one fucking carriage, not one piece of fucking string around one head. There is probably not one fucking virgin in the whole city, let alone here.’ The young Greek looked apprehensive. ‘You told me there were virgins here. Just like you said that there were virgins waiting in the temples at Paphos, and outside Antioch, if we had got there.’
‘No, no, not at all,’ Demetrius stammered. ‘I just read you the famous passage in Herodotus about sacred prostitution in ancient Babylonia and said that it was rumoured that the same had happened at Old Paphos, the grove of Daphne near Antioch, and here.’ The secretary’s face was an image of innocence. ‘And that some people said that it might still go on.’
Maximus glowered at Demetrius, then at Calgacus. ‘If I find out ...’ He tailed off, and looked back at the Greek boy. ‘Oh well, I suppose that’ll stop you moaning about not visiting that old shrine of Aphrodite on Cyprus - there’s a bloody great black stone here that’s just the same.’ He turned to Mamurra. ‘Still, no need to waste the whole day. A good huntsman knows where to spread his nets for stags. Come, my dear prefect, we are off to draw the coverts - I will sniff them out. Pity we will have to pay full price.’
He walked away, glad that he had got in that dig at Demetrius. His precious Greek shrines were just the same as those of a bunch of Syrians, or whatever the fuck they were here in Emesa.
Another dawn, another departure. Ballista stood by his pale horse: a four-year-old grey gelding with some dappling to his quarters but otherwise white. He was finer-boned than Ballista was used to but not too delicate. He had a good mixture of spirit and docility; what he lacked in speed he made up for in stamina; and he was supremely sure-footed. Ballista was pleased with him; he would call him Pale Horse.
Man and horse flinched as the gate was thrown open and orange lamplight flooded the palace courtyard. From behind there was a muffled curse and the sound of hooves scraping on flagstones.
Sampsigeramus minced into view, stopping at the top of the stairs. Ballista handed his reins to Maximus and walked up to him.
‘Farewell, Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome, Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks. My thanks for the honour that you have shown my home.’
You odious little fucker. I bet your arse is as wide as a cistern, thought Ballista. Out loud he said, ‘Farewell, Marcus Julius Sampsigeramus, Priest of Elagabalus, King of Emesa. The honour is all mine.’ Ballista leant forward and assumed an expression of wide-eyed sincerity. ‘I will not forget the message the god gave me, but will speak of it to no one.’
‘Elagabalus, Sol Invictus, the Unconquered Sun, is never wrong.’
With a melodramatic swing of his cloak, Ballista turned, bounded down the steps two at a time and threw himself on his horse’s back. He wheeled the horse, snapped a salute and rode out of the courtyard.
No troops. The king of Emesa would provide no troops to fight the Persians. An unambiguous refusal, followed by veiled hints about the possibility of troops being available for other purposes. As he and his party clattered off towards the eastern gate, Ballista considered why Emesa had become a hotbed of revolt. For centuries, if it existed at all, it had not troubled history. Now, in just over a generation, it had produced a series of imperial pretenders. First had come the perverted youth who was widely known by his god’s name, Elagabalus (he had been despatched, shoved in a sewer in Rome in the year in which Ballista was born). Then, a few years ago, there was lotapianus (decapitated), and only last year Uranius Antoninus, who had been dragged in chains to the imperial court.
It might be money. The ever-increasing demand of the Romans for luxury goods had vastly increased trade from the east. Emesa was on the best trade route: India to the Persian Gulf, up the Euphrates to Arete,
‘No, no, not at all,’ Demetrius stammered. ‘I just read you the famous passage in Herodotus about sacred prostitution in ancient Babylonia and said that it was rumoured that the same had happened at Old Paphos, the grove of Daphne near Antioch, and here.’ The secretary’s face was an image of innocence. ‘And that some people said that it might still go on.’
Maximus glowered at Demetrius, then at Calgacus. ‘If I find out ...’ He tailed off, and looked back at the Greek boy. ‘Oh well, I suppose that’ll stop you moaning about not visiting that old shrine of Aphrodite on Cyprus - there’s a bloody great black stone here that’s just the same.’ He turned to Mamurra. ‘Still, no need to waste the whole day. A good huntsman knows where to spread his nets for stags. Come, my dear prefect, we are off to draw the coverts - I will sniff them out. Pity we will have to pay full price.’
He walked away, glad that he had got in that dig at Demetrius. His precious Greek shrines were just the same as those of a bunch of Syrians, or whatever the fuck they were here in Emesa.
Another dawn, another departure. Ballista stood by his pale horse: a four-year-old grey gelding with some dappling to his quarters but otherwise white. He was finer-boned than Ballista was used to but not too delicate. He had a good mixture of spirit and docility; what he lacked in speed he made up for in stamina; and he was supremely sure-footed. Ballista was pleased with him; he would call him Pale Horse.
Man and horse flinched as the gate was thrown open and orange lamplight flooded the palace courtyard. From behind there was a muffled curse and the sound of hooves scraping on flagstones.
Sampsigeramus minced into view, stopping at the top of the stairs. Ballista handed his reins to Maximus and walked up to him.
‘Farewell, Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome, Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks. My thanks for the honour that you have shown my home.’
You odious little fucker. I bet your arse is as wide as a cistern, thought Ballista. Out loud he said, ‘Farewell, Marcus Julius Sampsigeramus, Priest of Elagabalus, King of Emesa. The honour is all mine.’ Ballista leant forward and assumed an expression of wide-eyed sincerity. ‘I will not forget the message the god gave me, but will speak of it to no one.’
‘Elagabalus, Sol Invictus, the Unconquered Sun, is never wrong.’
With a melodramatic swing of his cloak, Ballista turned, bounded down the steps two at a time and threw himself on his horse’s back. He wheeled the horse, snapped a salute and rode out of the courtyard.
No troops. The king of Emesa would provide no troops to fight the Persians. An unambiguous refusal, followed by veiled hints about the possibility of troops being available for other purposes. As he and his party clattered off towards the eastern gate, Ballista considered why Emesa had become a hotbed of revolt. For centuries, if it existed at all, it had not troubled history. Now, in just over a generation, it had produced a series of imperial pretenders. First had come the perverted youth who was widely known by his god’s name, Elagabalus (he had been despatched, shoved in a sewer in Rome in the year in which Ballista was born). Then, a few years ago, there was lotapianus (decapitated), and only last year Uranius Antoninus, who had been dragged in chains to the imperial court.
It might be money. The ever-increasing demand of the Romans for luxury goods had vastly increased trade from the east. Emesa was on the best trade route: India to the Persian Gulf, up the Euphrates to Arete,
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