He studied his two companions. Calgacus was drinking slowly, steadily, determinedly. Like an Archimedes screw pumping out the hold of a ship, he lowered the level of his cup. Maximus was also getting through his share, but he took sips or gulps as and when the waving, chopping hand gestures which illustrated his never-ending chatter allowed. Mamurra awaited his moment.
'Strange that the Greek boy Demetrius turned down a drink. Do you think he is put out that Ballista bought that pretty Persian boy today? One bum boy fearing another bum boy in the house? Nothing is lower in a household than yesterday's favourite.' Mamurra watched Maximus's normally mobile features still, his face become closed.
'The tastes of the dominus do not run in that direction. In his tribe such people are killed; just like… in the Roman army.' Maximus turned to look Mamurra full in the face.
The praefectus fabrum held the bodyguard's gaze for a moment or two then looked away. 'I am sure that is the way it is.' Mamurra noted the barman exchanging a significant look with the man ugly enough to be his brother who was in charge of the door.
Mamurra decided to try another tack. His wine cup was decorated with a scene of a vigorous orgy. It was a crude copy of the ancient style of painted vases which now were so often collected by the rich as antiques, as conversation pieces. Like the whole decoration of the room, including the two ludicrously oversized fake Doric columns which flanked the door to the stairs, the drinking cups were intended to give the poor patrons of the bar an illusory sense of an elite lifestyle. Mamurra knew, because he had often been in the houses of the rich, sometimes even legitimately.
'I think I could do with a fuck,' he said. 'If either of you want a girl, be my guest.'
'That is awful kind of you, my dear Praefectus.We have been at sea a long time and, as I am sure an educated man like yourself knows, there is no sex to be had at sea. The sailors say that it brings the worst sort of luck. I wonder if that includes sex with yourself. If so, it's a wonder we made port at all, what with Calgacus here strumming like Priapus in the women's quarters.' Maximus looked around the room. 'There! Over there! A vision! A vision of beauty!'
'What, the fat girl?' Calgacus asked, following the direction of his gaze.
'Warmth in the winter, shade in the summer.' Maximus beamed and went off to strike a deal.
Now let's see if we can get anything out of this miserable old Caledonian bastard, thought Mamurra.
'How do you put up with it?' he asked.
'It's just his way.'
'I have noticed sometimes he even talks that way to the Dux. How does he get away with that?'
There was a lengthy pause as Calgacus further lowered the level of his drink. 'On account of saving his life,' he said finally.
'When did Maximus save his life?'
Another long pause. 'No, the dominus saved Maximus's life. Creates a bond.'
Beginning to despair, Mamurra refilled Calgacus's cup. 'Why is the Dux named after a siege engine?'
'Maybe he got the name Ballista because he has always had an interest in siege engines.'
This is sodding hopeless, thought Mamurra. 'He must be a good dominus to serve.'
The old slave drank and seemed to mull this over. 'Maybe.'
'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.