Ballista's ancestral Valhalla seemed a far better choice: the slick-palmed excitement of battle every day. You took the pain, but then wounds miraculously healed, there was a feast every night — food, drink, poetry, the friendship of men, and later, as the stars wheeled across the bottomless sky, the love of women. But even here, problems crept in, like the Evil One. In Ballista's childhood, there had been no mention of books in the hall of the Allfather. But now, without reading, it would be a barren existence for him. And his boys — there could be no certainty they would join him. And being without them would be far worse than losing all the books in the world. Twenty-three winters in the imperium had changed him. The boys had changed him.
Ballista felt hungry. He called down for a Praetorian to bring him some bread and cheese, some ham as well. After the soldier had gone, he realized ham might be difficult in a town where the natives appeared not to eat pork. Still, Roman soldiers had never been renowned for their sensitivities to other cultures.
No sooner had the food arrived, ham and all, than the cavalcade of Quietus appeared in the street below. The emperor was dressed in eastern costume and attended by twenty gorgeously caparisoned Emesene cavalrymen.
Ballista was eating when the Praetorian brought a couple of the local troopers up. The latter searched the northerner with as much impertinence as they could muster. They took away his food, fingered his cloak and writing materials suspiciously, and peered around the minuscule fighting area for anywhere a concealed weapon might lurk. When satisfied, one of them went back down the stairs. Neither the other nor the Praetorian took their eyes off Ballista.
It took some time for the emperor to climb to the top of the tower. When he emerged, he was out of breath, leaning on the arm of an easterner. Another Praetorian followed.
There was barely room for Ballista to perform proskynesis.
Quietus shook himself free of the trooper. The four armed men wedged themselves close together at the top of the steps. It gave just a little room to the emperor and his Praetorian Prefect.
'Get up.' Quietus's voice was peevish. 'This had better be true.'
As Ballista got to his feet, he picked up the scrap of papyrus and the stylus. 'It could not be more so, Dominus.' He handed over the curling papyrus.
Quietus unrolled it and read. 'Your messenger said this was shot over the wall tied to an arrow. It is the identity of the unit that wishes to come over to us.'
'The first unit that wishes to throw itself on your clementia. There will be others,' said Ballista. 'It makes sense that it is Legio III Felix. A vexillatio of the unit is already serving you.'
'And you arranged a signal to confirm this with the archer?'
'I am to wave a black cloak from this tower. If a similar cloak is waved from the siege lines below, Legio III will come into the city by the Palmyrene Gate tonight.'
'Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it.'
Ballista reached down and gathered the cloak in his left hand. He lifted it high above his head. Making quite sure it could be seen from inside as well as outside the city, he waved it vigorously.
'From where in their lines will they answer?' Quietus was leaning on the parapet, gazing out.
'I do not know, Dominus.' Ballista put the cloak down. 'We must watch and wait.'
'There! There it is!' Quietus was pointing, all his attention on the enemy outside.
Do not think, just act.
Ballista stabbed the stylus into the emperor's neck. Quietus, howling, tried to turn, hands reaching up for the wound. Ballista withdrew the stylus, dropped it. He heard movement behind him. He grabbed the emperor, one hand clutching the embroidered front of Quietus's tunic, the other at his crotch. Blood was flowing down both of them. Ballista hauled him up the battlements, pushed him backwards. Quietus's hands clawed. One locked in Ballista's hair, the other scratched at his face. More violent movements at the stairhead, out of sight. Ballista pushed Quietus out over the crenellations. Only the emperor's legs were still in the tower.
Ballista let go.
Quietus's pouched little eyes were wide in realization and fear, filthy little mouth open in a despairing scream.
Ballista felt pain as a handful of his hair was torn out.
Quietus fell, arms and legs flailing hopelessly as he scraped down the sheer stone wall and on to the hard, unforgiving rocks below.
No noise behind Ballista. He had not been attacked. He turned slowly. He was unarmed. He had even dropped the stylus.
