other side of the Euphrates a man on a donkey was heading for the river. Ballista wondered if he would get there before the rain came. He turned to Mamurra and Demetrius. ‘Bring him in. We might as well get on with it.’
‘First Centurion.’
‘Dominus.’
Turpio looked at the end of his tether. His shoulders were rounded and his head stuck forward. There were blue-black pouches under his eyes.
Ballista leant on his fingertips on the table. He looked down at the papers for some time, then suddenly looked up. ‘How long have you and Gaius Scribonius Mucianus been defrauding the military treasury?’
Turpio did not flinch. ‘I have no idea what you mean,
Dominus.’
‘It is the oldest trick in the book.’ Ballista tried to suppress the jet of anger that rose in him. ‘The first centurion and the unit commander conspire together.’ Turpio looked away. Ballista continued remorselessly. ‘When a man dies or is transferred he is kept on the books. When recruits are called for, invented names are entered. The imaginary recruits and the dead are sent on “detached duty”. Their pay is still drawn. It is kept by the commander and the first centurion.’ Ballista paused. ‘You would have me believe that this unit has eighty-five men hunting lions. Several of the places you would have me believe large detachments of this unit are stationed - Castellum Arabum, Chafer Avira, Magdala - do not exist in the official itineraries of this area.’ At the first name Turpio looked up, then looked down again. ‘It worked well for a time. Now it is over. Gaius Scribonius Mucianus and you were quite thorough, but not thorough enough. You failed to create savings for the imaginary soldiers.’ Ballista leant further towards Turpio.
‘It is over. Scribonius has run away. He is leaving you to shoulder the blame. If you remain silent, the best you can hope for is being broken to the ranks. If you tell me everything, things might go better for you. Was it Scribonius’s idea?’
Turpio set his shoulders. ‘He is my commanding officer. I will not inform against him.’
‘Your loyalty does you some credit. But he deserves no loyalty. Like a coward, he has run.’ Ballista paused again. His headache was making him nauseous. ‘You will tell me everything. One way or another.’ The last words needed no emphasis. ‘If you tell me everything you have a chance of redemption, a chance of regaining your self-respect and the respect of your men. I will leave you to think.’
Ballista turned and, followed by everyone except Turpio and Maximus, walked back through to the terrace. He went to lean on the rail. His head was splitting. The man on the donkey had disappeared.
The first fat drops of rain landed. By the time they had got back under the portico the air was full of water. Turpio hadn’t needed long to think.
‘Gaius Scribonius Mucianus told me what we were going to do last year after the fighting to expel the Persians from Arete,’ Turpio said as soon as Ballista entered. ‘The
cohors
had taken casualties. He said it was a good moment to start the scheme.’ The centurion stopped to think. ‘It is as you say. Most of the men registered as on detached duty do not exist. Magdala and Chafer Avira do not exist. Or not any more. Becchufrayn is miles down the Euphrates. It is in Sassanid hands. There has not been a Roman soldier there for years. Castellum Arabum is real. Perhaps it is too new to feature on the official itineraries.’ He stopped.
‘What percentage did you take?’
‘Ten,’ Turpio answered promptly. ‘I deposited it, all of it, with a man in the town. I have not spent any of it. I can pay it all back.’
Thunder crashed overhead. They were silent in the room.
At last Ballista spoke. ‘What did he have over you that you had to join him?’
Turpio did not speak.
‘Was it gambling debts? A woman? A boy?’
‘Does it matter?’ A flash of lightning lit the room. Turpio’s face looked whiter than ever.
‘Yes, if it could happen again.’
‘It cannot happen again,’ said Turpio.
‘I should have you beheaded in the middle of the
campus martius.’
Ballista let his words hang in the air for a long time. ‘Instead, I appoint you acting commander of the
cohors.
’ Turpio looked stunned. ‘Now you must prove that you are a good officer. It is too late to get new recruits but, by next spring, I want you to have that
cohors
ready to fight. I want you to train them until they drop. Oh, and you can pay the money back to Demetrius. It can go towards replacement equipment.’
Turpio began to thank Ballista, who cut him short. ‘This conversation need go no further than these walls. Just do not betray my trust.’
They could hear the rain beating on the flat roof. Ballista’s headache had almost gone.
VIII
It had rained all night, then all day. Demetrius was beginning to wonder if it would ever stop. The previously unnoticed gutters on the terrace of the palace threw strong jets of water away from the side of the cliff. By late afternoon, in the bed of the northern ravine, there was a torrent capable of moving small rocks. At the mouth of the ravine the waters of the Euphrates had turned a muddy dun colour.
The primeval flood must have started like this. Zeus, disgusted by the crimes of mankind, had sent a flood to put a stop to the killings, the human sacrifices and cannibalism. One man, Deucalion, warned by his immortal father the Titan Prometheus, had built an ark. Nine days later, guided by a dove, the ark had deposited Deucalion and his wife, Pyrrha, on Mount Parnassus - or, as others said, Mounts Aetna, Athos or Othrys. Others escaped to high ground, warned by the screaming of cranes or the howling of wolves. Sometimes Demetrius was unsure if Zeus had been right to relent.
As soon as Iarhai’s invitation to dinner had arrived, Demetrius knew that it spelt trouble. Ballista had accepted instantly despite knowing that his acceptance was impolitic: it would further alienate Ogelos and Anamu. Demetrius was sure it was Bathshiba that made Ballista ignore such considerations.
It was almost dark when the ten-strong party set out. The guests, Ballista and Mamurra, were accompanied by Demetrius, Bagoas, Maximus and five troopers of the
equites singulares.
The torches went out straight away in the torrential rain and within moments Demetrius knew that he was lost. He envied Ballista and Maximus their ability always to find their way.
A porter ushered the party inside in response to their knock and Demetrius and Bagoas were swept along as Ballista and Mamurra were led deeper into the house.
The dining room was a mixture of east and west. Underfoot was a typical Greek or Roman mosaic depicting the remains of a meal: fish and animal bones, nut shells, olive stones, discarded cherries. Persian rugs hung from the walls. Elaborate metal lamps cast a soft light. Braziers warmed and perfumed the room with cinnamon, balsam, myrrh.