Lion of the Sun wor-3

by Harry Sidebottom

  'Odenathus's second wife is not the beautiful but submissive young girl we were all expecting. Zenobia is deeply ambitious. More ambitious even than Odenathus himself. And she is warlike.'

  Maximus glanced sharply at Bathshiba, who ignored it.

  'It frustrates her. Odenathus has a grown son, Haeranes, from his first marriage. The young man is a natural warrior. In Zabda and Zabbai, Odenathus has two generals he trusts. Now there is my husband. No need for a twenty-year-old girl in the councils of war of the Lion of the Sun.'

  Bathshiba stopped as a servant replaced the empty dishes with ones of fruit, nuts and sweet things.

  'So,' she continued, 'Zenobia has set herself up as the great patroness of culture. From all over the east, philosophers and sophists, historians and poets, flock to the court. These men of paideia infest the palace. Every one of them is more greedy and ambitious than the last. But every one of them owes his position to Zenobia. And that is why Nicostratus is here, and why poor Haddudad is putting himself out to be so charming.'

  Bathshiba smiled charmingly as Nicostratus looked around.

  'Not that Zenobia does not get to ride with the army.' Bathshiba's eyes sparkled with her old mischief. 'They say she will not let Odenathus have what a husband needs unless he lets her have her way.'

  The last tack of her conversation sent Maximus's thoughts wandering. Under all these eastern fabrics, was Bathshiba still the nicely rounded armful she had been? She had been one of the likeliest-looking bits of tumble you could imagine. Lucky old Haddudad.

  'Ow.' She had prodded him with a fruit knife. Maximus quickly smiled blandly over at the others.

  'That is better. My face is up here.' Bathshiba's teeth were very white when she laughed. 'And I said, what are you doing here?'

  'Ballista wants Haddudad to arrange for me to see Odenathus in secret.' There was no point in beating around the bush.

  'Why?'

  'To give him a letter.'

  'Saying what?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'Really?'

  Maximus looked at Bathshiba. Surely she was not being so unsubtle as to push her shoulders back to accentuate her breasts. How shallow did she think he was? 'All I know is I have to make sure Odenathus knows which is the Tower of Desolation at Emesa.'

  'The tall, thin one at the extreme south-east of the walls.' Bathshiba spoke, but her thoughts were elsewhere. 'Of course Haddudad will do it. But…' She paused. 'I am not sure what sort of a reception you will get. Your friend is a leading general of Odenathus's enemy. Obviously, much depends on the contents of the letter. But it is far easier to read Herodian's History than the Lord of Tadmor. He is unpredictable. It is part of what has made him so powerful. He is like a capricious elemental force. The Lion of the Sun may shower you with gold and make you his drinking companion — or he may kill you like a dog.'

  Maximus shrugged. 'Sure, life would be terrible dull if we knew all the outcomes. Is there any chance of a bath?'

  'Of course. Would you like some company?' At Maximus's grin, she quickly added, 'No, not me, you fool. One of the maids.'

  'Well, that would be better than either your husband or the historian. I don't suppose there would be two of your maids at a loose end?'

  Before she made the arrangements, Bathshiba spoke seriously one more time. 'It is lucky you have come now. You are nearly too late. The Lion of the Sun marches on Emesa in three days.' It may have been the best cell to be found in the gaol under the palace of Emesa, but it was still dark, airless and insufferably hot. And familiarity did not stop the stink of it catching in Ballista's throat.

  Ballista knew he had failed. Everything he had done during these years in the east had been to protect his family, and he had failed. He did not know why, but they were in gaol with him.

  True to his word, Jucundus, or one of his men, had come every day to check that things were no worse than they had to be. This may have gone some way to explaining why the behaviour of the gaoler and his assistants had shifted from its customary and ingrained cruelty to a grudging near-politeness. The open-handedness of the prisoners with money and an unexpressed and incoherent fear of the mutability of fortune probably also came into play.

  Under the supervision of Calgacus, servants delivered fresh food and drink. Every morning, maids dressed the hair and did the make-up of the domina. Other girls produced newly cut flowers. The women swept and cleaned, strategically arranged the flowers, lit scented lamps and liberally dispensed scented oils. Yet, no matter how many aromatics were deployed, still the prison stench seeped up from the lower cells, where those lacking in fortune and influence lay in their own filth, devoid of hope.

