'Gaius Acilius Glabrio, Dominus,' Calgacus announced. A chamberlain at the court of their sacred majesties could not have sounded more graceful. With a bow, the Caledonian backed out of the room. Ballista stood up and formally welcomed the young nobleman.
'Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista, Dux Ripae.' The patrician officer replied with equal formality, and snapped a sharp salute.
Ballista returned it. 'Wine? Well, if you are quite sure?' Although he did not want it, he poured himself a drink rather than be left ineffectually holding the jug.
'The messenger said you wanted to see me, Dominus.'
'Yes,' said Ballista. He indicated a seat. Acilius Glabrio declined, saying he had to see to his men. This was not going to be easy. Ballista took his time. He sipped his drink and studied the young patrician. He was an elegant arrangement of scarlet and gold, muscled cuirass gleaming, his paludamentum, military cloak, draped just so over his shoulder. The posthouse only ran to clay and logs and no decoration. Acilius Glabrio was dressed as if he were made for an altogether grander stage.
'Before we left Antioch I gave instructions that no wheeled vehicles were to accompany the army.' Ballista paused, then continued with studied civility. 'I must have worded it badly. The order was intended to include everyone. We have only been marching for a few days, the easiest of stages, and already the wagons carrying your possessions have delayed things several times. Admittedly, the road has been surprisingly bad, part hill and part marsh, rocks thrown here and there in the marsh, no order at all, but it is unlikely to get much better.' Acilius Glabrio stood at attention, not responding in any way. Ballista smiled, but as he did so he knew that it would convey no warmth. 'I am sure that you would agree that those of us appointed to high command directly by the emperor must set an example.'
'When I can find suitable alternative means of transport I will send the wagons back.' Acilius Glabrio was tight-lipped. 'Now, if there is nothing else, I must see to the billets of my men.' Ballista nodded. Acilius Glabrio saluted and left.
Ballista watched the space where the young man had been. His elder brother, Marcus Acilius Glabrio, had been insufferable but he had proved himself a good officer and a brave man. So far, this stripling had shown evidence that he was like his sibling only in the first of those things. And who could be better described as 'a young eupatrid' than Gaius Acilius Glabrio, the end result of centuries of high birth?
To drive such thoughts out of his mind, Ballista poured himself another drink. He sat down and pulled out the letter. He looked for a time at the seal, the duplicate of his own, a cupid winding back the levers of his namesake, a torsion-powered piece of artillery, a ballista.
He opened the letter and scanned it once quickly, fighting down his anxieties, alert for bad news. He reached the end and, reassured, he settled to read it through slowly and thoroughly. Julia opened with the customary greetings, then she told the latest about the assassin with the scar on his hand. The one of the Epimeletai ton Phylon who had been on duty had shown some cunning. Rather than announce that the corpse of the would-be killer had been discovered murdered, he had given out that an unknown man had been found drowned in one of the storm drains. Sure enough, within two days, a distraught woman had come to view then claim the body. In this way, it became known that that the man had been one Antiochus, son of Alexander, a small-time criminal from the tanners' quarter. Despite rigorous questioning, it became apparent that the widow knew nothing of what she called her husband's trade. They were no nearer finding out who had hired the man. The man left three children, all girls.
The remainder of the letter set out clearly some domestic affairs, before closing with a simple sentence saying that she loved and missed him. It was partly her brisk underplaying of sentiment that had made Ballista fall in love with her. He smiled as he tried to imagine her writing flowery, feminine terms of endearment.
There was another sheet of paper in with the letter. Ballista picked it up. It was a drawing by Isangrim: two vertical lines; towards the top, two horizontal lines; and what looked like two wheels near the bottom – a ballista. In crude letters, it was signed. The big northerner put it to his lips and gently kissed it.
Carrying the picture and his drink, Ballista stepped outside. Bats hunted through the bare fruit trees in the middle of the small walled garden. Around the walls stood rows of cypresses. The evening breeze rustled through their leaves. It reminded him of the sacred grove of Daphne. His eyes became hot with unshed tears. They travelled for another eight days. From Batnae to Hierapolis, and from there to Caeciliana on the Euphrates, the road ran straight and true across the red-brown plain. Orchards and vineyards came down on either side. But it was winter. The leaves had long since fallen from the fruit trees, their trunks were black with rain, and the vines were thin and stark, savagely cut back.
There was mud, but nothing like before. On this stage of the journey, it barely splashed the knees of the infantry, seldom even touched the boots of the cavalry at all. The five carts of Acilius Glabrio's possessions became stuck fast only infrequently. Even someone as impractical and bookish as Demetrius could see that this was more down to the natural drainage of the high plain than the efforts of the road builders.
On the morning they reached Caeciliana, the weather lifted. They marched into the small town under a cloudless sky. Beyond the mud-brick walls, at the foot of the cliff ran the mighty Euphrates. Here it was divided into several channels, enclosing several greater and lesser islands. Under the cold winter sun, the river was an intense blue.
The small army made a reasonably brave show as it followed the white draco, the personal standard of Ballista, through the gates. A few handfuls of locals had turned out, and cheered with some enthusiasm. In accordance with orders issued long ago, a vexillatio of a thousand men of Legio IIII Scythica had marched downriver from their base at Zeugma and was drawn up, waiting, in the agora. Much more surprising was the identity of the centurion in command. At first, Demetrius did not recognize him under his helmet. The young Greek was surprised when Ballista threw himself off his horse and hugged the man. There was a dull metallic clash as their helmets met. Laughing, both men stepped back, took off their helmets and tried again.
'Castricius, you old bastard,' Ballista roared. 'I thought you were dead in Arete or a slave in Persia.'
The thin, lined face smiled wryly. 'It takes a lot to kill me.'
'I would bloody say.' Ballista tipped his head back, eyes almost disappearing in laughter. 'A bugger who can survive the imperial mines can survive anything.'
Demetrius winced. Tact was not always the strongest asset of his kyrios. It was far from sure that Centurion Castricius would want his legionaries or anyone else to know that, before he had joined the army, he had been found guilty of a crime serious enough to warrant being committed to the living hell of the mines. Demetrius himself had always had the greatest difficulty in reconciling himself to having been enslaved at all. It was somehow easier to pretend to have been born a slave. The young Greek knew he would not have wanted anyone to know if he had been in the mines. Not, of course, that the issue could ever have arisen. He would not have survived.
Castricius just laughed. 'As I tell this rabble, the good daemon that watches over me never sleeps – keeps them on their toes. Let me present the boys.'
'Yes, that would be good. And then, afterwards, you must tell me how you got out of Arete. You shall do so over a proper feast to celebrate. We will kill the fatted pig – or whatever it is the Christians say.'