Lion of the Sun wor-3

by Harry Sidebottom

  The events of the day before struck Macrianus as ambiguous at best. A couple of hours' march west out of Serdica, and the enemy cavalry had appeared. It was light cavalry, and there were a lot of them; mainly Dalmatians, but also quite a few Moors, with their distinctive long, braided hair. They had surrounded the marching column, driven in the cavalry outriders. They had not killed all they could. They had ridden close, up and down the line, calling on their opponents to return to the oaths they had once sworn to the rightful emperor Gallienus. None of the marching men had gone over. Instead they had bellowed out a flow of obscenities, mainly directed at Gallienus's relationships with the barbarian girl Pippa and the philosopher Plotinus. They shouted that he defiled his mouth playing the Phoenician to the former, and all his body acting as a wife to the latter.

  The military men, the Prefect of Cavalry Ragonius Clarus well to the fore, had put a positive interpretation on it all. A cavalry skirmish signified nothing. Macrianus's riders had been caught unaware, but not one soldier had left the ranks. Morale remained as high as ever.

  Macrianus acknowledged he was not a military man. He always learnt what he could about any units under his command, but he was not at home in the field. Yet, even so, he was concerned at the ease with which the cavalry had given way. He half regretted leaving Ballista with Quietus — may the gods hold their hands over the boy; unlike so many, the barbarian spoke his mind. Ragonius Clarus and Censorinus had combined to allay Macrianus's apprehensions. After dark yesterday, the Princeps Peregrinorum had announced that he would go through the camp and gauge the mood of the men before going beyond the palisade and sounding out the loyalty of the enemy pickets. If anyone was considering desertion, it was likely to be the enemy. He had promised to take care, as much care as Dolon had taken in the Iliad. Macrianus had wondered at the inappositeness of the reference. Censorinus had not been seen since.

  As the butchers dragged away the carcases of the sacrifices, Macrianus took up his walking stick and slowly made his way to where the imperial standards hung limp in the early morning air. His son Macrianus the Younger sat straight and true on a magnificent black charger. The boy had come on well since his elevation to the throne. He wore the purple and the radiate crown as if born to them. There was a nobility to his aquiline nose and high brow, a hint of hard service to the Res Publica in the slight bags under the eyes. If he chose occasionally to relax from the cares of empire by making small wooden toys, there had been many emperors with far more damaging pastimes.

  A quiet gelding was led out. Macrianus's lame leg made riding a trial. Stoically, he let himself be helped into the saddle. Once there, he reached out and briefly gripped his son's hand. Ragonius Clarus rode up, saluted and asked permission to signal the advance.

  Macrianus surveyed the scene. A broad upland valley, the road from Serdica to Naissus running through it, almost due west, a small, unnamed stream alongside the road on its left. There was a low mist over the water and, about a mile away, the enemy. A large force, but no bigger than the army with Macrianus — about thirty thousand men. It was drawn up conventionally: heavy infantry several ranks deep in the centre, bowmen behind, some light infantry with slings and javelins in front, cavalry out on the wings. The standards made a brave show all along its front. The imperial standard was not there. Gallienus had not come himself. He was further west, preoccupied with getting revenge on Postumus for the death of his son. The army was commanded by Aureolus. The red Pegasus on white banner of Gallienus's Prefect of Cavalry flew on their right wing. It was said Aureolus was supported by several leading protectores: his near-namesake and fellow Danubian Aurelian, Manu ad Ferrum; Theodotus the Egyptian; Memor the African; the siege engineer Bonitus, and the Italian Domitianus, who implausibly claimed descent from the Flavian dynasty.

  The army of the Macriani was virtually a reflection of its enemy. Stationed with the thousand troopers of the Equites Singulares just behind the centre of the infantry line, Macrianus the Elder had a good view from the vantage point of his horse. Everything seemed in order. His son was looking at him. He nodded. Macrianus the Younger told Ragonius Clarus to carry on. The latter gave the command to advance.

  Centurions passed the order on, bucinatores sounded their instruments, standard bearers got ready to lift.

