Fire in the East by Harry Sidebottom

rubbish. Of more concern to Ballista, there were only three warships in the water. The rams of another six pointed out of their ship sheds. This was the home port of the Syrian fleet, and there were just nine warships. Looking at the state of the ship sheds, Ballista doubted that any of the galleys within would be ready for action.
    The Concordia, ignoring an impudent boy in a skiff who nearly disappeared under her ram, cut a tight circle through the harbour, came to a halt and neatly backed water to the main military dock. From the top of one of the boarding ladders, Ballista could see a well-turned-out welcoming party: sixty soldiers and a couple of officers with a standard-bearer in front. Certainly they had had plenty of time to prepare, both in the long term, as the Concordia was several days overdue, and in the short, as she negotiated the canal.
    ‘The officer ordered to meet you is Gaius Scribonius Mucianus. He is the tribune commanding the auxiliary cohors.’ Demetrius whispered the reminder in Ballista’s ear. Some large Roman households would keep a special slave for such moments but in Ballista’s small familia his secretary had to double as his a memoria.
    The new DuxRipae began to disembark. He was very aware of all the eyes on him - those of his own staff, the crew of the trireme and the ranks of the auxiliary soldiers. It is strangely hard to walk normally when you are conscious of being watched. As Ballista stepped off the ladder, he stumbled. The dock seemed to shift under his boot, then rush up at him. On his knees, he had to think quickly. This was embarrassing. Worse, some could take it as a bad omen. Of course it was just his land legs deserting him after three days at sea, it happened all the time. It had happened to Alexander, to Julius Caesar. They had turned it to their advantage with a few clever words. As he climbed to his feet, trying to dust down his knees in an unconcerned way, he wished he could remember what they had said.
    ‘I have hit Asia hard.’ He spread his arms wide. With a grin he turned to the trireme.
    The crew and his staff laughed. He turned to the auxiliaries. A laugh began to spread through the ranks. It was checked by a harsh look from the officer.
    ‘Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome, Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks.’
    It seemed unnaturally quiet after the boom of the herald’s voice. Possibly there was a moment’s hesitation before the officer of the auxiliaries stepped forward.
    ‘Titus Flavius Turpio, Pilus Prior, First Centurion, of Cohors XX Palmyrenorum Milliaria Equitata. We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The man snapped a smart salute.
    The silence stretched out. Ballista’s hot face turned pale as his anger mounted.
    ‘Where is your commanding officer? Why has the tribune of the cohors not come as he was ordered?’ In his fury the tribune’s name had slipped Ballista’s mind.
    ‘I do not know, Dominus.’ The centurion looked unhappy - but shifty too.
    Ballista knew this for a terrible start to his mission in Asia. To hell with the stumble, it was this snub that made it so. This bastard tribune had disobeyed a specific order. Why this deliberate and very public rudeness? Was it because Ballista was only an equestrian, not a senator? Was it - much more likely - his barbarian origins? Flagrant disobedience like this could only undermine the authority of the new Dux among the troops. But Ballista knew that the more he made of it the worse it would become. He forced himself to speak in a civil tone to the centurion.
    ‘Let us inspect your men.’
    ‘May I present the decurion, commander, of this turma, cavalry unit, of the cohors?’ The centurion gestured to a younger man, who stepped forward.
    ‘Titus Cocceius Malchiana. We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
    As the three men walked across the wide dock, the centurion Turpio kept up an anxious stream of