  The children were doing surprisingly well. Admittedly, they had no fresh air, nowhere near enough space to run, and sometimes their own noise crashing back from the walls seemed momentarily to stun even them. But they had the rarity of near-undivided attention from their parents, all their favourite playthings, and were largely being fed things of their own choice. To all these benefactions, Isangrim added the absence of his schoolmaster.

  If the boys were bearing up well, the same could not be said of Julia. Her usual disposition towards order had been elevated almost to the level of mania. She was always moving, tutting and complaining under her breath as she put things back in their right place after her husband or children had moved them. It was, thought Ballista, rather like being locked up with a better-looking version of Calgacus, but with his irony gone.

  Ballista himself, as far as he could in the din of the confined space, retreated into reading. The second day, he had Calgacus bring him Arrian's Discourses of Epictetus. It was hard to think of a circumstance where some hard-line Stoic philosophy should not be more appropriate or sustaining. On the third morning, as instructed, the Caledonian arrived with a novel, The Aithiopika of Heliodorus of Emesa. Ballista wondered if he might learn some interesting things about the mentality of the town in which he was a prisoner. He did not. But it was a diverting enough series of picaresque stories within stories. After another day, he asked Calgacus to bring him some of Plutarch's Parallel Lives. They were far more like it — examples of men bearing changes in fortune set in exciting stories; philosophy in action for those like Ballista who could not quite stomach the unalloyed thing. He started with the lives of Demetrius and Antony: Antony turned back to Rome. He disguised himself as a slave, made out he was carrying a letter to Fulvia from Antony and was admitted to her presence with his face all muffled. Fulvia was distracted and, before taking the letter, asked him whether Antony was alive. He handed it to her in silence, and no sooner had she opened it and begun to read it than he flung his arms around her and kissed her.

  'Dominus.' Jucundus stood in the doorway. 'I am ordered to convey you to the sacred presence of our emperor. Your wife and sons are to remain here.'

  There was only time for hurried farewells. Julia looked openly terrified, and her fear transferred itself to the boys — Isangrim cried, Dernhelm howled. An inauspicious way to leave.

  Quietus was in the great temple of Elagabalus. As they marched through the streets, Jucundus, talking out of the corner of his mouth like a legionary on parade, said he had no idea what the summons portended.

  When they had reached the sacred precinct and were rounding the altar, Ballista and his escort had to check their progress. A procession of members of the Boule of Emesa crossed their path. The councillors were clad in formal Roman togas, the majority with the narrow stripe of an equestrian, one or two with the broad purple denoting senatorial status. Each carried on his head a golden bowl of reeking intestines. Try as they might, the local worthies could not prevent the odd slop of blood landing on the snowy-white material of their robes.

  Ballista took in his surroundings. The three fires on the altar hissed and spat, burning unnaturally bright colours: blue-green, yellow, red. Slaves were busy spreading clean sand on the ground. Mingled with the smell of incense were the stench of unwashed tripe and the powerful tang of uri
ne. Flies buzzed thick in the air. The bowls on the head must be an Emesene particularity, but everything else could not be more normal: the aftermath of sacrifice, the imperium-wide mundanities of conventional piety.

  A silentarius took charge of them at the foot of the stairs. After the bright sunlight, the interior of the temple was dark, cavernous. It stretched away, echoing into infinity.

  In the gloom, a line of pinprick lights. As Ballista's eyes adjusted, these resolved themselves into a row of ornate candlesticks dividing the great room, dividing the sacred from the profane. In the middle of the row, on its small, portable altar, the imperial fire burned; beyond them, the golden statue of an eagle. It stood confident on its wide-spread legs. The many little lights slid over its mighty, outstretched wings, over the snake writhing in its cruel beak.

  Beyond the eagle, seemingly hanging in the air, was the imperial throne. Quietus sat in it, as still as a statue. He was dressed all in purple and gold; a voluminous tunic and a tall tiara; innumerable jewels. His painted face was immobile.

