Lion of the Sun wor-3

by Harry Sidebottom

  'I would not worry,' replied Ballista, 'some years ago the same thing happened to a friend of mine.'

  The laughter was cut short. A soldier running flat out down the street from the north. 'Men coming! Hundreds of them! Roman regulars.'

  Ballista made what dispositions he could with his limited force: a few holding the gate from the temple at their rear, the rest blocking the street. There was no middle way here. It was either very good or very bad.

  The noise built — it sounded like a lot of men. Soon such speculation was redundant. The soldiers turned the corner into full view, a solid phalanx of heavily armed men stretching as far as the eye could see. The sound of their coming bounced back off the walls. The shields at the front were those of Legio X Fretensis. Its station was the northern city wall, part of Rutilus's command. And there, bareheaded on horseback, was Rutilus himself. No one could mistake the flaming red hair of the Praetorian Prefect appointed by Quietus. Facing him, Ballista calculated quickly: counting the standards, multiplying the numbers in each rank by those in each file — must be about five hundred. Rutilus had brought the entire vexillatio with him. Further back, there were other standards — at least two auxiliary units.

  Rutilus's force did not break stride at the sight of Ballista's men. Inexorably, the shields of Legio X bore down. One hundred paces. They had numbers and momentum on their side. Fifty paces. They would sweep the men facing them aside. Ballista knew being taken alive was not an option. No cell near the surface a second time. The deep dungeons and the claws.

  Rutilus yelled a command. The bucinatores sounded their instruments. With a crash, the great phalanx halted.

  In the succeeding quiet, Ballista heard a dove cooing from over in the conifer trees of the sacred grove.

  The ranks of Legio X parted. Rutilus rode through and out into the space between the lines. All alone, and still bareheaded. He may have always been a faithful servant to the house of Macrianus, but he had never lacked courage.

  Ballista stepped out from his meagre ranks.

  The two men studied each other.

  Rutilus got down from his horse. He untied something, a bag of sorts, from his saddle. He opened it and pulled out a human head. He held it by the hair then let it drop into the dust. His horse skittered sideways, away from the noisome thing. Rutilus prodded the head away with the toe of his boot.

  'Death to all traitors,' he said.

  The head was unrecognizable. Ballista waited, heart pounding.

  'That was the tyrant's cousin and partner in vice — Cornelius Macer.'

  Ballista exhaled silently.

  Rutilus saluted. 'Ave Imperator Caesar Marcus Clodius Ballista Augustus.'

  Behind him, Rutilus's men took up the chant, with only the occasional 'Dives miles' to remind their new Caesar of his obligations.

  Rutilus had indeed brought with him all five hundred of Legio X Fretensis, as well as five hundred Armenian bowmen and five hundred dismounted Moorish cavalrymen armed with javelins.

  Once Ballista was acquainted with the full force at his disposal, he outlined his plan quickly to Rutilus and the other officers. His original force was to guard the perimeter walls to the north and west and, without taking the risk of becoming too entangled, probe the gate near the service buildings, check the rear entrance. Ballista did not want to ask too much of them. It is always difficult to get men who have once escaped out of combat to go back into it the same day. The dismounted Moors and one hundred of the Armenian archers were to break in the southern gate, secure the sacred grove and prepare to shoot at the Emesenes on the roof of the temple. The men of Legio X would go in via the main east gate and assault the doors of the temple in two units formed in testudo. The remaining four hundred Armenians would follow them and attempt to discourage the men on the roof from intervening. To get them through the temple doors, a work party was to cut down two suitable conifers from the sacred grove as battering rams.

  'Is it wise to chop down trees from a sacred grove?' A low muttering of concurrence greeted Rutilus's question. Soldiers were ever superstitious, especially when about to fight. This needed careful handling.

  'The god will not hold it against us. It is our enemies — it is Sampsigeramus and his accomplices who have defiled the temple of Elagabalus. They have turned the god's house into a fortress. They have thrown down the sacred images from the roof.' Ballista raised his voice, made it ring. 'The great god Elagabalus offers us his sacred conifers. Elagabalus, Sol Invictus, calls on us to cleanse his house. Elagabalus, the unconquered sun, calls on us to drive out and punish the impious.'

