King of Kings wor-2

by Harry Sidebottom

  But it would have been less embarrassing for the empire if Ballista had died sword in hand in the ruins of Arete. Dead, he could have been a hero. Alive, he was the walking proof of heartless imperial duplicity, a continual reminder that the emperors had cynically sacrificed two units of Roman soldiers and an entire city for the greater good. You bastards, you lied. There never was a relief force. You sent me there to die.

  The hangings parted and Cledonius reappeared. He gestured Ballista to come. The asymmetrical face was mask-like, revealing not a flicker of emotion. Ballista began to smile at the contrast between the short, neatly trimmed beard and carefully forward-combed hair of the ab Admissionibus and his own long, filthy locks and several days' stubble.

  The hanging fell behind them and they were plunged into almost complete darkness. They stood still, just listening to their own breathing.

  With no warning, the inner hangings were pulled back and Ballista was momentarily blinded by the rush of light. Squinting, he peered into the audience chamber of Imperator Caesar Publius Licinius Valerianus Augustus, Pontifex Maximus, Pater Patriae, Germanicus Maximus, Invictus, Restitutor Orbis.

  As befitted his role as mediator between mankind and the gods, the emperor Valerian appeared suspended in mid-air. He was bathed in bright sunlight from the windows of the great apse where he sat. His toga gleamed painfully white and rays flashed from the golden wreath on his head. The emperor's face was immobile. His gaze was fixed on the distance, over the heads of mere mortals, far beyond the confines of the palace. As the Romans deemed right, the emperor looked as remote as a statue.

  As Ballista's eyes adjusted, he saw the low altar where the sacred fire burned at the foot of the steps up to the throne. He took in the Praetorian Prefect, Successianus, standing at the right shoulder of the emperor, the row of secretaries behind his left.

  Cledonius touched Ballista's elbow and they set off to walk slowly the length of the long audience chamber. In front of the pillars on either side sat the members of the consilium, a dozen or so of the great men of the empire, as still and quiet as cowed schoolboys. Out of the corner of his eye Ballista saw the sons of Macrianus glowering. The face of their father, longer schooled in the ways of the court, was expressionless. Near them, Ballista saw another man he thought that he recognized. The artfully curled hair and beard, the supercilious expression reminded him of someone. In his fatigue the recognition remained tantalizingly out of reach.

  They stopped just short of the sacred fire.

  'Marcus Clodius Ballista, Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome.' The voice of the ab Admissionibus was reverent but carried well.

  Valerian remained motionless, his gaze still far away.

  At a sign from Cledonius, Ballista advanced to the foot of the steps and performed proskynesis, adoration. Hoping that his reluctance was not evident, the northerner lowered himself to his knees then prostrated himself full length on the floor.

  Still Valerian did not look at him. But after a while the emperor held out one of his hands. Ballista got to his feet and, bowing, kissed the proffered heavy gold ring, set with a gem cut with an image of an eagle.

  At last the emperor looked down at the man in front of him. The thin, delicate leaves of the golden wreath rustled.

  'Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista, carissime Dux Ripae, my dear Commander of the Riverbanks.'

  Ballista looked up at the emperor. There was the prominent chin, the fleshy cheeks and neck. Now the sparse, carefully groomed moustache and whiskers framed a mouth that was set, eyes that contained no warmth. The word carissime was never more of a formality.

  The emperor looked at Ballista. The northerner looked back at the emperor. A Roman would have looked away, would have respectfully dropped his eyes. Ballista was buggered if he was going to look away. Motes of dust moved lazily in the sunlight.

  At length the elderly emperor nodded, as if to confirm something to himself, and spoke.

  'Marcus Clodius Ballista, tell the sacred consilium the things that have happened to you and the things that you have done. Take the floor.'

  Ballista carefully walked a few steps backwards, stopping just beyond the low altar of the imperial fire. Cledonius had melted into the background. Ballista was alone in the middle of the chamber. He was very aware of the members of the consilium seated on either side, but he kept his gaze and all his attention on the old man on the elevated throne.

