'Tomorrow, the day after, it makes no difference.' Quietus waved a hand at Ballista. 'The night he arrives, you will lead a raid into the heart of his camp. If you cannot bring him to me alive, you will bring me his head. It will be finished.'
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.'
And Odenathus will be ready too, thought Ballista. Now a collection of Emesene guards and palace girls know of the plan. Odenathus knew what he was about. He would have spies in the palace.
'By the next dawn, the Lion of the Sun will be dead,' Quietus added softly, 'or others will suffer.' Night and not enough darkness. The flames of the torches sawed in the wind. The orange glow illuminated the inside of the Palmyra Gate. Only at the very top of the tall arch night still held sway. Lower down, the sculptures of the eagle, altar and conical stone of Elagabalus were thrown into shifting heavy relief. Below them, the palimpsest of graffiti – thanks to the god for safe arrivals or pleas for help getting across the desert unharmed – was almost legible.
Night and far too much noise. The five hundred or so Praetorians gathering for the raid stamped their feet against the chill breeze, or just out of boredom. The unbound hobnails of their boots rang on the paving stones. There was a continual jingle and chink of equipment; several thousand metallic awards for valour, and good-luck charms hung on their harnesses. There was a low buzz of talk. One or two groups were passing around wine-skins.
Disciplina was not good in the army of Quietus. But there was a deeper reason for the men's behaviour. The Praetorians had been seconded from the eastern legions, and they had a reputation among officers for lack of disciplina. How could it be otherwise? Their camps were not in bleak frontier fastnesses like Caledonia or Germania but near comfortable towns. Sometimes they were even billeted in the towns themselves. And the towns were eastern. Most of the men had been recruited locally. At bottom, they were easterners, with all that implied about insolence and loose living.
No one had told the Praetorians to bind rags round their hobnails, to take off their charms. No one had ordered them to stop talking or drinking. There was no absolute certainty of being obeyed. Ask any legionary or auxiliary out on the frontier – the Praetorians were overpaid, arrogant and pampered; all plumes and sashes; parade-ground soldiers, useless in a fight.
Ignoring the commotion, Ballista leant against the wall. He pulled an old black cloak around himself and shut his eyes. The usual smell of Roman soldiers: unwashed men, with undernotes of garlic, cheap perfume and sour wine. Once – when the centurion and his men had come to the hall of his father – it had been alien and frightening. Now – twenty-three winters later – it was homely and reassuring. Like everything else we think innate, the evocations of smell are often shaped by circumstances outside our control.
Ballista found himself thinking about Turpio. His old friend had boasted of a particularly keen sense of smell. Ballista wondered what scents had come to Turpio five years earlier as he had waited under another gate to Palmyra, the one at Arete, to lead a mission with a different target but the same aim. Turpio had so nearly taken the Persian King of Kings unaware in his tent. But he had not. All he had taken was a golden bracelet. And years later, it had proved his death. For mortals, mortal things. And all things leave us. Or if they do not, then we leave them.
The lines ran through Ballista's mind. Turpio had been fond of modern poetry, but Ballista had no intention of letting this nocturnal raid be the death of him.
'Have a rest, you poor little thing.' Calgacus puffed up and put down the two lanterns he was carrying. 'After tonight, we may have all fucking eternity to rest.'
Somewhere in the town, dogs were barking. In Aeneas Tacticus's book on defending a town under siege, the general was advised that, to avoid noise and confusion, all dogs, strays and otherwise, should be rounded up and killed. Ballista had read the book at least twice. In this town, he had not acted on that piece of advice.
'Here comes Jucundus,' said Calgacus.
Ballista opened his eyes.
Jucundus marched up and saluted. The noise from the Praetorians had dropped appreciably with his arrival. Jucundus was solid dependability personified. He reported his men ready; a column five wide and a hundred deep to pass through the gate; once outside, they would redeploy ten wide.
Ballista thanked him. They waited for Castricius.
The sometime convict now Prefect of Cavalry came down the steps from the artillery platform two at a time. The stone-thrower and the two bolt-throwers were ready. Ballista thanked him.
The northerner drew Jucundus close to quietly explain the stratagem, for should Ballista fall, Jucundus must carry it out. The artillery pieces were drawn back but unloaded. At night you could seldom see the missiles fly. If the raid got into trouble, these two blue lanterns should be hoisted. Castricius would release the artillery – they sound the same whether they are loaded or not. With luck, Odenathus's men would think they were being shot at – there is little more frightening than incoming missiles you cannot see – and retreat out of range. It had worked before with the Persians at the siege of Arete. The gods willing, it would work again now.
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' The two officers went to withdraw. Ballista indicated Castricius to remain. The northerner talked so that only Castricius could hear. The latter listened intently, the flaring torches scouring deeper the many lines on his face, highlighting its points and sharp angles. The talk was obviously of serious matters, but in the flickering light Castricius never looked more like a playful creature from a backwoods myth.
It was time to see if the raid could go ahead at all. Castricius clattered back up the stone steps. Ballista asked one of the legionaries on the gate – they were from III Felix – to open the postern. Following Calgacus through, he noticed it was big enough for someone to lead a horse.
The postern shut behind them. The rectangle of orange light vanished. Ballista was left in profound darkness. He stood still, waiting for his night vision. Beside him, Calgacus hawked and spat.
The nearly full moon was somewhere over Ballista's right shoulder. He stood in the deep shadow of the town walls. Beyond was the moon-blanched landscape. He went out into it. Calgacus followed.
The road ran away, very light, smooth and straight. Near at hand, on either side, prominent and reassuring to Romans of rank with a clear conscience, stood the symbols of the divinely inspired power which upheld the stability of the imperium. The crosses were empty, but there was a dark stain at the base of the one to the left. Ballista did not like to wonder what fluids were its cause. Maybe the local dogs pissed there.
The shadow of the right-hand cross pointed diagonally off down the road. The eastern necropolis of Emesa was like a reduced version of those outside Palmyra; the same tower, temple and house tombs, but most of them on a somewhat smaller scale. The houses of the dead were close-set. The ground between them was rough and stony. It would make it difficult to outflank the raiding party on the road. At least that was something good.
Little else was good. The necropolis ran for about two hundred yards. About the same distance further out were the picket fires of the Palmyrene army. They burned rose-red, were well made up, evenly spaced. Beyond them, yet another couple of hundred yards, were the bigger fires of another picket line around the main camp. These too looked well tended. There were Roman regulars among the blockading army. Vexillationes of at least three legions had been seen: III Cyrenaica from Arabia, XV Apollinaris from Cappadocia and, mirroring the detachment in Quietus's force, III Felix from Circesium. Yet Ballista considered that the Palmyrenes needed no guides in the craft of war – they knew what they were about.