  And beyond Quietus, looming over everything, was the god himself. Elagabalus, the great black stone that had fallen from the heavens, towered up towards the shadowy ceiling. Impossibly dense, it drew what light there was into itself. Only the occasional little rill of light splashed across the god, animating the mysterious markings in the depths beneath his smooth, dark surface.

  Neither emperor nor god took any notice of the newcomers. As Ballista and his escort rose from their proskynesis, the silentarius ushered them off to one side. There they waited.

  There was a sudden clash of cymbals. From somewhere, the music of flutes and pipes: high, twisting, intricate. Sampsigeramus, the priest-king of Emesa, danced into view. Apart from his necklaces and the many bangles on his wrists and ankles, he was naked. His body was thin, almost emaciated, the veins unnaturally prominent. Palms up, he danced before the emperor and the deity. To Ballista, there could not have been a more stomach-turning picture of eastern servility and effeminacy.

  A high, shrill cry, and the act of worship was completed. Sampsigeramus went and sat on a low chair by Quietus. The emperor's non-entity cousin, Cornelius Macer — now the holder of three high government posts — was on the other side.

  'Bring in the atheist,' said Quietus.

  The Praetorian Prefect himself, Rutilus, brought in the prisoner. It was the tall, severe-looking senator Astyrius. They performed proskynesis. Quietus looked at the prisoner. The silence lengthened.

  Astyrius was dressed in Greek himation and tunic, rather than his senatorial toga. He kept his hands clasped in front, eyes modestly downcast. Only a tiny tremor in his legs betrayed the doubts and terrors he must be feeling.

  'Tell me' — Quietus's voice was light, conversational — 'have you been wondering where your pretty slave boy Epaphroditus has got to?'

  Astyrius did not answer.

  'No! Really, not at all?' Quietus raised his painted eyebrows. 'No concerns for his wellbeing? Not even considering the secrets the two of you share?'

  Astyrius opened his mouth, but words failed him.

  'Well, let me tell you anyway.' Quietus was enjoying this. 'At the moment, it must be said, he is probably none too comfortable. He is in one of the deepest dungeons under the palace. Although that is unlikely to be his main concern. Because your young friend, or should I say brother, is riding the equuleus. Have you ever seen the wooden horse in action? It is most ingenious. It must be agony for your pretty boy as the pulleys force his limbs apart.'

  Astyrius made a small choking sound, then controlled himself.

  'Not that he is all that pretty any more.' Quietus laughed. 'In fact, he is rather repulsive. You would hardly recognize him.'

  The emperor stopped talking and peered closely at Astyrius.

  'I am not sure what it is about your physiognomy, but I have never liked the look of you. Never trusted you. So I had the frumentarii lift your little boyfriend Epaphroditus from the baths. We hung him up — by one hand actually, much more painful — and while beating him — just the usual rods, thongs, whips — asked him some questions about you. Do you know, he would not say anything. You would have been very proud of him.'

  Astyrius had mastered the trembling in his legs.

  'And then the strangest thing happened,' Quietus continued. 'We got the claws to work on him. It really was terrible the way they were stripping the skin from his sides. But as he still refused to incriminate you, I suggested the torturers went to work on other bits of him: stomach and thighs, the soles of his feet, his pretty cheeks and forehead. And that was when he cried out: "Even murderers are not treated like this, only us Christians."'

  Quietus smiled at Astyrius. 'Well, you can imagine how that encouraged us. We pressed on with a will. When I was at Ephesus, I discovered the pleasures of interrogating Christians. I even offered your little slave boy his freedom if he would admit you were a Christian. The impudent little cinaedus replied, "I have been freed by Christ." So once again you Christians, not content with denying the gods, stand convicted of attempting to undermine all property rights here on earth.'

  'I am a Christian,' Astyrius said.

  'Is it true you have sex with your sisters?'

  'I adore Christ. I detest the daemons. Do what you will. I am a Christian.'

  'And eat specially fattened babies?'

  Astyrius squared his shoulders. 'I am a Christian. It is better to die than to worship stones.'

  'You are about to find out if that is true.' Quietus signalled to the Praetorian Prefect.

  Rutilus pushed Astyrius to his knees. The Christian did not struggle, but he called out, his voice powerful, 'You have condemned me, but God will condemn you. You will fall as the stars of heaven are swept down to earth by the dragon's tail.'