  What has happened to me! No one knows better than you what has happened to me. You and your son betrayed me. Gave me false promises and sent me to my death. You bastard! Ballista swayed slightly. He was light-headed. He knew that he had to control himself. He started to talk.

  'Last autumn, following the mandata, instructions, given to me by the emperors Valerian and Gallienus, I travelled to the city of Arete on the Euphrates River. I arrived thirteen days before the kalends of December. The seasonal rains began the next day. Over the winter I readied the defences of the city. The Sassanid Persians came in April when there was grass for their horses and no more rain to dampen their bows. They were led by Shapur, the King of Kings, in person.'

  A faint rustle like a shiver ran through the consilium at the mention of the great enemy of Rome, the eastern barbarian who had the audacity to claim equality with the Roman master of the world.

  'The Sassanids assaulted the walls first with siege towers, then with a huge ram. We threw them back both times. Many of Shapur's men died. The plain before the city was a charnel house.'

  Ballista paused, fighting his weariness to put his memories in order.

  'The Sassanids built a siege ramp to overtop our walls. We collapsed it. They undermined a stretch of the city wall and one of the towers, but our earth banks held the defences upright.'

  Ballista took a deep breath.

  'Shapur ordered one final assault. It failed like the others. Then… then, that night, the city was betrayed.'

  There was an audible intake of breath from the consilium. Even the emperor involuntarily leaned forward. Ballista did not wait for the inevitable question.

  'Christians. The Christians were the traitors.'

  There was a low babble of voices. Valerian shot a significant look at one of his advisors — which one? Macrianus possibly? — then again nodded as if something had been confirmed to him.

  The rising murmur of voices ceased like a lamp snuffed out as a silentarius stepped into view.

  The emperor sat back on his throne, recomposing himself into a suitably dignified immobility. After a time he spoke.

  'The city fell, and you are here.' The imperial voice was neutral.

  Ballista felt a hot jet of anger rising in himself. 'With a few companions, I cut my way out of the city. Nothing in my mandata said that I had to die there.'

  Valerian betrayed no response, but on either side the members of the consilium grew even stiller. Ballista was tired and he was angry, but he knew that he had to be very careful or his words would yet see him executed. Everyone waited for the emperor's next words. The emperor's will was law. There was no appeal from his verdict. As a Roman citizen, Ballista would have the advantage of being beheaded and not nailed to a cross.

  'Our nature is merciful. We are filled with clementia, clemency. Let no one think that we would ever order one of our subjects to his death. We are not an oriental despot like Shapur the Persian, intent on enslaving the world, but the bulwark and embodiment of libertas, freedom.' A mutter of assent ran round the consilium. 'Who has a question for the Dux Ripae?' Valerian gestured.

  Ballista half-turned. The man rising to speak was the one who had looked familiar as Ballista entered the audience chamber. That long, artfully curled hair, a short, neatly barbered beard, with at its bottom a ruff of hair teased out — Allfather, if I were not so tired, I would be able to place this man.

  'What happened to my brother?'

  Ballista stared stupidly. His mind was blank.

  'My brother, the commander of the legionary det
achment in Arete, my brother, Marcus Acilius Glabrio.'

  Memories flooded into Ballista. He wondered how to say what he had to say.

  'My brother?' The voice was tense, impatient.

  'Your brother… your brother died a hero's death. The Persians were catching us. With one other, your brother said he would delay them. He said that, like Horatius, he would hold the bridge. None of us would have got away without his sacrifice. He died a death worthy of a patrician family of Rome, worthy of the Acilii Glabriones. A hero.'

  There was a pause.

  'You left him to die.' There was raw fury in the patrician tones. 'A jumped-up barbarian like you left a patrician of Rome to die. You left him to be cut down while you ran away.' The young nobleman's anger choked his words.

  'It was his choice. He volunteered. I did not order him.' Ballista was not going to let himself be abused by a spoilt, pampered brat of the Roman nobility.

  'You barbarian bastard. You will pay for the death of my brother. I, Gaius Acilius Glabrio, swear it by the gods below.'