  Waiting frays the nerves. It seemed to take an eternity for the various bodies of men to get to their stations, for the huge tree trunks to be manhandled back, their branches lopped off and ends sharpened. Ballista's leg throbbed and stiffened. He felt slightly sick with hunger. His temper was getting short.

  A messenger puffed into view. It took him a moment to spot the new emperor slumped against the wall.

  'Dominus, the prefect Castricius sent me. Your wife and sons passed over to the lines of Odenathus some time ago, before… before he heard that you had been acclaimed emperor.'

  Ballista leapt up. His leg almost gave way as he lunged forward. He folded the messenger in a bearhug, slapping him hard on the back, kissing his cheeks. When released, the man reeled back, quite unsettled by all this imperial affection.

  They were safe. Haddudad would make sure of it. Of course, Odenathus now had them, but they had survived — that was all that mattered.

  'All ready, Dominus.'

  Once more into the arrow storm. But it was different this time. The only Emesenes to be seen were on the roof of the temple. Being shot at by five hundred bowmen from two sides, they mainly kept their heads down.

  Encased in their shields like overlapping tiles, the two bodies of legionaries lumbered towards the temple. Inside each testudo, soldiers grunted and swore at the ungainly weight of the improvised battering rams.

  They passed the great altar — one of the fires had gone out — and struggled on. Overhead, the fletchings of hundreds of arrows snapped through the air. There was the occasional thump as an Emesene arrowhead hit a shield.

  They were at the steps. Holding together, hauling the tree trunk, shuffling up the steps. Ballista fought down the urges to peer upwards, to cower down, to try to get free and run to safety.

  A terrible crash. Thank the gods, off to the right. The statue had hit the other testudo. Poor bastards — but thank the gods it was them.

  Sheltered under the jutting-out pediment, the legionaries broke out of the testudo. No arrow or falling statue could get them here. They readied themselves. One, two, three… now. Those with the ram swung it into the doors. A hollow boom. Plaster falling from the door frame. The doors shivered, but still stood.

  The other testudo reached the shelter. Its legionaries shook themselves into order. Five of their contubernales lay twisted and broken on the steps.

  One, two, three… The two rams struck as one. The doors were massive. But their thickness was ornamental. If the god had foreseen this, the architect had not. A splintering, rending sound. The bolts and bars gave. The doors swung inward. The temple was open.

  Arrows like disturbed hornets flew out at the faces of the legionaries. A man near Ballista staggered drunkenly, clawing at the shaft protruding from his neck.

  Before the second volley, the legionaries charged into the cavernous gloom. They set about their grim work. Blades chopped and slashed. The air was close, thick with incense and the smell of blood.

  A line of flickering candle-holders on the floor; beyond, the golden statue of an eagle, and beyond that again, dominating all, the great mass of the black stone loomed up. Huge, dense, pitiless, the top of it lost in the rafters. In front, light silks against the stone's gross negritude, Sampsigeramus.

  As Ballista kicked one of the candle-holders out of the way, his right leg gave out. He crashed to the floor. A movement in the choking air
. Ballista scrambled, crab-wise, ungainly. The Emesene guardsman's blade sparked off the marble.

  The easterner recovered his sword, raised it, came on again. On his arse, leather soles of his boots slipping, Ballista scrambled backwards. He raised his sword. His left hand was empty; somehow, his shield had gone. The Emesene struck. Ballista parried. The Emesene rolled their blades wide. With the advantages of height and weight, the easterner forced Ballista's out of his grip. The heavy spatha skittered away across the floor.

  Ballista grabbed a big metal amphora. He swung it round to shield himself. The jar was unexpectedly heavy. It was full; liquid slopped out. The easterner chopped down. A clang of broken metal, the blade cut through the amphora, embedded itself. More liquid sloshed out — it was blood, the detritus of some sacrifice. Holding the handles tight, Ballista twisted the jar, twisted his body, put all his weight into it. They all went sideways — Ballista, the amphora, the sword, the Emesene. They landed hard in a tangle. Hands and feet skidding in the gore, Ballista scrabbled on top of his opponent. Grabbing his hair, he smashed the man's face down into the marble, again and again, in a frenzy. At first the Emesene struggled. Then he did not.

