‘Well, he seems an easy master. No special demands.’ Mamurra was nothing if not persistent.
‘Boiled eggs,’ said Calgacus.
‘Sorry?’
‘Soft-boiled eggs. Very fussy about them. Have to be just so.’
Ballista sat on some stone steps which ran down to the water from the dock. For the first time since Brundisium he felt happy. He had just written a letter to Julia and included a short note for her to read to their son. He had sent a crapulous-looking Calgacus off to the other imperial
trireme
to ask if the procurator would be kind enough to deliver it. Even if they had already left Rome for the villa in Sicily, which was not likely, it should soon reach them. The autumn sunshine was warm on his face, and it sparkled on the vivid blue sea.
He picked up his copy of
How to Defend a City under Siege
by Aeneas Tacticus and scrolled through the papyrus roll to find his place. ‘Announce a monetary reward for anyone denouncing a conspirator against the city ... the reward offered should be advertised openly in the
agora
or at an altar or shrine.’ Ballista had read the script before. Its main thrust was the need to be on constant guard against traitors within. When Aeneas wrote, the Mediterranean had been a mosaic of warring city states, each one well stocked with potential revolutionaries. One should never discount the possibility of treachery, but times had changed. Issues were simpler now; unless there were a civil war, it was the imperium
Romanian
against those outside. The main danger Ballista would face at Arete would be regular Persian siege works - artillery, rams, ramps and mines. This was the sort of practical siege engineering that the big northerner understood.
His bodyguard was approaching, shepherding the newly acquired Persian slave along the dock. Ballista thanked Maximus and gave him leave; under the bodyguard’s tan there was an unhealthy pallor, he was sweating much more than the sun merited and his eyes peered out from behind lids almost screwed shut. Maximus gave a slight nod and left. As if by magic, Demetrius appeared, his stylus and writing block ready.
Ballista studied the Persian boy. He was tall, nearly as tall as the northerner himself, with curly black hair and beard. His dark eyes were suspicious, and he had an unmistakable air of hostility. ‘Sit,’ he said in Greek. ‘Bagoas is a slave name?’ The Persian boy nodded.
‘Show respect! Yes,
Kyrios!’
snapped Demetrius.
‘Yes,
Kyrios,’
said the Persian in heavily accented Greek.
‘What was your name before you were enslaved?’
There was a pause.
‘Hormizd.’
Ballista suspected he was lying. ‘Do you want to be called Hormizd again?’
The question wrongfooted the youth. ‘Er ... no ...
Kyrios.’
‘Why not?’
‘It would bring shame on my family.’
‘How were you enslaved?’
Again there was a pause while the Persian considered his answer. ‘I was captured by ... some Arab ... bandits,
Kyrios.’
Another shifty answer, thought Ballista, his eyes following the flight of a seagull away towards the north.
The boy seemed to relax a little.
‘I will tell you why I purchased you.’ Instantly, the boy tensed. He feared the worst. He seemed ready to run or even to fight. ‘I want you to teach me Persian. I want to learn both the language and the customs of the Persians.’
‘Most upper-class Persians speak a little Greek,
Kyrios,’
said the boy, sounding relieved.
Ballista ignored him. ‘Carry out your duties well and you will be treated well. Try and run and I will kill you!’ He shifted in his seat. ‘How did the Persians under the Sassanid house overthrow the Parthians? Why do they so frequently unleash their horsemen on the
imperium Romanum ?
How have they so frequently defeated the Romans?’
‘The god Mazda willed it’ came the instant reply.
If the first stratagem to bring down the walls fails you must try another. Ballista continued. ‘Tell me the story of the Sassanid house. I want to know the ancestors of King Shapur and the stories of their deeds.’
‘There are many stories of the origins of the house.’
‘Tell me those that you believe.’ The boy was wary, but Ballista hoped that pride would lead him to start talking.
