Ballista led the invited into the house. In the atrium, a couch was set for the gods of infants, Picumnus and Pilumnus, choice foods on a table close at hand. Near the lectisternium, a small fire burned on a portable altar. It was all well done, yet Ballista thought it was eccentric of Julia not only to have combined the ceremonies of the raising of the infant and the naming but to have postponed both until his return. She had not even registered Dernhelm's birth and, strictly speaking, in legal terms that should have been done within thirty days of the birth. Still, it was typical of her. She had always been strong-willed, with a streak of unconventionality. He thought they were probably useful attributes for a senator's daughter married off to a man of his barbarian origins.
The human guests were distributed around the two dining rooms opening on to the atrium. With Julia and his two sons, Ballista toured the tables, passing a few polite words with the man on each couch. That done, they took their places, and the food and drink were produced.
Julia sat on an upright chair next to Ballista's couch. She looked the very model of old-fashioned, wifely decorum: polite and attentive, but distant. Barely a drop of wine passed her lips. Ballista made much of his sons. He talked to the chief guests. As ever, Tacitus ate little, nibbling at morsels of bread sprinkled with salt or the odd lettuce leaf. He drank even less. Aurelian made up for him. A whole pheasant was washed down with heroic quantities of red wine. Turpio also ate well, but with more refinement. For a man risen from the ranks, he had exquisite manners. He enlivened his conversation with apt quotations from the more recent poets. Unconsciously, he toyed with the golden ornament on his wrist.
The feast ran on. Looking over at Julia, so very close yet so very far away, Ballista wished it was over. In the end, it was.
Together, the husband and wife said goodbye to their guests. Julia sent the children off with their nurses and dismissed the servants. Then she took Ballista's hand and led him to their bedroom. They made love as they had when they first met.
Afterwards, Julia got up and poured them another drink. Naked in the lamplight, she brought the cups to their bed. A demure Roman wife would have extinguished the lamps. Yes: there was much to be said for her unconventionality.
Propped on one elbow, Ballista told her what had happened to him in Ephesus and what he had done. He told it without elaboration: how he had come to hate the persecution; how he had organized the riot which provided him with the excuse of public order to suspend the executions; how he had arranged the escape of the Christians from the prison by the state agora. As exactly as he could remember them, he told her the treasonous words of Quietus. He told her how he intended to go to Valerian and tell him of the plot of Macrianus.
She listened without interrupting. She remained silent when he had finished. For a moment he thought it would be all right.
'You fool!' Her face was tight with anger. 'You stupid, barbarian fool!'
Ballista said nothing.
'What are these Christians to you? Ignorant, superstitious atheists! You would endanger my sons to help undeserving filth like that? If you were found guilty of treason, your family would suffer. At best, the familia of a man convicted of maiestas is reduced to poverty, and at worst…' She let the words hang, then again snapped, 'Barbarian fool!'
Ballista felt his anger rising. These fucking Romans. Always ready with the 'barbarian' insult. Even Julia. Well, the emperor Pupienus had given Ballista Roman citizenship for killing a tyrant while, all those three hundred or so years ago, Julius Caesar had given Julia's distant ancestor Gaius Julius Volcatius Gallicanus the same for helping enslave his fellow Gauls. Volcatius Gallicanus — the man from the Volcae Arecomici tribe of Gaul. The founder of Julia's noble house had been a long-haired barbarian from the north. The thought calmed Ballista.
'What should I do about Macrianus' plot to elevate his sons to the purple?' Ballista hoped the change of subject would divert her anger. It did not.
'What plot? It is just the stupid words of a stupid, pampered youth. There is no plot.'
'I think it is real. I must warn Valerian.'
Julia snorted with derision. 'And do you think you will just walk up to the palace, see Valerian on his own, and convince him his most trusted friend, his Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, is plotting to overthrow him? After all these years, how can even a northern barbarian be so naive? No one gets to see the emperor without Macrianus' permission.'
'I think it is real. I must do something.'
