Finally, they were only half a mile or so from the city walls. They had reached the outskirts of the eastern necropolis. Calgacus gave the order to remount. They trotted past many types of tomb, bearing many gloomy images in stone. Among the heavily sculpted swags of flowers framing baskets of offerings to the dead and the eagles which the pious hoped would carry their souls to a better place, there were portraits. The men depicted stood, respectable in Hellenic cloak and tunic; the women sat demurely. Children clutched their toys. The paint was flaking from quite a few. Some of the tombs had been broken open and not resealed. Their doors gaped open, the interiors loomed black in the sunshine.
None of it depressed the spirits of the riders. They were almost at safety. The walls of the town were no further away than a goatherd could throw a stick. Calgacus flexed his wounded right arm. He had taken a sword cut in the final fight before they had escaped from the valley of tears. The wound hurt like a bastard. Still, here they were: safety in their grasp and the welcome hope of a fat reward from a grateful town councillor for returning his lost son. Calgacus glanced at the boy, who was fast asleep in the saddle in front of Demetrius. The Caledonian momentarily wondered how the family reunion had gone when the mother had returned without the child. Well, that was their concern. It would be an unfeeling sort of father who did not reward, and reward to the limit of his means or even beyond, a man who brought his son back from a fate that unmans one for ever, or maybe death itself.
Get hold of a decent reward, have a bath, a long sleep, clean clothes, then off for a drink and a girl. Maximus could always be relied on to sniff out the latter two. But their old companion Castricius, centurion of Legio IIII Scythica, was stationed at Zeugma. He had the inside knowledge. On the march out, he had taken them to a couple of places. The upmarket one on the Apamea side of the river had been horribly expensive. The other, the bar near the military base, had been fine.
Calgacus thought of Castricius in quite a fond way. The centurion had a thin little face, all lines and points, like that of a mythical creature dreamed up to entertain children with its mischievous tricks. But before he had joined the legions Castricius had been condemned to the mines – surely there was a law that stopped ex-slaves enlisting in the legions? – and he had survived. And not only that, he had lived through the fall of Arete. It would be a bad error to mistake Castricius for something harmless that entertained children.
'Virtus.' The challenge rang out from the walls. The gates were shut.
Calgacus moved his mount forward. He called up that they did not know the day's password – they were come straight from the field army north of Edessa.
'Identify yourselves,' shouted the guard.
'Marcus Clodius Calgacus.'
'Marcus Clodius Maximus.'
'Marcus Clodius Demetrius.'
Calgacus identified the boy – Antiochus, son of Barlaha, member of the Boule of Zeugma – and the four Dalmatian troopers gave their names, rank and unit.
'Wait there,' came the response.
As he waited, Calgacus thought of Marcus Clodius Ballista. When the Angle had given them their freedom, he had also, in legal terms, given them Roman citizenship. They, as custom prescribed, had taken both his praenomen and nomen as their own. For the rest of their lives, two-thirds of their names would bind the four men together.
Calgacus climbed down from the saddle. He pulled Pale Horse's ears, scratched its nose. Ballista loved the animal and, in an awful moment of clarity, Calgacus felt how much he loved Ballista. The Caledonian had been little more than a child himself when he had been taken as a slave north of the wall. A quick succession of owners – thank the gods his looks had forestalled any of them taking too close an interest in him – and he had found himself in Germania, in the hall of Isangrim, warleader of the Angles. Ballista had been just four when Isangrim had instructed Calgacus to serve as his son's manservant. Ballista had been a rather shy, sensitive child. Calgacus had watched Ballista as a youth trying to be brave on the training ground, in the hunting field and, eventually at the age of fifteen, in the battle line. Calgacus had been there on the dreadful day when the Roman centurion had ridden up and announced that the emperor Maximinus Thrax had demanded one of Isangrim's sons as a hostage. Of course there had been no question that Ballista's elder brother could go.
Calgacus had watched Ballista face down his misery. He had ridden at Ballista's side into the alien world of the Romans. On any reckoning, Ballista had done well in the service of the imperium. Yet Calgacus had always felt sorry for the young Angle, as surely torn from his people as the Caledonian himself. Whatever was thrown at him, Ballista tried to be brave. And now he was a captive of the Sassanids.
Calgacus buried his face in Pale Horse's flank. If all the miseries of the world had been set before him, it would not have touched him. He was already too full. Soundlessly, he mouthed some prayers to the half-forgotten gods of his childhood, to the gods he had never really believed in.
'Let them in.' The voice of the centurion broke into Calgacus's unhappiness. He straightened up.
The gates swung back. They led their horses in. Moorish auxiliaries, weapons drawn, swarthy faces mistrustful, ringed them. The gates slammed shut.
The centurion stepped down from the wall walk and appraised them closely.
'You are deserters.'
'No,' said Calgacus. 'Our patronus, the commander of these Dalmatians, ordered us to leave.' The Caledonian decided to take the initiative. 'If you could direct us to the house of the member of the Boule called Barlaha, we will return his son to him.'
'Oh no.' The centurion grinned. 'I can take care of that.'
Beside him, Calgacus felt Maximus stiffen. Calgacus put out a hand to restrain him.
The centurion gestured for the child to come to him. Unaware of the tension, the boy walked over to the officer. Reaching him, he turned and, in formal Attic Greek, thanked his rescuers. The centurion motioned a soldier to lead him away.
Calgacus was not ready to give up yet. 'We must see the governor Valens straightaway. Our patronus, Marcus Clodius Ballista, is an amicus of his, and we have much information about the Sassanids.'
'Oh, you will see the governor, but not the traitor Valens.' The centurion smiled unpleasantly. 'Valens fled to the west when ordered to report to Samosata. Given the emergency, Macrianus the Elder, as Comes Sacrarum Largitionum and the commander of what remains of Valerian's field army, has been forced temporarily to assume maius imperium over the whole East. Macrianus has appointed his amicus, the noble ex-consul Gaius Calpurnius Piso Frugi, to be governor of Syria Coele.'
Calgacus said nothing.
'I have no doubt that the new governor, Piso Frugi, will want to see you. Especially as I understand that your patronus, Marcus Clodius Ballista, led the emperor Valerian into a Persian trap and the barbarian has now justly been declared an enemy of the Roman people.'
The centurion smirked. 'Oh yes, the noble Piso Frugi will want to question you – although probably not until you have spent a few days in the cells under the palace.'
Calgacus remained silent.
'Now give up your weapons.' The centurion was thoroughly enjoying the moment.
Calgacus looked at Maximus and shook his head. Slowly, the Caledonian unsheathed first his sword then his dagger and threw them down in the dust at his feet. The others followed his lead.
At a signal from the centurion, soldiers came forward and efficiently searched the unarmed men. Calgacus winced as his wounded arm was wrenched. Their mounts, Pale Horse among them, were led away.