The boy collected his thoughts. ‘Long ago, when the lord Sasan travelled through the lands, he came to the palace of King Papak. Papak was a seer, and he could tell that the descendants of Sasan were destined by Mazda to lead the Persians to greatness. Papak had no daughter or female relative to offer Sasan, so he offered him his wife. He preferred the lasting glory of the Sassanid Persians to his own shame. The son born to Sasan was Ardashir, the King of Kings, who thirty years ago overthrew the Parthians. The son of Ardashir is Shapur, the King of Kings, the King of Aryans and Non-Aryans, who by the will of Mazda smites the Romans.’ The youth glared defiantly at Ballista.
‘And Shapur wants back all the lands which were once ruled by the Persians in ancient times before Alexander the Great took their empire? So he would take from the Romans Egypt, Syria, Asia Minor and Greece?’
‘No ... well, yes.’
‘Which? No or yes?’
‘Yes in the sense that they are ancestral lands that must be reclaimed, but no in the sense that they are not all that he will take from the Romans.’ The boy’s eyes shone with zeal.
‘Then what other lands would he have?’ Ballista suspected the worst.
‘The King of Kings Shapur in his perfect humility accepts that he is just the instrument of the god Mazda. He understands that it is the destiny of his house to bring the sacred fires of Mazda to the whole world, to make all peoples worship Mazda, to make all the world Aryan!’
So there it was. Ballista’s transient feeling of happiness had evaporated. The Persians had no need for temporal niceties such as just cause. There was no hope of compromise, or delay. Seemingly, there was no hope of an end: it was a religious war. For a moment Ballista saw the world as the Persian boy saw it: the armies of the righteous, their numbers those of the stars in the sky, sweeping west to cleanse the world. And all that was standing in their path was Ballista himself and the isolated city of Arete.
III
It had taken time for the drink to die out of Maximus. As soon as Ballista had given him leave he had bought bread, cheese, olives, water and a small piece of honeycomb from the main marketplace and gone in search of a quiet place to sit. He found a deserted garden and chose a spot where both possible points of entry were in view. After checking the shrubbery for snakes, of which he had a particular horror, he settled down with the one book he owned: Petronius’s novel
The Satyricon.
Maximus had tried other books since Ballista had taught him to read Latin in Africa some years ago, but none spoke to him like this one. It showed the Romans as they really were: lustful, drunken, greedy, duplicitous and violent - men much like himself.
The next day, Maximus felt full of life. Just after dawn the captain had announced that, as he could see the peak of Mount Tenos, the day was well omened for voyaging. Ballista had carried out the correct ritual, and the
Concordia
had slipped her moorings. Maximus was now standing on the
epotis,
or ear timber, just behind the ram of the ship, enjoying a perfect view ahead over the azure sea. What a nice irony: here was he, a slave, enjoying the sun and spray in the best seat on the ship, while behind and below him 180 freemen, technically soldiers of Rome, many of them volunteers, sat on hard benches in the airless semi-dark rowing this great ship. Let the poor bastards get splinters in their arses, he thought.
Slavery sat lightly on Maximus. Others took it hard - young Demetrius for one. The Greek boy had looked down in the mouth ever since it had been announced that they would stop at Delos. Maybe it had to do with how you came to be a slave. Some were born slaves. Some were abandoned on dunghills as babies and taken in by slave dealers. Some were so poor they sold themselves into slavery. Some were enslaved for crimes; others captured by pirates or bandits. Outside the
imperium,
many had been enslaved by the mighty armies of Rome - fewer now that Roman armies seemed to have acquired the habit of losing. And then there were those who had come into the condition like Maximus himself.
Back when he had been a freeman, he had been known by the name Muirtagh. His last memory of freedom was of laughing with some other warriors. They had tied a peasant to a tree, on the off chance that he had perhaps a hidden pot of gold, and were passing a skin of beer from hand to hand. His first memory of servitude was of lying in the back of a cart. His hands were tightly bound behind his back and, with each jolt of the unsprung wagon, the pain in his head grew worse. He had no memory of anything between the two. It was as if someone had taken his papyrus roll of
The Satyricon,
ripped out several sheets and then glued the torn ends together again, or maybe better had torn several pages from one of those new bound books. The story just jumped from one scene to another.