Julia swept her hand dismissively. The cup, forgotten in her grip, slopped wine on to the coverlet. 'You can do nothing. If you were out of Valerian's favour after Circesium, now you will be in deep disgrace for your complete failure in Ephesus — even if no one comes forward to inform against you.' She stood up, put down the cup and pulled a robe round herself. She walked to the door. She turned. 'I will go to the palace tomorrow and register the birth of our son. If I were you, I would keep well out of the way of the emperor and his court. And well out of mine.' She left.
Ballista did not move. What was it that old Republican senator had said? Given the nature of women, the married state is almost intolerable, but being a bachelor is worse — something on those lines. If it was not for the boys… But Ballista's anger was not deep, little more than a reaction to Julia's. It was slipping away already.
Clearly, no one was going to believe that Macrianus was plotting for his sons to take the throne. Equally, just going uninvited to Valerian and telling him his most trusted friend was going to betray him was not a good idea. Ballista took a drink. He looked at the crumpled bed. He wondered how long Julia's anger would last.
XXIV
Comes Augusti (Spring AD260)
'Who is this with the white crest that leads the army's van?'
— Julian, De Caesaribus 313B; quoting Euripides, Phoenissae 120
As everyone was ignoring him, Ballista studied the swan. It had been caught down by the river a couple of months earlier, just after the long-awaited announcement of the Persian expedition. The swan had been brought up to the temple of Zeus in the main agora of Antioch. Although its wings had not been clipped, it had not flown away. Instead, it passed its days strutting around the sacred precinct. Zeus had changed into a swan to seduce Leda. That a bird so associated with the king of the gods should make its home in his temple was generally taken as a good omen for the forthcoming war.
Certainly, a good omen was welcome. There had been others; they had all been bad. Up at Daphne, from a clear sky a violent wind had torn down several of the sacred cypress trees — the trees, thought Ballista, which Isangrim had said he would chop down. Although he had not been present, the northerner had been told that, during the last meeting of the emperor's consilium, the huge beams of cedar that supported the palace roof had groaned like souls in torment. At the same moment, in the outer hall, the statue of the deified emperor Trajan, that great conqueror of the east, had dropped the orb which signified mastery of the world. Among the superstitious, there was talk of the birth of a horribly deformed child.
Undoubtedly, the swan was welcome. It was a fine-looking bird. Ballista sadly thought of farmers in the imperium sowing shut the eyelids of swans so that, in their darkness, they would fatten better. As the number of men in the precinct increased, the majestic bird removed itself to behind the open-air altar.
A hand touched Ballista's elbow. He turned to see the close-cropped head of Aurelian. Beyond him was the sardonic face of Turpio. It was good that not everyone had disowned him. It had been a bad nine months since he came back from Ephesus. Until today, no summons had come from the imperial palace. Instead, after a few days, a praetorian had hammered on the door demanding Ballista hand over his letter of appointment as Vicarius to the Governor of Asia. After that, Ballista had been ignored. Julia had persuaded her husband that he should not petition the emperor for permission to leave Antioch and return to their home in Sicily. It was best to keep the lowest of profiles. Following her outburst on his return, Julia's tem
per had cooled, her practical nature reasserting itself, but a slight strain remained. The worst of it was that she still did not believe that Macrianus the Lame was plotting against Valerian. None of the few that Ballista had told did: not Aurelian nor Turpio, not even Maximus or Calgacus. They all readily accepted what Quietus had said, but they all put it down to the wild temper of a petulant youth. Just as no one would allow a cripple such as Macrianus on the throne, so no one would follow two spoilt brats such as his sons Quietus and Macrianus the Younger if they seized the purple. Besides, Julia added, their father was of the basest origins.
Ballista watched the courtyard filling up with the good and great of the imperium, the high commanders who would travel with Valerian to the east. He wondered why he had been recalled. His friends and familia argued that, at such a time, an experienced commander who had faced the Sassanids in the field was not to be overlooked. He was not so sure. What was it Quietus had said? 'When my father decides your usefulness is at an end, then I will kill you.' Silently, Ballista made a vow. Far from being useful to Macrianus the Lame, he would do everything he could to put a stop to the plot of the sinister Comes Largitionum. The northerner had no great love for Valerian, but he would not stand by and watch the elderly emperor overthrown. There had been too many coups, too many insurrections; they weakened the very fabric of the imperium. And, one day — maybe not on this campaign, maybe not even soon, but one day — he would kill Macrianus' repulsive son Quietus. Allfather, Woden-born as I am, hear my vow.