  Ragonius Clarus was shouting something over the din: 'When the mist burns off, the sun will still be low, straight in the eyes of Aureolus's men.' Macrianus was finding it hard to listen: something was wrong with the unit directly in front. It was a vexillatio from Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis. The detachment, originally five hundred men, now considerably less, had been sent east from its base at Durostorum in Moesia Inferior for Valerian's Persian campaign. The standard bearer in charge of the vexillum had pulled the standard from the ground with no problem, but as he began to walk forward, the shaft tangled his legs and he lost his balance. The vexillum tottered and fell to the ground. The men of Legio XI halted.

  Ragonius Clarus had seen what had happened. He stopped talking.

  A terrible omen, thought Macrianus.

  Ragonius Clarus spurred his horse forward. He was bellowing: 'Vexillarius, pick the fucking thing up!' It was too late. Along the line, those unable to see what had caused the standard to go down drew the same conclusion: surrender. One after another, standards were lowered. Units halted. Legionaries, auxiliaries, barbarian allies put down their weapons. They stretched out their arms to the other side.

  'Quick, this way.' Ragonius Clarus was tugging at the bridle of Macrianus's horse. 'The Pannonians are not surrendering. Quick, to the left.'

  Macrianus looked around wildly to see that his son was safe. He was with them. They thundered across the ground.

  'All is not lost,' Ragonius Clarus called over his shoulder. 'We can fall back on the camp.' 'All is not lost,' said Ragonius Clarus.

  Outside, the setting sun was a huge orange ball. Long shadows stretched across the camp, played on the wall of the imperial tent. There was less than an hour to darkness.

  Macrianus the Elder indicated that the Prefect of Cavalry should continue to address the much reduced consilium.

  'We have nearly twelve thousand men: six thousand Pannonian legionaries, five thousand of Sampsigeramus's bowmen from Emesa, about half mounted, and a thousand Equites Singulares. A sizable and useful force.'

  All true, thought Macrianus, but our opponents now have nearly fifty thousand men under arms. He did not let these calculations affect the attentive and quietly confident set of his face. The officers were shaken. Macrianus the Younger looked scared. Macrianus smiled reassuringly at his son.

  'We have plenty of supplies. The camp is well fortified. We could withstand a siege,' continued Ragonius Clarus.

  Which would merely delay things for a time, thought Macrianus. There is no army that will come and raise the siege. We stripped the east bare to raise this force. We have no allies waiting in the wings. And it is not even as if Gallienus were leading the besieging army himself. In that case, almost anything might have happened — a stray arrow kills the emperor, or supplies fail, plague breaks out, the men get sick of hard labour and privations, from one motive or another Gallienus's own troops strike him down… Sieges are dangerous times for emperors. But none of that could happen. Gallienus was safe in the west.

  Outside, a man was shouting, near the imperial tent.

  'Alternatively,' said Ragonius Clarus, 'we can break out. A night march to Serdica, then east. Byzantium is one of the best-fortified cities in the world. It would hold up Aureolus while we regroup further east.'

  Other voices had joined the man shouting.

  Macrianus was no soldier, but he knew a night march was a desperate venture, one that might destroy an army all unaided.

  One of the Equites Singulares burst into the tent. 'Dominus!' Ignoring the young emperor, he spoke directly to the father. 'The Pannonians are mutinying. They are tearing the imperial portraits from the standards.'

  Age cast aside, barely using his s
tick, Macrianus burst from the tent. The trooper was right: there was an ugly crowd around the standards of Legio II Adiutrix. The images of the young emperors were in the dust. Macrianus walked boldly up and halted a few paces from the mutineers. The noise dropped to a low, menacing muttering. Macrianus was pleased when, unbidden, his son came to stand at his shoulder. The boy was no coward. The show of unity might help. If ever they had needed help, it was now. Macrianus would have offered a brief prayer, but there was no time.

  'Commilitiones.' Macrianus's voice carried well, betrayed no panic. 'Commilitiones, this is not how the men of Legio II Adiutrix behave. Would the men who crushed the Batavians, ventured beyond the ocean to conquer Britain, drove the Dacian king from his throne, and sacked the Parthian capital of Ctesiphon have behaved like this? The legionaries of Legio II Adiutrix do not mutiny like a bunch of eastern auxiliaries or Arab tribesmen.'

