Acilius Glabrio introduced Ballista to the crew – the one trained artilleryman, the ballistarius in charge of the piece, and his unskilled helpers: four winch men and two loaders. They seemed delighted when Ballista requested a demonstration shot. He pointed out a rock some 400 yards away, towards the limit of the machine's range. It was all Ballista could do not to take over as they spanned and lay the weapon.
Twang, slide, thump went the artillery piece, and the missile shot away. The stone shone white in the eight or nine seconds it was airborne. A fountain of mud showed where it landed; some thirty yards short and at least twenty to the right.
'What rate of shooting can you maintain?'
The artilleryman did not attempt to answer Ballista's question but looked rather helplessly at Acilius Glabrio. The latter for once looked vaguely embarrassed.
'I cannot say. The previous Dux Ripae did not encourage – actually, he specifically forbade – practice shooting. He said that it was a waste of expensive ammunition, a danger to passers-by and would damage the tombs out on the plain. My men have never been allowed to shoot before.'
'How many trained ballistarii are there?'
'Two in each century, just twenty-four,' replied Acilius Glabrio, making a brave show of things.
Ballista grinned. 'All that is going to change.'
The party, now augmented by Acilius Glabrio, set off south on their tour of inspection. They halted to consider the walls, the two architects to the fore. Built directly on to the bedrock, the walls were about thirty-five feet high, with crenellations on top. They were broad, with wall walks of about five paces across. The towers reached up some ten feet above them and extended out both front and back. The crenellations of the towers extended to the sides, interdicting easy movement along the wall walk by any enemy who had managed to scale the walls.
The local architects were as one in assuring their audience that the walls were in good repair; probably there were no finer walls in the imperium, none behind which one could rest more secure.
Ballista thanked them. A century of Cohors XX marching out to drill on the campus martius caught his eye. Turpio was taking his orders seriously. Ballista returned his attention to the walls.
'The walls are good,' continued Ballista, 'but they are not enough on their own. We must dig a ditch in front of the western wall to prevent rams or siege towers having an easy run up.' He glanced at Demetrius, who was already making notes. 'The spoil from the ditch can form part of the glacis, the earth bank we need to cushion the walls from both rams and artillery.' He paused to consider how he would phrase the next bit. 'If there is a glacis, there has to be a counter-glacis on the reverse of the wall. Otherwise, the pressure of the earth bank on the outside will collapse the wall.' He looked at the architects, who both nodded.
One of the architects gazed over the wall, imagining the ditch and glacis. 'The ditch would have to be superhumanly deep to provide enough material for a glacis on one side, let alone both,' he ventured. 'And where else can the material come from?'
'Do not worry about that.' Ballista smiled enigmatically. 'I have a plan.'
By mid-afternoon of the second day Ballista had finished off his inspection with a lengthy tour of the artillery magazine, a large complex in the open ground south of the palace where new machines were built, old ones repaired, spare parts kept and missiles created – stones chipped to the right weight and near-perfect roundness, the evil iron points of the bolts forged and fitted to their wooden shafts.
It was only then that Demetrius found time finally to pursue his guilty secret passion: oneiromanteia, divining the future through dreams. He slipped out of the servants' door and into the streets. The grid plan of the town and broad daylight should have made things easy, but the young Greek still managed to get lost on the four-block walk to the agora.
It was surprisingly small for a town of this size and it was easy for Demetrius to find what he wanted: an oneiroskopos, a dream-scout. He was sitting in the far corner, by the entrance to the alley where the prostitutes stood. Despite the chill in the wind he was clad in just a ragged cloak and a loincloth. His milky eyes gazed unseeingly upwards. His neck was emaciated, the veins standing up; pulsing through the almost translucent skin. He could be nothing but.
At Demetrius's footfall the unnerving white eyes moved in his direction.
'You have a dream that may reveal the future,' the old man said in Greek, his voice a hoarse croak. The dream-diviner asked for three antoniniani to unveil its meaning, and settled for one. 'First I need to know you. What is your name, the name of your father, your home town?'
'Dio, son of Pasicrates of Prusa,' Demetrius lied. His fluency came from always using the same name.
The aged head tipped to one side, as if considering whether to make some comment. He decided against it. Instead he rattled out a series of further questions: slave or free? Occupation? Financial status? State of health? Age?
'I am a slave, a secretary. I have some savings. My health is good. I am nineteen.' Demetrius answered truthfully.
'When did you have the dream?'
'Six nights ago,' Demetrius answered, counting inclusively, as everyone did.
'At what hour of the night?'
'In the eleventh hour of darkness. The effects of the previous evening's wine had long since passed off. It was well after midnight when the door of ivory through which the gods send false dreams shuts and the door of horn through which pass true dreams opens.'
The blind man nodded. 'Now tell me your dream. You must tell me the truth. You must add nothing, nor must you omit anything. If you do, the prophecy will be false. The fault will not be mine, but your own.'
Demetrius nodded in turn. When he had finished recounting his dream the oneiroskopos held up a hand for silence. The hand trembled slightly and was marked with the liver spots of age. Time stretched on. The agora was emptying fast.
Suddenly, the old man began to speak. 'There are no male vultures; all are female. They are impregnated by the breath of the east wind. As vultures do not experience the frenzy of sexual desire, they are calm and steadfast. In a dream they signify the truth, the certainty of the prophecy. This is a dream from the gods.'
He paused before asking, 'Does your kyrios inhabit the agora?' On being told that he did not, the old man sighed. Just so. A pity. A busy agora would have been an auspicious sign but, as it is…' he shrugged, 'it is not good. It is a symbol of confusion and tumult because of the crowds that flock there. There are Greeks, Romans and barbarians in your dream. There will be confusion and tumult caused by all these, experienced by all these.
'At the heart of it is the statue.' He winced slightly as if in discomfort. 'Did the statue move?' Demetrius murmured that he did not think so. The aged man's hand shot out and, with a bony, hard grip, grabbed the youth's arm. 'Think! Think very carefully. It is of the greatest importance.'
'No – no, I am certain it did not.'
'That, at least, is something.' A drool of saliva hung from the dream-diviner's lips. 'The statue was of gold. If your kyrios were a poor man, it would have indicated future riches, but your kyrios is not a poor man, he is a wealthy and powerful man. The golden statue indicates that he will be surrounded by treachery and plotting, for everything about gold incites designing people.'
Without warning, the old man rose. Standing, he was surprisingly big. Peremptorily he croaked that the session was over. He was sorry the prophecy had not been better. He started to shuffle off towards the alley.