Another warrior whose life had been spared for slavery, Cormac, had been in the cart too. Apparently, they had raided a neighbouring tribe of some cattle and some of its warriors had caught up with them. There was a running battle and Muirtagh had been hit in the head by a slingshot and dropped like a stone. Now they were being taken down to the coast to be sold to Roman slave traders.
Cormac had not been sold. A minor wound to his leg had turned bad, and he had died. Muirtagh had. His first owner thought Maximus was a suitable name for a potential recruit to the arena, so he was called Muirtagh no longer. Maximus was shipped to Gaul and sold to a
lanista,
the trainer of a travelling group of gladiators. At first he had fought with the cruel
caestus,
the metal-spiked glove of a boxer. But there had been an incident: Maximus and a
retiarius,
a net and trident fighter, in the troupe had fallen out over money. To recoup the loss incurred by the crippling of the
retiarius,
Maximus had been sold to another troupe, where he had fought with the oblong shield and short sword of a
murmillo.
Maximus had been fighting in the great stone amphitheatre of Arelate when Ballista first saw him. The Angle had paid well over the odds for him, and for good reason. Back then, on his way to the far west, Ballista would need two things: someone to watch his back and someone to teach him Celtic.
Maximus was not obsessed with winning his freedom as other slaves were. The Romans were uncommon generous with manumission - but only because freeing lots of slaves was the carrot that worked with the stick of crucifixion to keep them from acts of desperation, from mass flight or revolt. At an individual level, it was a way for the Roman elite to show their largesse. Freeing large numbers of slaves fuelled the demand for new ones. Freedom, for Maximus, was all bound up with expectations and obligations. Maximus was not too fussed about a roof over his head, and certainly not bothered whether the roof was his own. He wanted his belly full, of booze as well as food; he wanted a string of willing girls, although, at times, reluctance had its attractions; and he enjoyed a fight. He was good at violence, and he knew it. If he had stayed at home and had managed to stay alive, he would have gained these things in the retinue of a local Hibernian king. Here, serving as Ballista’s bodyguard, he got all of them, with wine as well as beer, and a greater range of women. And then, there was no question of freedom until he had paid off his obligation to Ballista. It often played through his mind: his hobnails slipping on the marble floor (never wear those bastards again), his sword knocked out of reach as he fell (always have a wrist loop of leather on the pommel), the fierce brown face, the sword arm lifted for the killing blow, and the cut with which Ballista had severed that arm.
When he was young and had travelled nowhere, his endless talk had won him the name Muirtagh of the Long Road. Now the name fitted the truth, only Ballista ever called him that, and then only occasionally.
He was happy enough where he was. Sure, he would like to go back home one day, but only once, and then not for long - just long enough to kill the men who had enslaved him, rape their women and burn down their homes.
The cruise of the
Concordia
had run as smoothly as the water out of a clock in court. All was warm early October sunshine and gentle breezes for the two days it took to sail from Delos to Cnidus; first east to the island of Ikaros, then south-east down the Sporades chain between the puritans of the island of Kos and the decadents of the mainland of Asia Minor and, finally, to peninsular Cnidus. Here they had stopped for a day to take on water and to inspect the semen-stained thighs of the statue of Aphrodite of Cnidus.
On the morning they pulled out of Cnidus a sea mist had settled. The captain said that they were not that uncommon in these waters of the southern Aegean; not usually as bad as this, but there was some sort of fret at least half the year. With visibility down to under two miles he set a course along the south coast from Cnidus to Cape Onougnathos, then striking out south-east for the north coast of the island of Syme. An anchored merchantman indicated proximity to Syme. The
Concordia
slid by and shaped to make for Rhodes.
‘Two sails. Directly ahead. Pirates. Goths!’
There was pandemonium on the deck of the
Concordia
until the captain bellowed for silence. As the hubbub subsided, he ordered everyone to sit down. Ballista walked with the captain to the prow. There they were, emerging from the sea mist about two miles ahead. There was no mistaking the shape of the vessels, the distinctive double-ended outline, as both fore and aft seemed to sweep up into a prow. One central mast, one steering oar over the starboard quarter, lots of shields hung along the sides. The two Goth craft were each about two-thirds the length of the
Concordia
but, with only one level of rowers, they were considerably lower in the water.