  Macrianus was not sure if he was winning them over. At least they had not offered any violence so far.

  'You have taken the sacramentum to my sons. We have paid you the donative we promised. My son campaigns with you. He will lead you home to your base at Aquincum in triumph. Things look difficult today, but with the gods holding their hands over us, all will be well. Commilitiones, it is time to prove yourselves true to the title of your legio: Pia fidelis.' He repeated, 'Loyal and faithful,' and stopped. He had no more words.

  A centurion stepped out of the crowd. He spoke deliberately, with an accent from the northern frontier. 'You are not our commilitiones. You are not soldiers at all. It is true, you have not treated us badly. But you betrayed our brothers in the legions when you betrayed the old emperor Valerian. Treachery turns on itself. The gods move slow, but in the end their power is shown.'

  The echo of Euripides in the soldier's Latin, the invocation of the gods, silenced Macrianus. No, he wanted to say, that is all wrong, you do not understand, the gods approved of what happened to Valerian, the gods want Gallienus overthrown. Until today, they have given manifest signs of their favour. But it was all too complicated. He knew then it was hopeless.

  Looking around, Macrianus saw that Ragonius Clarus had gone. Macrianus and his son were alone. It was hopeless.

  But still he had to try. 'Do what you like with me, but have pity on my son. He is very young. None of this is his fault.'

  'What can we do?' The centurion sounded genuinely apologetic. 'The camp is surrounded. It is not down to us. Censorinus brought word that Aureolus wants you dead. He has put a price on your heads.'

  The treachery of Censorinus hardly made any impression on Macrianus. A price on their heads. It meant exactly that. Decapitation, their heads paraded before Gallienus, their bodies denied burial. Somehow he had to stop the mutilation of his beautiful son. He could not think of the boy's soul wandering hopeless for eternity.

  The muttering was rising in volume. Macrianus had to act quickly.

  'You said yourself we had done you no harm. Let us take our own lives, die like the Romans of old. There is money hidden under the floor of the tent. Try to prevent them mutilating my son's body.'

  The centurion nodded. He rapped out some orders. Some of his men went inside, others formed a ring around the big purple tent. Close by, the noise of revolution swelled.

  'I am afraid you must hurry,' the centurion said.

  Macrianus turned to his son. There were tears on the boy's face. He was making no noise, trying to be brave. Macrianus folded him in his arms. He pressed his lips to his neck, breathing in the smell of clean, fresh sweat, the smell of his son. He kissed him on the eyes, the cheeks, the lips.

  The noise was growing. Macrianus somehow forced himself to let go of his son and step back. He drew his son's eagle-headed ornamental sword.

  'Use mine. It will be sharper.' The centurion handed it over.

  Macrianus took it. He looked at his son, and he knew he could not do this thing.

  'You want me to do it?'

  Macrianus gave the sword back to the centurion.

  'Who first?'

  Macrianus thought of watching his son die. He imagined his son watching him die, the boy left alone, terrified, waiting. 'My son.'

  Macrianus stepped forward. He and his son kissed for the last time. Macrianus stepped back. In the imperial palace at Antioch, no one was sure if the consilium had started. Ballista was watching Quietus — not so as to attract attention — and so was everyone else. Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus Augustus, Pius Felix, Pater Patriae, had ordered a large painting of Alexander the Great by Aetion hung in the audience hall. All his attention was on that.

  Quietus's lips moved almost soundlessly. Everyone said he had been behaving oddly since the news had come about his father and brother. The following day Ballista had reached Antioch from Syria Palestina. When Ballista reported to Quietus, the emperor had given the impression that he was trying to look clean through him to see someone else. On their few meetings since, Quietus's gaze had slid off Ballista like water off a waxed cloak. Indeed, anyone remotely connected to the court had been acting strangely since the news from the west.