  The young patrician would have said more, he was even moving towards Ballista, when two silentarii appeared and, without words, herded him back to his seat.

  'If there are no other questions?' The emperor's words cut across everyone's thoughts. 'Arete has fallen. The road is open for the Persians, to Northern Mesopotamia, to Cappadocia. The time of troubles has returned. Again, as just three years ago, the road lies open for Shapur — to Syria, here to Antioch, to the heart of our empire. Bitter war looms. Each one of us can ponder in private the implications of the news brought by the Dux Ripae. We will meet again in four days' time at the tenth hour in the evening after the circus. The consilium is over.'

  The emperor stood up, and everyone else prostrated themselves as he walked out.

  Bitter war looms, thought Ballista. When he faced Shapur again he would not fail. He would not let himself be betrayed again.

  As they got to their feet, Cledonius quickly took Ballista's arm and led him from the audience chamber.

  Outside in the sunshine, the ab Admissionibus kept them moving at some speed towards the main gate.

  'Impressive, Ballista, most impressive, even by your standards. You have been back at the imperial court for less than a morning and already you have made two lots of extremely dangerous new enemies.' Cledonius adjusted his grip on the northerner's arm.

  'First you make an enemy of Macrianus, the Comes Largitionum, one of the richest and most powerful men in the empire. A man who has two active and dangerous sons. Then, not content with that, you manage to make Gaius Acilius Glabrio, a strong-willed member of about the noblest family in the imperium, to swear an oath of vengeance against you. Very impressive.'

  Ballista shrugged. He decided it was not the moment to tell Cledonius about Videric and the Borani — and, anyway, they were hardly new enemies…

  'Luckily for you,' Cledonius said, as he steered Ballista through the great courtyard, 'very luckily for you, some of my servants are outside the gate with saddled horses.'

  'What?' In his surprise Ballista stopped. 'Are you suggesting that I ride out of the city? What — go into hiding or flee across the borders?'

  Cledonius' long face split into a huge grin. 'No. I just thought that, in your condition, the horses would make it easier to get across town to see your wife. You did know that she was here in Antioch?'

  II

  'And that is the Donkey-drowner.' Cledonius' words only registered on the surface of Ballista's thoughts. In truth, nothing had penetrated deeper since the ab Admissionibus had said that the northerner's wife was in the city.

  'Flooding is a great problem here in Antioch in the rainy season. From November through to March — even April in some years — heavy cloudbursts fall up on Mount Silpius, and the water pours down into the city. Every gully turns into a flash flood — the Parmenios river is the worst, that is why the locals call it the Donkey-drowner.'

  Why is he telling me this? Ballista wondered. He had spent a week in Antioch the previous year. Julia is here. Isangrim, my beautiful son is here. With a horrible lurch, Ballista realized that he had just assumed that Isangrim would be with Julia. He had not asked. Allfather, Deep Hood, Long Beard, Fulfiller of Desire, let my son be here.

  'Back in the reign of Tiberius, they had a magician called Ablakkon set up a talisman against the floods. They are very proud of it, not that it seems to do much good.'

  Of course, there was no reason that Cledonius should know that Ballista had spent a week in Antioch. What would Isangrim look like? How tall would he be now? It was thirteen months and twenty-two days since Ballista had seen him. He would be four and a half now. Allfather, One-eyed, Terrible One, let the boy recognize me.

  Cledonius was still talking. 'Up there, you can see…'

  And Julia… What would she look like? Ballista pictured the black — very black — eyes, the olive skin, the black hair tumbling to her shoulders. Julia — the daughter of a long line of Roman senators, married to a barbarian diplomatic hostage become Roman officer — how would she welcome him? He thought of her tall but rounded body, the firm breasts, the swell of her hips. Over a year without a woman; Allfather, he wanted her.

  '… the Iron Gate, a complicated system of sluices.' Sensing Ballista's distraction, Cledonius sounded slightly put out. 'I thought that, as a military engineer, you might be interested.'

