It had taken the better part of the day before men made their way back and said that the last boat had been slid into the water upstream of the obstruction. The contents remained to be portaged. Zeno stood by the pack one of his slaves had made. How had his life come to this?
‘Time to go,’ Ballista announced.
Zeno slipped his arms into the straps and stood up. The pack was very heavy, but he would not be bowed down by it; not in front of his inferiors. He eased the weight on his back, trying to look unconcerned. Inwardly, he was furious with those slow getting to their feet — their laggardliness meant he must bear this burden a fraction longer than otherwise.
‘Forward!’ Zeno called. He walked around those still struggling to master their loads. The sacred autocrator Gallienus had appointed him the leader of this march upcountry. Piece by piece, Ballista had usurped his position. Zeno had to reassert his authority as head of this anabasis.
Zeno set off. Obviously, he had not accompanied the two trips hauling the boats, but it was impossible to go wrong. The portage way was marked by scoured earth, trampled vegetation and broken runners.
The slope was not steep but he was encumbered. The wrapped diplomatic gifts and his books bumped awkwardly against his back. Soon the straps were tearing into his shoulders. Zeno suspected the slave had deliberately distributed the weight badly. Tonight, if he had the energy, he would wield his stick until the whipling confessed.
The incline was never-ending. Sweating and panting, Zeno laboured on, leaning his weight on his walking stick. His world had narrowed to the beaten earth just in front of his shambling feet. He was dimly aware of others passing him. He did not care. It was not a race. If he survived this journey, on his return to Rome he would sacrifice an ox to Achilles, and to all the gods. He would feast his friends, and some of his neighbours, clients and freedmen. Garlanded, the blanched skull would be hung in the atrium opposite the doorway, a visible sign for gods and men of his courage and piety. He missed his home. Not his wife. It had been a good match — she had come with a sizable dowry, and her brother had been adlected among the ranks of the quaestors by the late emperor Valerian in person — but she was a shrew. It was best when she stayed in the women’s quarters or went to visit her prattling friends. He missed his son. The boy had come of age two years before. Zeno had taken him to Delphi to dedicate his lock of hair. Zeno had bought him a pet jackdaw there. The little bird looked so brave hopping about, the miniature shield attached to his leg, the tiny helmet strapped to his head. What Zeno would not give to be at home, to be at ease in his comfortable dining room, the one with the tapestry embroidered with Alexander defeating the Persians. It would be so good to be there, discussing Homer with a few men of culture, possibly playing dice. He felt a great longing for the smooth feel of his dice, the ones made from gazelle horn.
Zeno had to stop. He was finding it hard to breathe. The portage was three miles long. He had to keep moving, like an ass turning a mill wheel. How had it come to this? He was a eupatrid. None in Arcadia would dispute his birth. He had done nothing wrong. He was not one of those Hellenes who sneered at Rome, let alone one of those madmen who tried to stir up the ignorant hoi polloi with wild talk of past freedoms and apocalyptic revolution. Some Romans were boorish. Their often-parroted Virgil was a tedious parody of the divine Homer. But the best of the Romans had other virtues. Not culture but the governance of empire was their province. They knew how to humble the proud and spare the vanquished.
More men were passing Zeno. Gripping his staff, he stumbled forward. He did not deserve this cruel exile from all he loved. He had never impugned the maiestas of Rome. He was proud to be an equestrian, a Vir Perfectissimus. He had served Rome all his life, served her to the best of his ability. He had never let a word be said against the emperor, not even in the homes of his senatorial friends. If he had spoken out too strongly in the imperial consilium, it was for the best of motives. He was proud to be friends with men like the great consulars Nummius Faustinianus and Nummius Ceionius Albinus, or the young Patrician Gaius Acilius Glabrio. They were right: the high military commands should not go to ignorant peasants and barbarians risen from the ranks. Rome had grown great when her armies were led by men of virtus from the Senatorial ordo. Certainly, they should never be under the orders of a hulking barbarian like Ballista. Even his name was uncouth.
‘Form on me!’ Ballista was bellowing like a bull.
Dazed with his exertions, Zeno leant on his stick, bemused by the sudden commotion. Everywhere, men threw off their loads. They snatched up their weapons and ran unsteadily, stumbling over each other, as if maddened by poisonous honey.
‘Get in line!’ The pinch-faced midget Castricius was shouting. How could that urchin from the Subura have ever become an equestrian? Now Castricius and the other officers were physically pushing men into place.
Zeno lowered his pack to the ground. He eased the cloth of his tunic away from his raw shoulders and looked about. When he saw the cause of the frenzy, he cursed himself for a fool. He had tempted fate when he imagined things could not get worse.
In the slanting evening light, a solid phalanx of barbarians was drawn up about a discus throw ahead. A huge banner depicting an animal devouring itself floated over the centre of their line. They were fully armed, bright painted shields, metal helmets, sharp spearheads. Big men, blond-bearded — there were hundreds of them. They stood on the flat ground at the crest of the portage, between the expedition and its boats.
As quickly as his stiff limbs and his dignitas allowed, Zeno walked up to where Ballista was standing. ‘You assured me the Tervingi would not venture as far as the rapids.’ He did not try to hide his anger.
‘They are Grethungi.’
‘But they are meant to be friendly to Rome.’
‘Yes, they are meant to be.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘That really depends on them.’
Infuriated by the laconic insolence of the barbarian, Zeno choked on the recriminations he wanted to voice.
‘Fucking here come fuckers,’ said Ballista’s Suanian cut-throat in a barbaric almost-Greek.
Unarmed though he was, Zeno was not going to let himself down, not here, surrounded by barbarians. He stood very still and grasped his stout Spartan cane. The twisted wood was slick in his hands. ‘Let us be men,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Let us be men.’
Three warriors walked across towards the expedition. They wore shiny mailcoats and seemed to be wearing the property qualification of an equestrian in gold. Like all barbarians, they were arrogant when fortune favoured them.
Ballista stepped out to meet them. Zeno forced himself to follow.
The foremost Goth said something in their incomprehensible language. He sounded angry.
Ballista said something in reply.
‘What did he say?’ Zeno spoke in Greek. He was determined to take charge here.
‘He said he was Tuluin, son of King Tulga of the Grethungi, and who the fuck was wandering across his father’s lands?’
‘Tell him I am Aulus Voconius Zeno, envoy to the far north of the noble autocrator Gallienus.’
‘He knows that.’
The big Goth said something else.
‘He says there is a toll for using the portage.’
Zeno felt his anger rising. ‘The greed of these barbarians is outrageous. Money was sent to them from Byzantium. Our passage has been paid.’