  None had been acting more strangely than Julia. She had already shifted the familia out of the palace and back to the house in the Epiphania district before Ballista arrived. Her welcome had been reserved and, unexpectedly, physically reserved too. Afterwards she had made a comment about men marking their territory. She had said it on similar occasions before, as a joke, but this time it had a sharp edge. That side of things had improved a little since, but things generally were different, strained. Ballista wondered if someone had told her about the Persian girl Roxanne in Cilicia.

  Quietus stopped muttering. He cocked his head to one side, eyes still on the painting. Allfather, thought Ballista, does he think Alexander is talking to him? It was a good moment to look away. It was a reduced consilium. Quietus's father and brother and their once-devoted supporter Piso were dead. Censorinus and Ragonius Clarus had deserted. The former had been appointed one of Gallienus's Praetorian Prefects, the latter told to retire into private life. But others from the east were missing. Trebellianus had withdrawn into the mountains of Cilicia Tracheia. Similarly, safe behind the deserts of Arabia, another governor, Virius Lupus, had not replied to the summons. Mussius Aemilianus, prefect of Egypt, had had himself declared emperor. As he was commander of quite sizeable forces and in control of the majority of the grain supply of Rome, his was not a hopeless revolt, but he would need allies. Obviously, Quietus would not be among them.

  There were only two new faces on the dais. Quietus's nonentity of a cousin Cornelius Macer had been hurriedly appointed not only Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae but Princeps Peregrinorum as well. Presumably the loyalty that blood might bring had outweighed any considerations of ability. Much more competent, standing near Ballista, was the tall red-haired figure of Rutilus, the new Prefect of Cavalry.

  'Those who wear the likeness of Alexander in either gold or silver are aided in all they do,' Quietus said suddenly. 'My father often said that.' He pointed at the governor of Syria Phoenice. 'Cornicula, include that in your verse panegyric of them.'

  Annius Cornicula bowed.

  Now that Quietus seemed to be to some extent with them, unbidden, the senior Praetorian Prefect Maeonius Astyanax started talking. 'Dominus, there are reports, completely credible, that Odenathus is assembling his forces in Palmyra. Supplies have been stockpiled on the road west to Emesa. He is getting ready to march against us.'

  Quietus put his head in his hands. 'What can be done?' His tone suggested nothing.

  'Dominus,' Maeonius Astyanax continued, 'it can be prevented. I have met Odenathus. The two of us got on well. It is true he is avaricious. We have money. Let me go as an ambassador. With adequate funds, I can stop the Lion of the Sun, turn his bellicose attention back to the Sassanids. It would be a good time to attack them. Not only did the Persians suffer defeats last year, but Shapur faces revolts from subjects to the east near the Caspian Sea. If Odenathus atta
cks now, he may get as far as the Sassanid capital of Ctesiphon almost unopposed.'

  'Let it be so.' Quietus looked up, brighter. 'Should your mission fail, we will rout this decadent oriental anyway.' He jabbed a finger at one of the governors standing in front of him. 'Pomponius Bassus, you have four legions in Cappadocia, auxiliaries too. You will raise more men. Hire Albanians, Iberians, Cadusii, nomads, Alani or whatever, from beyond the Caucasus. Raise an army fifty thousand-strong. Lots of cavalry. Fast-moving. You will move with all speed down the Euphrates. You will make Arete your base, then strike at Palmyra from the east. Odenathus will have to scurry back to meet you. We will be hard on his heels. With Odenathus caught between our armies, we will win a famous victory in the desert. The so-called Lion of the Sun will grovel at our feet. It will do him no good. We will serve him as Aureolus served our family.'

  Quietus again relapsed into a preoccupied silence.

  His face very still, Pomponius Bassus intoned the ritual words. 'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.'

  No one else gave any indication of what they were thinking. There were just two legions in Cappadocia, both under strength; a handful of auxiliaries. As Ballista knew only too well, the king of Georgian Iberia had marched with Shapur to the capture of Valerian — would he ever forget the cell in Carrhae? The Alani crossing the Caucasus mountains had long been one of the keenest fears not only of the Roman imperium but of every people living to the south, even of the Sassanid Persians.