  'No, I'm sorry, it's very interesting.' I can add it to the water clock at the palace as another piece of hydraulic engineering to study while the emperor decides my fate, Ballista thought sourly.

  They turned their horses past the temple of Zeus, out of the omphalos, the 'navel' of the city, and into the main street. The great colonnaded street of Tiberius and Herod ran for about two miles right across the city. Unsurprisingly in a city of a quarter of a million people, it was crowded. Numberless kiosks were jammed between the columns on either side. They sheltered a bewildering range of merchants: greengrocers, goldsmiths, stonemasons, barbers, weavers, perfumers, sellers of cheese, vinegar, figs and wood. Ballista studied the cabins with their brushwood roofs. He could detect no order in their arrangement. More respectable trades, silversmiths and bakers, were jammed up against cobblers and tavern keepers.

  Cledonius turned. His long, lop-sided face was smiling. 'They say that each clings to his pitch as Odysseus clung to the wild fig tree above the cave of the monster Charybdis.'

  Ballista thought about this. The poetry of Homer was common currency among the elites of the imperium, its use an empire-wide badge of status. 'Does it mean that the sites are too lucrative to lose, or that if they lose them they will fall into an abyss of abject poverty?'

  Cledonius' face did not change; it continued to smile an open, guileless smile, but he looked sharply at Ballista. It was easy to underestimate this barbarian. Never easier than now, when, muddied and bloody, he looked like everyone's idea of a big, witless northerner. It was all too easy to forget that he had been brought into the empire as a teenager and educated at the imperial court. Cledonius thought that only a fool would gratuitously make an enemy of this man.

  'Off to our left is the main theatre. It contains a wonderful statue of the muse Calliope as the Tyche, the Fortune, of Antioch.' The ab Admissionibus resumed his soothing chatter. 'Some of the more ignorant locals think…'

  After a time they turned left into a side street heading up towards the foothills of Mount Silpius. Soon they were deep in the residential district of Epiphania: on either side, well-built houses of limestone and basalt. The horses stretched out their necks and trod carefully as the street steepened. Over everything loomed the switchback wall of the mountain.

  They passed the Temple of Dionysus, and Cledonius pulled up in front of a large townhouse. The long blank wall of the residence was broken by a gate flanked by two columns of imported marble. A porter appeared.

  'Tell the Domina Julia that her husband has returned,' Cledonius said.

  For a moment the porter se
emed confused, looking at the small cavalcade. With a miniscule gesture Cledonius indicated Ballista. Smartly the porter stepped over and held the bridle of Ballista's horse as the northerner dismounted.

  'Welcome home, Dominus.' The porter bowed. Presumably he was either a hired local or a recent purchase. As Ballista thanked and said goodbye to Cledonius the porter ordered a boy to run and inform the domina of the happy event.

  'Please follow me, Dominus.'

  Ballista watched Cledonius and his servants ride on, then turned and followed the porter.

  As they entered the house they walked over a mosaic of a naked hunchback sporting an improbably large erection. Obviously the owner of the rented house was a man of some superstition, who feared the envy of his fellow townsmen. Ballista smiled. There were many worse grotesques that could deflect the evil eye from one's front door, and this one to some extent mirrored what was on Ballista's mind.

  At the end of a long dark corridor was an open courtyard. Ballista stopped when he emerged into the sunshine. There was a pool in the middle, reflecting dappled light up on to the surrounding columns. He looked into it. At the bottom was another mosaic. This one was an innocent scene of marine life: fishes, a dolphin and an octopus.

  Ballista hesitated. He leant on one of the columns and closed his eyes. The reflected sunlight played on his closed eyelids. He felt strangely nervous and unsure. How would Julia receive him? It had been a long time. Would she still want him? With a sick feeling, he faced up to a fear he seldom let himself consider. Had she taken a lover? The morality of the metropolis, let alone that of the imperial court, was not that of his northern upbringing. There was no point hanging around here. Do not think, just act. Somehow the mantra that he had used to force himself through so many things seemed singularly inappropriate here.