The booming voice of a herald announced the most sacred Augustus Publius Licinius Valerian, Pontifex Maximus, Pater Patriae, Germanicus Maximus, Invictus, Restitutor Orbis. As the sonorous titles rang out, every man in the precinct performed proskynesis. Stretched out on the ground, Ballista watched the small procession. Valerian looked old, his step infirm. As ever in public these days, he was flanked not just by Successianus, the praetorian prefect, but also by the Comes Largitionum. Click went Macrianus' walking stick; his lame foot dragged; his sound one took a step. Click, drag, step; click, drag, step.
The imperial fire on its small altar was ceremoniously placed in front of the great altar of Zeus. The audience got to their feet. Out of sight, the swan hissed.
Valerian intoned a prayer to Zeus, let the king of the gods look favourably on the expedition, let him hold his hands over the army. The emperor's voice was high, reedy. At one point he seemed to lose his way. He looked to Macrianus. The Comes Largitionum nodded and smiled encouragingly, as one would to a child.
As priests brought fire to the great altar, the swan emerged. Its little black eyes regarded them with suspicion. Then it began to run, its wide wings beating. It took to the air. The front row of dignitaries cowered as it swept over their heads, the wind of its passing ruffling their hair and the folds of their togas.
The swan soared up to the height of the cornice of the temple. Then, stretching out its long neck, it circled the sacred building. As it flew, it sang, a low, mournful warble. After its third circuit, it climbed higher. The spring sunshine played through the feathers at the back of its huge wings. It turned and, following the line of the main street, flew out over the Beroea Gate and away to the east.
As everyone silently watched the dwindling shape, Macrianus seized the moment. He pointed after the swan with his walking stick. 'Behold,' he shouted, his voice resolute, 'a sign! The piety of our beloved emperor is rewarded. The gods approve. Zeus himself leads the way!'
Men cheered. They shook back their togas and applauded. Some prostrated themselves. Others literally jumped for joy. 'Zeus leads the way!' 'Zeus leads the way!'
Amidst the jubilant throng, Ballista stood silent. For sure it looked like a sign from the gods. But a sign of what? The swan, the bird from Zeus' precinct, had flown without them. Of its own choice, it had flown away to the east, away towards Shapur, the King of Kings. Turpio, newly raised to equestrian rank and appointed Praefectus Castrorum of the imperial field army, sat on his horse and looked at his special area of responsibility. The baggage train stretched for miles. On paper, the army was seventy thousand strong, fighting men drawn from all over the imperium. How big the baggage train was, no one knew. Turpio guessed it was at least half as big again. It contained every type of wagon and cart, every breed of draught animal — horses, mules, donkeys, camels — slaves, numberless merchants offering all sorts of goods: drink, food, weapons, glimpses of the future, their own bodies or those of others.
The unwieldy tail of the army straggled about in no sort of order. Turpio had been given just one unit of Dalmatian cavalry, nominally five hundred men, in reality not much over three hundred, to keep them in line.
Still, the journey so far had gone reasonably well. They had marched in easy stages from Antioch, via Hagioupolis and Regia, to reach the Euphrates at Zeugma. Now they were moving north, the mighty river off to their right, up to Samosata. Until they arrived there, they should be safe enough within the borders of the imperium.
When they crossed the Euphrates at Samosata, things would be very different. Then they would face the eastern horde. Shapur had taken the field in early spring. The King of Kings had divided his army and was besieging the towns of Edessa and Carrhae in Mesopotamia. The Roman plan was very simple. A detachment under the ex-consul Valens had remained in Zeugma to prevent any Sassanid attempt to move west and invade the provinces of Syria. Another sizable detachment, under the Comes Largitionum Macrianus, would stay in Samosata to likewise block the road north to the provinces of Asia Minor. The remainder of the field army, the aged emperor Valerian at its head, would advance south-east from Samosata. If Shapur wished to take Edessa and Carrhae, he must stand and fight.
