A flower in one hand, a candle in the other, the men and women processed down to the river. Soon the banks of the Scirtos were lined with thousands of tiny lights, from the west where it flowed into the city near the Gate of Arches, to the eastern Water Gates by which it left. Incense was offered to the 'Leaping River'. The flowers were cast on to the glittering, azure waters. Then men and women alike walked the streets of the city; singing, shouting, eating, drinking. Everywhere, there was music and dance. Everywhere, kohl-lined eyes flashed above silk. In the soft spring night, assignations were made. The Maiuma really was a lot of fun.
This year, Ballista thought, there was an additional reason for the citizens of Edessa to celebrate. It was common knowledge that the imperial field army was leaving. It was a terrible irony that, after two hellish days of fighting on the march to get there, Valerian's men had not been hailed as saviours but received as a considerable nuisance.
The siege had not been lying heavily on Edessa. The walls were sound. The garrison was big enough, both regulars and local levies. There was plenty of fresh water, and an ample supply of siege engines. The governor, Aurelius Dasius, was a popular and capable man.
Now, the imperial field army was within the walls. Soldiers were camped in every portico and open space. Others were billeted in private houses. Soldiers being what they are, free-born women and boys were roughly accosted not just in the streets but even in their homes; some were raped. It was not the gentle, once-a-year wooing of the Maiuma. And there was the looming problem of provisions. The supplies that had been got in for the garrison and the citizens now had to stretch to accommodate nearly twenty thousand more men and five thousand cavalry horses. But most worrying was the change in the strategic circumstances. While there had been a Roman army in the field, the Sassanids had remained ready to face it; they had not pressed the siege. With no likelihood of intervention, the easterners would sooner or later bring all the arsenal of scientific siege craft – mines, ramps, stone-throwing artillery, rams and mobile towers – against the walls.
It was no wonder, thought Ballista, that the citizens of Edessa were glad to know the field army would march out on the next moonless night, in seven days' time. He threw some bread into the sacred pool. The big carp came to the surface, a seething mass of bodies. There were so many, it looked as if you could walk on them.
Unhappily, he thought back over recent events. Out on the battlefield, when the clibanarii had appeared, for a few moments Valerian had been like his old self. But any optimism Ballista had then felt had been crushed at the next council of war.
Somehow, Anamu had reappeared. The untrustworthy Arab had joined with the creatures of Macrianus – the cavalry commanders Pomponius Bassus and Maeonius Astyanax, and his son Quietus – to persuade the aged emperor that a night march was the best way to start the retreat north to Samosata. Their arguments had been specious. Anamu knew a shortcut. The easterners did not care for fighting in the dark. They would get clean away. It would be as easy as a stroll in the Campanian countryside.
It was as clear as day to Ballista that if the citizens of Edessa knew when the army was marching, so did the Persians. He was sure the Sassanids would overcome any inherited prejudices against night fighting. They would be waiting. Ballista smiled grimly as he remembered his own intervention: 'Only a fool would follow an Arab on a short cut to Hades.' Night marches brought chaos. Attacked in the dark, armies disintegrate. Ballista had noticed how counterproductive his blunt words had been. As soon as he had stopped speaking, Valerian had announced he would follow the sagacious advice of the amici of his beloved Macrianus.
'Fuck it,' Ballista said out loud. A line of one of Turpio's favourite poems came into his mind: 'Weep for those who dread to die.' He threw the last of the bread into the pool.
*
Turpio walked out with the others: Ballista, Maximus, pretty, young Demetrius and ugly, old Calgacus. They passed a skin of unwatered wine from hand to hand. They had gone to see a pantomime in the grounds of the Summer Palace. They had chosen a performance to appeal to Maximus: Aphrodite, goddess of love, caught in adultery. The dancer had been good. In his own body he had brought the story before their eyes: the passion of Aphrodite and Ares, their discovery by Helius, the forging of the bronze net by the lame cuckold Hephaestus, the entanglement of the lovers, the lascivious gaze of the other gods.
'Sure, that was very fine,' said Maximus. He threw the wineskin to Turpio. 'But I always say that a god-fearing man should heed what the deities show him. Now, brothers, will be the time for us to be putting on our own pantomime.'
'I know a place,' said Demetrius. 'It is a local speciality.'
They followed the young Greek across a small bridge over the Scirtos, the myriad lights reflected in the waters on either side, past the winter baths and up a side street. Turpio remembered a morning a long time ago when Demetrius had sent Maximus and him cross-quartering the city of Emesa on a wild-goose chase for upper-class girls supposedly waiting to fulfil their duty to the local god by letting strangers take their virginity. Gods below, Maximus had been angry when he realized he had been tricked. But, still, the Hibernian had found them some girls in the end, although very far from virgins.
They reached the end of another alley. Demetrius spoke to two burly men on the door, money changed hands, and they were admitted to a dimly lit courtyard. Surrounded by other men, they sat on cushions and were served wine. One lamp burned at the front of an open space backed by a blank wall. The scents of incense, wine and the audience's perfumes were strong in Turpio's nostrils. Suddenly, all the other lights were dimmed. There was a flash of steel in the near-darkness.
As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, they could see the figure of a youth lying on the ground behind the lamp. The sword was by his side. He appeared to be asleep.
A loud drumbeat made everyone jump. The youth woke and grabbed the sword. High, ululating singing, eerie to their western ears, came from somewhere. Tap, tap – drums began an anxious rhythm. Gracefully, the youth rose to his feet. He mimed searching for a hidden foe. He lit two candles from the lamp. With the sword balanced on his head, he looked high and low. Just three points of light, one fixed and two moving. As he turned, the sword flashed like the pharos that guides ships to port.
The drums thundered. The candles vanished from the hands of the youth. The sword arced through the air. Jagged chords were struck from stringed instruments as the youth leapt, twisting and turning as he fought off unseen assailants. Faster and faster the sword flickered. Smooth, brown, oiled flesh in the lamplight, muscles flexing; the sword moving too fast to see, just glimpses of light on the blade, the blur of a scarlet tassel on its hilt.
Then the sword was out of his hand, skittering across the stone floor. The youth was overpowered. He sank to the ground, face down. The music stopped. He lay still. Then, slowly at first, the music started again. The youth began to move. His hips rose and fell to the rhythm, faster and faster to the climax. A cymbal clashed. He lay still again. The lights came up. It was over.
There was an audible sigh from the audience, then they applauded. The youth sat up.
'Not bad,' said Maximus, 'but I will not be jumping the fence.' He finished his drink. 'Brothers, I think we should be continuing our search for earthly pleasures. I will be finding us a place.'
Demetrius was smiling at the youth, who was smiling back. 'I think I will stay here.'