Castricius’s small, lined face broke into a grin. ‘No, just what I hear.’
‘Even Maximus would be pushed in this weather,’ said Ballista. ‘Possibly Mastabates might give us a more informed view. Please start with the Albanians. It might help if Castricius loses some of his presuppositions before he tries to bend the king’s daughter over in a field. It might hamper our diplomacy.’
Mastabates bowed, unsmiling. ‘Albania is well watered. There is grass in the pastures all year round. The soil is fertile. But the Albanians lack foresight. They use wooden ploughshares, and only prune their vines every fifth year. Even so, they would be rich, if they did not bury all their wealth with their dead. Yet, oddly, once buried, the dead are never spoken of again.’
Typical of a Greek, thought Ballista, to start with the land; it is always the land that shapes the people.
‘The Albanians favour a Cyclopeian lifestyle; living apart, each making his house where he will. They are a handsome race, large bodied. Most are shepherds but, despite that, they are not particularly ferocious.’
‘How many men can they put in the field?’ Castricius was nothing if not a long-service soldier. ‘How do they fight?’
‘It is said they resisted Pompey the Great with over eighty thousand warriors; more than a quarter of them mounted. They use javelins and bows, but some have armour and fight at close quarters. Often they are aided by the nomads from beyond the Caspian Gates.’
‘And they are ruled by a king?’ Ballista asked.
‘Yes, the king is Cosis. Second in honour to him is his uncle, the high-priest Zober.’
Rutilus broke in. ‘Tell me about the Iberians I will meet.’
Mastabates paused, as if choosing his words from a well-stocked store. ‘They are different; to some extent, more civilized. They have tiled roofs and public buildings. There are four castes in Iberia: the royal family, the priests, the warriors and farmers, and the royal slaves. The next in line to the throne, the pitiax, commands the army and dispenses justice. King Hamazasp has no son, so his younger brother Oroezes is pitiax.’
Castricius laughed. ‘Hamazasp has no son because our Ballista killed him at Arete.’
Ballista remembered the twang, slide, thump of the artillery piece, the long, steel-tipped bolt hurtling away, punching the young man from his horse; arms, legs, the long, empty sleeves of his coat, all flapping like a six-limbed insect. And he remembered Hamazasp. Himself a prisoner; Hamazasp coming into the cell under the palace at Edessa. He pushed down the thought of what had happened, what Hamazasp had nearly done to him; pushed it far down. But if he met the bastard again…
Mastabates was answering a question from Rutilus. ‘… armed like Persians, the ones from the mountains more like Scythians. There are fewer of them than the Albanians, but still tens of thousands.’
‘Finally, what of my Suani?’ Ballista asked.
‘Very dirty people, no less filthy than the Phtheirophagi. They have to import grain from the lowlands. But they are not poor. They pan the mountain streams for gold. There are gems as well. They are ruled by King Polemo. He is advised by a council of three hundred they call the synedrion. There may be a problem at court. King Polemo’s daughter was married to the prince of Iberia you killed. As a widow, she has returned to her father’s domain – she is called Pythonissa.’ The eunuch gestured in a way that had regard for Ballista’s martial prowess in killing members of foreign dynasties while at the same time accepting the difficulties such behaviour brought.
‘The king and his nobles are said to command two hundred thousand warriors. The Suani control the heights of the Caucasus. They are the foremost people of the mountains for courage – and for treachery. There is nothing they do not know of poison. One of them, they dip their arrows in and even the smell makes men suffer.’
‘You are very well informed.’
Mastabates dipped his head. ‘I have read the Greek geographer Strabo with attention.’
‘I thought you were from those parts.’
‘Nearby. I am from Abasgia.’
Ballista laughed. ‘Let me guess, the imperial court has sent you with me to Suania, and one of the Suani with Felix to Abasgia.’
A shadow passed across Mastabates’ handsome face. ‘No, Kyrios, all four of us eunuchs are from Abasgia.’
No one else spoke. Mastabates continued. ‘Some time ago, the rulers of the Abasgi found a new source of income. They began to search among their subjects for the most beautiful young boys. They have them castrated, and sell them to you Romans.’
‘And how…’ Ballista’s question petered out.
‘We were young, very young. It was a long time ago.’
Ballista noticed Rutilus cross his legs.
Mastabates rallied, keeping his voice very neutral. ‘We know we are viewed as ill omened. If a man sees one of us first thing in the morning, he should return indoors, for that day will not go well for him. Composite, hybrid, monstrous, alien to human nature – many hold that eunuchs should be excluded from temples and public places.’
There was an embarrassed silence.
‘The very contempt in which we are held by the many is our source of strength. We look to each other. Rulers give us their confidence. They look to us for unalloyed loyalty. Unable to have wives and children, who should a eunuch lavish his affection on, if not the ruler, the one who protects him from common brutality?’
‘Yet is it not a life of regrets, without certain pleasures?’ Ballista spoke gently.
Mastabates smiled. ‘It is my pleasure to serve as Aphrodite served Ares.’
Rutilus moved slightly away.
‘But it would be wrong to think of us all as weaklings. A gelded horse is still fit for war; a castrated bull does not lose its might. Even if it is true that some of us may be a little less endowed with bodily strength, on the field of battle, steel makes the weak equal with the strong.’
XVII
At dawn on the fifth day, Boreas finally gave over. High above, ragged dark clouds still scudded south, vanishing inland over the mountains. Yet down in the port of Heraclea all was calm. Ballista watched a pale, washed-out sun glitter in the puddles on the dockside.
The crew of the Armata were sullenly preparing her for sea. Great sluices of water fell unexpectedly from the storm canvas as it was removed. Fat drops fell from the rigging on to the oarsmen as they settled themselves on their benches. If only, some muttered, she were a fully decked trireme. ‘Bugger that,’ others replied. ‘Easier to get trapped when she goes down.’ ‘Silence, fore and aft,’ roared her officers.
Felix made the libation to Apollo, protector of travellers. Bruteddius ran his eye over all. The bow officer, rowing master and helmsman were at their stations: prow, midships and stern. They indicated they were ready. Bruteddius gave the order. The cables slipped, the Armata was heaved off from the wharf. Oars outboard. Ready? Light pressure. Row! Slowly, the vessel gathered her way, turned, and pointed her bronze ram out to the Kindly Sea.
The storm had left the surface of the sea muddy, with a quantity of flotsam. There was a swell. It demanded a shorter than usual stroke from the rowers. They were slow to make the adjustment, poor at keeping time. A run of four days ashore had done them no good. Bruteddius had considered attempting the passage to Sinope in one sailing. He had talked to local skippers. It would be a long day, very long and very hard; from well before dawn to after dark, if not to the next dawn. Yet he was told it was not impossible. He had settled on Amastris instead, just sixty or so miles. There was but one good harbour in the long stretch between Amastris and Sinope, and his men were not in good condition. What could you expect? Volunteers they might be, soldiers notionally, but in origin they were nothing but a bunch of soft freedmen and easterners; Greeks and Egyptians. A few days’ drinking and whoring in a backwater town, and they were all out of sorts and as weak as women.