The plan was straightforward, but Turpio did not think it was good. Carrhae was not a good place for Romans. Long ago, the army of Crassus had been annihilated there; thousands of legionaries were left dead, thousands more marched off to end their days in oriental captivity. Old Crassus himself had been decapitated, his head used as a stage prop in a production of Euripides' Bacchae. Much more recently, in Turpio's childhood, the emperor Caracalla had been killed near there. Riding to the temple of Sin, the moon god, he had dismounted to relieve himself. He had been crouched, trousers round his ankles, when the assassins had come for him. An inglorious death.
And it was more than just the ill-omened name of Carrhae that gave Turpio pause for thought. The army was in little better order than its baggage train. Valerian seemed to lack the will to impose disciplina. There were no regular roll calls, no athletic competitions for the men, no training manoeuvres for the units. If the silver-haired emperor did not impose better order by the time the army marched out of Samosata, disaster beckoned.
From his position on the edge of the bluff, Turpio surveyed the line of march. Below and in front of him, the road crossed the river Marsyas, a tributary of the Euphrates. There was a fine stone bridge. It was wide enough for ten men abreast, but it was a bottleneck for an army of this size. It had taken three days for the majority of the fighting men to cross. The gods alone knew how long it would take the bloated baggage train. As he looked, Turpio saw the huge, purple, sail-like flags that marked the personal baggage of the emperor edging through the crush towards the lip of the bridge. Off to the left, just in front of a stand of eucalyptus trees, a group of Arab nomads watched. Wherever you went in this part of the world, the tent-dwellers appeared from nowhere. They would stand and watch, completely impassive. Usually, they had their herds with them, children running about. But these were just a dozen or so men, standing still, watching.
As Turpio tiredly ran a hand over his face, the gold ring, the symbol of his new membership of the equestrian order, flashed. He turned it this way and that, noting how well it matched the golden bangle he had taken from Shapur's tent, taking pleasure in both of them. He had risen far from being a humble legionary. But he was not going to let it go to his head. Worldly success was transient. A poem came into his head: For mortals, mortal things. And all thi
ngs leave us. Or if they do not, then we leave them. Nice lines, fitting. Their author, Lucian, had been born in Samosata.
Down by the bridge, Turpio could make out the big figure of Ballista. Turpio felt intensely sorry for his friend. Nine months in the wilderness, then recalled to the standards and given the humiliating post of deputy to the Praefectus Castrorum, deputy to his own ex-subordinate. Turpio thought Ballista may well be right that it was a deliberate slight engineered by Macrianus the elder. Not that Turpio believed the northerner's theory that the Comes Sacrorum Largitionum was plotting to overthrow Valerian. Whatever Quietus had shouted in Ephesus was just the juvenile outburst of a spoilt brat. The oily Quietus may have returned to court in something approaching triumph after his inventive massacring of Christians, but no one would stand him or his pampered brother on the throne of the Caesars any more than they would stand the old cripple of a father. Turpio knew that Ballista was hurt that even those closest to him did not give his theory any credence. Still, the northerner was bearing everything stoically. Turpio would do everything he could to make his position as least embarrassing as possible. Worldly success was transient.
Movement to the left of the bridge caught Turpio's eye. More Arabs were coming out of the trees. They were mounted, leading more horses. Those standing were swinging up into the saddle. They were all kicking on towards the bridge. They had spears and bows. There were at least twenty of them. Gods below, the camel-fuckers were raiding the baggage.
Turpio gathered his cloak in one hand and held it above his head, the army signal for enemy in sight. He roared a warning. No one in the jostling throng by the bridge noticed. Although it was a mild spring day, Ballista was sweating heavily. His voice was hoarse from shouting orders. Which was the more bone-headedly recalcitrant, a camel or an imperial porter?
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