  Rutilus drew his sword.

  Astyrius leant forward, offering his neck for the blow. 'The devil goes about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.'

  Rutilus raised the sword.

  'It is for you, Christ, that I suffer this!'

  The sword fell. It was a neat stroke.

  Astyrius's head fell heavily, wetly, to the floor. It rolled an uneven two or three turns towards the row of lit candles. For a time his trunk remained, four distinct jets of blood pumping out, splashing on the marble floor. The flow diminished, and the body collapsed sideways.

  In the dark silence, Quietus spoke. 'With treachery all around me, only misfortune has remained faithful to me — misfortune, my doomed family and my Emesene friend Sampsigeramus.' He ruffled the priest-king's hair, and relapsed into silent introspection.

  'Dominus?' Eventually it was Rutilus who dared try to break into the emperor's thoughts.

  Quietus continued to stare at the decapitated corpse. 'Afterwards, one always regrets having been so benevolent.' He spoke more to himself than anyone else.

  'Dominus?'

  Quietus came back from his private world of sanguinary regrets. He snapped out orders. 'Get that thing out of here. We have news that Odenathus is marching against us. It matters little in the long run. Pomponius Bassus will soon appear at his rear. But until then we must take thought for our safety. I am advised I need officers experienced in siege works. The barbarian Ballista is reappointed as Praetorian co-prefect. His colleague Rutilus will command the west and north walls, the Prefect of Cavalry Castricius the east and south. Ballista's will be the overall plan for the defence of Emesa. The barbarian had better do a better job than at Arete. His wife and sons will remain in gaol. As the first Palmyrene is seen on the walls, they will die.'

  The Tower of Desolation of Emesa was more an observation post than a defensive work. Its circular battlements were only a few paces across. Its interior was entirely taken up with the twisting stone staircase. The tall tower looked out south-east: five miles of cultivated land, then the measureless high desert, stone-strewn, baked by the sun, infinitely harsh. That might account for its name.

  Ballista leant on one of the crenel
lations and embraced the rare moment of solitude. Up here, the wind tugged at his cloak, made his long fair hair stream away. Out in the desert, he could see it raising tall, spinning dust devils. The wind was from the south. It was going to raise a fierce storm. Odenathus's main army was approaching through the desert from the east. When the storm reached them, they would hunker down, backs to the wind, cloths tied across the faces of men and animals — wait for it to blow itself out. It would delay them by a day or so.

  Once, when the Persians sent an army across the Libyan desert to despoil the holy oracle of Zeus Ammon at the oasis of Siwah, a huge storm got up one night. As the soldiers slept, the sand buried them alive. The army was lost for ever. Ballista smiled — no chance of that here. This was a different desert: not enough sand, all too many rocks. Then again, the gods loved Siwah; it was unlikely they had a great affection for Quietus. The army of Odenathus would be delayed by a day or so.

  The Palmyrene outriders were already here. Ballista had watched the light cavalry arrive. First, dense clouds of them, clothes flashing bright in the sun. They came in five groups. Each had ridden with purpose to its station. The four main roads — north to Apamea, south to Laodicea ad Libanum, east to Palmyra, and north-east to the distant Euphrates — were blocked. The fifth group spread out to westward, along the banks of the Orontes, watching for any attempt at intervention across the Libanus mountains from the old legionary base at Raphanaea.

  The light horse in the second wave that encircled the town were in smaller units. Ballista had watched them swooping through the farmsteads and suburban villas. They were looting — when did soldiers not? — but there was no burning. Their discipline was good. Odenathus did not want to alienate the Emesenes. He wanted them to come over.

  Not all the horsemen were Palmyrenes. Through the swirling dust, standards and shield patterns marked out regular Roman units. These alae, originally raised in distant Thrace, Dalmatia and Gaul, must have been provided by governors opposed to Quietus: Aurelius Dasius of Mesopotamia, Virius Lupus of Arabia, and maybe, if the rumours were true, Pomponius Bassus of Cappadocia. These Roman regular light horse came close to the walls, displaying themselves to the Roman defenders. Odenathus clearly wanted them to come over as well.