  Ballista took the easterner's sword. He crawled over to a pillar and used it to pull himself to his feet. Blood slick on the marble, the dead Emesene, and, lolling out of the top of the ruined amphora, the dismembered arm of a child.

  Ballista hobbled over to retrieve his own sword. He felt sick. Obviously, Sampsigeramus had stopped at nothing to try to ensure the support of his ancestral god. The sacrifice of a child had probably seemed a reasonable price to pay for his own survival.

  The fighting boomed and swung through the monumental obscurity of the temple. The footfalls of the fighters echoed back as if from an age away.

  Sampsigeramus still stood in front of his god. There were fewer guardsmen with him. One lunged at Ballista. The northerner took the blow on the sword in his left hand, severed the man's arm with the one in his right. The guard reeled away; Ballista limped forward.

  Sampsigeramus saw him coming. He backed away. Nowhere to go. The stone was behind him. He was screaming incoherently.

  The priest-king held his sword in front of him. With a savage blow, Ballista smashed it from his hand. It went spinning into the darkness.

  Sampsigeramus turned. With hooked fingers and scrabbling toes, he tried to climb the side of the great black stone. There was no miracle. The smooth stone resisted his efforts.

  Ballista dropped the alien sword from his left hand. He gripped the hilt of his own weapon in two hands, steadied himself and swung. The blade bit into flesh, sinew and bone. Sampsigeramus's head jerked sideways, almost severed. The killer of children, the would-be emperor, slid slowly down the side of his god. The blood that pumped so freely ran down the side of the dark stone. Deep in the shiny blackness of the god, the enigmatic markings rippled and moved.

  The sunshine was blinding after the shady corridors of the palace. Ballista stood blinking, letting his eyes grow accustomed to it. A grey horse was led out, its trappings purple and gold.

  Time to go. As Ballista walked across, a groom hastened up with a mounting block. The northerner thanked him but waved him away. Even in armour, he swung up easily enough into the saddle. His leg was much better. He arranged the imperial cloak, settled the diadem on his head. Leaning forward, he patted Pale Horse's neck, murmured into his ears. Who would have thought we would wear the purple? Enjoy it — like holding a wolf by the ears.

  There had been little time. With the death of Sampsigeramus, his supporters — the Emesene warriors, the men of the detachment of Legio III Gallica and the few Roman auxiliaries who had favoured him — had all put down their arms. Yet there had been much to do. Looting had broken out and had to be suppressed. A few high-profile beheadings, nothing too harsh — a dozen outside the palace and the temple, and a similar number in the agora — had taken care of that. Groups of individuals and whole units had left their stations on the city walls. They had been chivvied back into place. A large donative had to be promised to the soldiers and was then paid out of the treasures found in the palace. The family of Sampsigeramus was wealthy, and Quietus's father, Macrianus the Lame, had always been efficient in gathering money. Now, for a brief time until the bar and brothel owners took it, the milites were dives indeed. At a more exalted level, the army high command had been confirmed: Rutilus remained Praetorian Prefect and Castricius Prefect of Cavalry.

  All the soldiers, from Rutilus as Praetorian Prefect to the lowest Emesene militiaman, had hurriedly taken the sacramentum. One from each unit had recited the oath: 'By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the emperor's commands, never desert the standards or shirk death, to value the safety of the emperor above everything.' Then all the others had shouted, 'Me too!' It had always struck Ballista as slightly comic, but when addressed to himself, it came close to a ludicrous mime or farce.

  Then there were the issues of familiarity and contempt. To how many emperors had these men given their oath? For a veteran nearing the end of his twenty years, there would have been a horde of imperatores: Gordian III, Philip the Arab, Decius, Gallus, Aemilianus, Valerian, Gallienus, Macrianus and Quietus. And that was if he had not followed any of the many ephemeral pretenders such as Iotapianus or Uranius Antoninus. And now there was Imperator Caesar Marcus Clodius Ballista Augustus.

  So many oaths given. So many oaths broken. The new emperor knew all about that. Gone is the trust to be placed in oaths; I cannot understand if the gods you swore by then no longer rule, or if men live by new standards of what is right?