The two Praetorians faced him. Swords drawn.
A pool of blood flowed out from where one of the easterners lay. It began to drip and then run over the top step. The other Emesene was nowhere to be seen.
Ballista looked at the Praetorians. One of them had a distinctive angular face, a huge hooked nose.
The Praetorians looked at each other, then back at Ballista.
As one, they reversed swords, held the hilts out, and shouted.
'Ave Caesar! Ave Imperator Marcus Clodius Ballista Augustus!'
An imperium of three men, one of them the emperor. There had been ten subjects, the whole contubernium stationed at the Tower of Desolation, but Ballista had sent one to each of the six legions, and one each to Castricius and Rutilus. None of them had come back. He was left standing at the base of the tower with Ahala and Malchus, the two Praetorians who had originally hailed him emperor.
Ballista laughed at the improbability of his elevation. An unarmed barbarian. He'd even left the stylus somewhere up on the battlements. A new Augustus with ten followers. Now down to two. It was good that the Emesene cavalrymen had run away when Quietus was killed. But this could still be a very short reign.
There came the sound of running feet. Hobnailed boots, jingling harness. Soldiers, coming fast, and not a few of them. It could be a very short reign indeed.
Ballista saw Ahala and Malchus look at each other. Any misgivings now were futile. Their fate was bound to his like a dog to a cart.
The soldiers came round the corner — from their shields, men of Legio XVI Flavia Firma. There were about forty of them, headed by a centurion. In the reduced circumstances of the army, it was what passed for a century. The legionaries had drawn swords. They were in no doubt where they were headed. They were running purposefully.
'Titus went to them,' said Malchus. 'He is bringing them to us.'
'I do not see him,' said Ahala.
Malchus looked beseechingly at Ahala. The latter shook his angular head. There was nothing to do. The two who first hailed a failed pretender had nowhere to run.
Sunlight flashed on the advancing blades.
The centurion flung up his right hand.
The legionaries halted. Five, six paces away. They were panting. They were tired, but they were ready to kill — they had that wildness about them.
'Dominus.' The centurion saluted. He was not young. The impressive array of awards on his armour rattled as his chest heaved. 'Dominus, Sampsigeramus has declared himself emperor. He has ordered the palace fortified. He is leading troops to sieze the temple of Elagabalus.'
There had been no acclamation, no proskynesis, but the centurion had called Ballista Dominus. As emperor or as prefect? The thing hung in the balance. But clearly he would rather lead his men on the orders of Ballista than the priest-king of Emesa.
'Do you know how many men he has with him, Centurion?' Ballista's voice was calm, competent.
'No idea, Dominus. There has been fighting. Sampsigeramus's men attacked some of those who would not take the sacramentum to him.'
'Does he have Romans as well as Emesenes?'
'We saw some from Legio III Gallica, some auxiliaries as well.'
It was not a huge surprise. Legio III Gallica had been the local legion for a long time. It had supported other pretenders — Heliogabalus, Iotapianus, Uranius Antoninus — from the royal house of Emesa.
'Have any of the Emesene troops refused to acknowledge him?'
'Not that I know, Dominus.'<
br />
The Actium trick, thought Ballista, we will have to try that. Octavian, the first Augustus, had declared war not on Mark Antony but on Cleopatra. Turn a civil war into a foreign one. Any Romans on the other side have been so corrupted by decadent foreign ways, just like Antony, they have ceased to count as Romans.
'Men coming, Dominus,' said Ahala.
These soldiers were marching without undue haste. They were from a regular auxiliary unit, Dacian spearmen, about eighty of them. They stopped as one and saluted smartly. With the hope of a donative, they moved as if on a parade ground.
'Ave Imperator Caesar Marcus Clodius Ballista.'
Their centurion introduced himself and announced that imperial regalia must be found: the diadem and purple cloak, the sacred fire, the wreaths of oak and laurel. And lictors, there must be the right number of lictors carrying the fasces.