  Ballista made a sign. Ahala rode up behind him and unfurled the northerner's white draco. The Equites Singulares fell in behind Ahala. Ballista waved, and they set off.

  The streets were muted. Both soldiers and civilians acknowledged the cavalcade, yet the cheers were tentative, uncertain, and those he passed performed the lesser form of proskynesis. Of course, they knew the purpose of Ballista's ride — even if the outcome was in deepest doubt.

  At the Palmyra Gate, the others were waiting on horseback. Ballista dismissed the cavalry guard, except for his new standard bearer. He spoke briefly with Castricius, who was to remain behind to ensure order in Emesa. Leaning far out of the saddle, they embraced and said farewell.

  Ballista looked down the line at who would go with him. Ahala carried the draco directly behind him. Then, in columns of twos, were Rutilus and three senatorial governors. It had not only been the army Ballista had had to conciliate. Fabius Labeo, the noble and surprisingly resilient governor of Syria Coele, would probably have been grateful enough just to have been released from his iron cage over the northern gate. But he, like Cornicula of Syria Phoenice and Achaeus of Syria Palestina, had received substantial material inducements to join the new regime. It slightly rankled with Ballista. He had a healthy dislike of the religious bigot Achaeus but, ultimately, it was not his money. The avarice and ruthless efficiency of Macrianus the Lame had proved useful. For the moment at least, the three governors followed Ballista Augustus.

  The gates squealed open. As he rode under the tall arch, Ballista saw the sculptures of the eagle, altar and black stone of Elagabalus and the innumerable scratched prayers for a safe journey. It was not his god, and it was not his way. Allfather, Deep Hood, Death-blinder, keep your one eye on your descendant.

  The little column of six riders went on. Past the stark, stained crosses, the ornamented tombs of the necropolis. Across two hundred paces of no-man's land. Through the lines of the besieging Palmyrene army. Dark eyes, expressionless faces watched them. Up to the open space in front of the great tent, where the many standards flew.

  The Lion of the Sun was seated on the ivory-trimmed curule throne of a high Roman magistrate. Odenathus was backed by his court. On one hand were his chief minister Verodes, two of his generals, Zabda and Haddudad, and the son by his first marriage, Haeranes — now grown into an active-looking young man. On the other
stood the Romans: Pomponius Bassus, governor of Cappadocia; Virius Lupus, governor of Arabia; and Maeonius Astyanax, sometime Praetorian Prefect of the rebels Macrianus and Quietus — may their names everywhere suffer damnatio memoriae. In the background, but determined not to be left out, was his current wife. Zenobia was holding by the hand their infant son, Vaballathus, or Wahballat, as some called him. With her were a couple of earnest, hirsute men in Greek dress.

  The entourage of the Lord of Tadmor was splendid in burnished steel, gilded armour and bright, nodding plumes. But the open space was dominated by someone else. More than half lifesize, the emperor Gallienus stood to one side. Brows furrowed, eyes hooded, the statue looked down on the scene. Ballista was reminded of a story that the successors of Alexander could only be brought to meet together if presided over by the empty chair of the great Macedonian.

  Ballista dismounted. Those behind him did the same. Grooms took their horses away. Ballista took a couple of paces forward and stopped.

  Odenathus rose from the curule chair. He was wearing a western-style corselet with big, buckled-down shoulder guards. On his arms and legs were cunningly embroidered eastern tunic and trousers. A golden brooch on his right shoulder secured a scarlet cloak; it was matched by a scarlet sash tied around his waist. His left hand was closed around the hilt of his long sword. The pommel was in the shape of a flower. The Lion of the Sun was magnificent, his painted face inscrutable.

  The two principals regarded each other, in the background the unnatural silence of the crowd, the hiss and snap of the standards, the silica sounds of the breeze moving the sands — patterns fleeting across the surface.

  Ballista walked to the statue of Gallienus. Under his long nose, Gallienus's beak-like mouth seemed set in disapproval. Ballista unclasped his purple cloak and set it at the feet of the statue. Then he took off his diadem and placed the strip of white material on top of the cloak.

  Slowly, Ballista performed proskynesis in front of the statue. He got up and turned back to Odenathus.