Ballista thanked him, but said finding him some arms and armour was more pressing. This went down well with all the milites present. Ballista sent a couple of legionaries to Hippothous at the rented house for his equipment, and another one to the Palmyra Gate to talk to Castricius. He had been going to send one to check the gaol when he remembered that Sampsigeramus had fortified the palace.
Now Ballista had about a hundred and twenty men with him. He knew more were prepared to fight Sampsigeramus, were already fighting him. Time for a speech while they got his armour, then off to try the luck of war at the temple of Elagabalus.
'Commilitiones' — Ballista's voice was used to reaching the rear ranks — 'The tryant is dead! I killed him with my bare hands — these hands.' He paused while they cheered. 'I had no thought except to free the army and the Res Publica from his foul actions, the filthy actions that degraded us all. When the soldiers hailed me emperor, I could not have been more surprised. I have no desire for the high office. I would walk away now, but the situation does not allow it. The Res Publica is in deadly danger again. The tyrant may be dead, but his teacher in tyranny — or should we say his husband? — is alive. Sampsigeramus, this cinaedus, this sniggering little easterner, is not only alive, but he has the audacity to claim the purple! These arrogant orientals never learn. We all know what happened to his kinsman Heliogabalus — dragged through the streets by a hook, then stuffed into a sewer.'
'The hook, the hook… drag him, drag him.'
Ballista waved his arm for silence. The chanting stopped as if performed by a well-trained chorus.
'And who supports him? A bunch of easterners like himself.'
The soldiers jeered — no matter where they came from, their primary identity was Roman soldier.
'Wait,' shouted Ballista. 'Do not get overconfident. We have a dangerous fight on our hands. These easterners are tough — they only ever wear the thinnest silks. And they have stamina — they must have to take it up the arse all night.'
The soldiers liked this stuff. Ballista knew it was all bollocks. But the soldiers liked this stuff.
'If you come across any from Legio III Gallica, do not worry. They have been out here so long, they have gone native. They are worse than the natives — taught the locals how to suck cock. Not one of them did not start his life abandoned on a dung heap in a back street of Raphanaea or some such Syrian shithole.'
'Fuck them, fuck them…'
'It is time to go and pull this effeminate off the throne. Sampsigeramus is hiding in the temple of Elagabalus. The god will not help him. We will drag him out and kill him.'
'Drag him, drag him… the hook, the hook.'
'Remember the temple is sacrosanct. Any soldier pillaging it will suffer the harshest penalty. But the palace is not. After we have dealt with Sampsigeramus, shall we see what we can find there?'
'Dives miles, dives miles.'
'After I have had a look at his treasury — all the wealth taken by the avarice of Quietus's father — a donative to the loyal troops will be announced.'
'Rich soldier, rich soldier.'
Hippothous and some other men had appeared with Ballista's weapons and armour, his original bird-crested helmet. They helped him into it. There was still no word from Castricius about his sons and Julia, but he had to put them from his mind.
The troops fell in, and they set off.
On the way across town, their force was augmented by a complete ala of Dalmatian cavalrymen. They had come straight from their barracks. They had left their horses behind as unsuitable for urban fighting. They were lightly armoured and there were only about two hundred and fifty of them but, to Ballista's tiny force, they were a hugely welcome addition. The great temple of Elagabalus was set in a walled precinct, however, no attempt had been made to defend the outer walls. The main gates stood untended and open.
Perhaps Sampsigeramus did not have all that many men with him. He would have left a substantial number to hold his palace. Presumably more Emesene warriors would still be at their stations on the city walls. Ballista wondered just what Rutilus and Castricius were doing. This would be an opportune moment for Odenathus to attack.
While his men formed up in the street, Ballista peered in through the gates. The temple on its tall podium was in the region of a hundred paces away. Halfway between the gate and the temple was the great altar. Ballista noted that its three fires were still burning. There was no other cover. The sacred grove was off to the left, level with the temple. To the right there was nothing until some service buildings beyond the temple. Something like a hundred Emesene archers were drawn up at the foot of the steps in front of the temple. There were more of them up on the pediment and roof. It was quite possible yet more might be hidden among the conifers of the sacred grove.
Ballista had not yet seen any legionaries from III Gallica, or any Roman regulars at all, but this was going to be far from easy. One hundred paces across an open, arrow-swept yard. Ballista gave the order to attack anyway.
Ballista got ready to go in with the first rank from Legio XVI Flavia Firma. The days when an emperor could keep well to the rear — and keep the respect of his troops — were gone. His old enemy Maximinus Thrax had set the new precedent, charging in at the head of his men. Of course, apart from his strength and skill at arms, Maximinus Thrax had had little to recommend him as emperor. Like another barbarian very recently declared emperor, Ballista thought wryly.
The arrows came screaming at them as they went through the gate. They hunched forward like men advancing into hail. The noise was all-encompassing: arrowheads slicing into wood, metal, leather, flesh; men muttering, praying, shouting, howling. They kept going forward.
Ballista's shield felt as if it were being kicked as arrows slammed into it. Three of the warheads punched through, one only an inch or so from his face. He snapped them off, kept moving. He was sweating hard.
How far? Ballista peeped out around the edge of his shield. Allfather, they were only just coming up to the altar. The weird foreshortening as the arrows sped towards you. He ducked back, blocking out the screams, forcing his legs to keep moving.
A cheer from the men around him. Ballista looked out again. The arrow storm was still there, but less of it, and at a different angle. The archers at the foot of the steps had ceased shooting. They were fighting each other to get back through the doors of the temple. Those up on the pediment and roof still wielded their bows. There were not that many of them. Now Ballista was able to note there were no missiles coming from the sacred grove to his left.
Hefting their shields higher, the soldiers ran forward. The withdrawal of the enemy into the temple seemed to have struck shackles off their legs. They were at the foot of the steps in moments. They set off up them. Hobnails screeching, gouging the marble. The great dark-wood doors at the top slammed shut.
A whistling sound — above the noises of the men — unexplained, eerie. A terrible crash. The men stopped. A stunned silence, then the high screaming of men in agony.
Something made Ballista look up. Sometimes your eyes see something so unexpected your understanding lags behind. Figures fa
lling through the air, turning slowly. Rigid, yet unresisting. Getting faster.
The next statue slammed into the steps a few paces away. Marble into marble. Vicious, jagged fragments flying. The white steps now veined red. Another crashed down. And another. Pandemonium.
Ballista was cowering down. His shield had a wide rent. There was blood on his right leg. The men were running. He looked up at the pediment. Another divinity was teetering on the edge. Ballista ran too.
Back safe behind the outer wall, Ballista called the officers to him and took stock. Not that many casualties. They had left twenty or so inside the precinct; the dead or those too hurt to crawl. About the same number had made it out but were incapacitated by injuries. Ballista ordered they be tended, as far as it was possible, where they were. He could not afford to be without the men needed to take them to doctors.
Ballista questioned those around him on the layout of the temple precinct. It was Ahala, now binding up the flesh wound in Ballista's right thigh, who proved extraordinarily informative. The wall was high all around the compound. There were two other gates. One at the far western end opened next to the service buildings. From there you could get into a low walled yard that butted up to the rear of the temple. There was a wicket gate to the yard and a small back door to the temple. They would almost certainly be defended, and it would be hard to force the narrow back door, but it was worth a look. The other gate was off to the left in the southern wall and led straight into the sacred grove. There was a forester's hut just by it.
'You know the layout well,' said Ballista.
Ahala looked embarrassed. 'When we first came here… some of the boys told me there were sacred prostitutes in the precinct — had to take you on for their god, no matter how low the coin.' He shrugged. 'I was stupid enough to believe them.'
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