'Get those fucking wagons in line astern.'
Faces looked at him with incomprehension or dumb insolence. So this was what it had come to: the son of the warleader of the Angles, a Roman Dux, reduced to little better than a porter himself. Ballista realized his post as deputy to the Praefectus Castrorum was a deliberate slight. Still, if Macrianus thought injured pride would cause Ballista to slip up, he was mistaken.
'You there, with the emperor's charger, go next. You, with the imperial chariot, hold back here near me. The rest of you, with the wagons, wait over there where you are. There is only width on the bridge for one of you at a time.' His voice was almost lost in the braying of animals and shouting of men. The nearest wagon driver was not paying the least attention. He was looking over the northerner's head. Ballista filled his lungs to curse him. The man dived over the far side of the wagon. Something thumped into the wood next to Ballista. Shrill yells filled the air.
Ballista turned. An arrow was coming straight at him. He leapt sideways. The arrow missed by a hand's breadth. There were about twenty Arabs, mounted, armed, closing fast. He looked around. Chaos everywhere. Baggage handlers screaming, running, some trying to hide under wagons, others throwing themselves over the parapet of the bridge. A couple of Dalmatian cavalrymen, dismounted like himself, were nearby, standing open-mouthed. He roared at them to form up on him. They shuffled either side of him. The three men were without helmets, armour or shields. Ballista drew his sword and wrapped his black cloak around his left arm. He missed Maximus at his side. Typical of the Hibernian to choose this moment to go and see to their horses.
The tent-dwellers sheered off to either side. They had no intention of fighting armed men if they were not forced. They were intent on plunder and the easy pleasure of killing the unresisting. Just to Ballista's right, by the columns that marked the start of the bridge, half a dozen raiders surrounded the purple, gem-encrusted chariot and its four almost snow-white horses. The groom who had been too slow to flee was cut down. One of the Arabs jumped into the chariot. He was gathering the reins.
Calling for the Dalmatians to follow, Ballista ran to the chariot. An Arab spun his horse, jabbed his spear. Ballista sidestepped, caught the shaft in his left hand and tugged. The rider was yanked forward, half out of the saddle. Ballista brought his sword down on his skull. It cracked like the shell of a snail. Blood and brains splashed hot in Ballista's face.
Ducking under the hooves of the rearing horse, Ballista vaulted up into the chariot. Wrestling with the reins, the Arab did not see him coming. Ballista thrust the point of his sword into the driver's back. He twisted the blade, withdrew it, the man screamed and toppled out sideways. The battle-trained pale grey horses stood motionless.
Ballista turned. He was alone. The Dalmatian cavalrymen were gone, swallowed up in the melee. The northerner was surrounded by four mounted raiders. They would fight now. They wanted revenge for their slaughtered kinsmen. For a few moments, the five men and eight horses were a still point in the eye of the storm.
Ballista sensed as much as saw the Arab over his left shoulder throw his spear. He swivelled and, gripping his sword two-handed, batted the missile away, inches from his face. He spun through 360 degrees. The other three did not move.
The one who had thrown his spear unslung his bow. He pulled an arrow from his quiver. He grinned. The others were grinning, their teeth very white in their long, dark beards. The bowman notched the arrow. He drew the bow. One of the others laughed.
Out of the confusion, a Dalmatian soldier launched himself at the bow-armed Arab. With no fuss, the raider shot him through the chest. The soldier staggered back. Hands clutching uselessly at the black-feathered shaft, he fell.
There was a surge of noise. Another tent-dweller galloped up. In a high, urgent voice, he yelled at the men facing Ballista. They hesitated. The newcomer yelled again, turning his own horse back the way they had come. Reluctantly, the others booted their mounts and, shouting over their shoulders what were threats in any language, raced after him.
A small body of cavalry headed by Turpio appeared from the left and thundered after the raiders. There was little likelihood it would catch them.
All around Ballista was utter chaos: dead and dying men and beasts; clouds of dust; deafening noise. Up on the bridge proper, Valerian's war horse was rearing and plunging. The groom hanging on its back was incapable of controlling the maddened stallion. There was a vicious crimson gash along the animal's flank. A stable lad ran to try to grab its bridle. With a wild eye, the charger span away on its hind legs. It bucked. Reared up again. And then, almost too quickly to be comprehended, it jumped clean over the parapet.
With a resounding splash, horse and groom vanished beneath the waters of the Marsyas.
XXV
Almost all the men arriving at the imperial headquarters in Samosata had either neatly sewn little bags of herbs or perfume-drenched rolls of material wedged in their ears and pushed up their noses. They were very frightened. Some of those invited to the emperor's consilium actually rattled, they wore so many protective amulets.
Turpio had been no more concerned than most when it started. A couple of days after the army had crossed the Marsyas river, the camp dogs had started dying. No one had given it much thought. As they marched north, the turquoise waters of the Euphrates on their right, the strangely flat-topped grey cliffs to their left and again on the other side of the river, it spread to the baggage animals. By the time they were following the great river to the east, some of the Moorish light cavalry were complaining of an eye infection. Within twenty-four hours, those affected were so disorientated they seemed not to recognize their closest companions. They began to vomit and suffer uncontrollable diarrhoea. Then the dreadful pustules appeared. Men from other units began to be struck down, too. The line of march was marked by hastily dug graves. By the time the army reached Samosata, no one talked of anything else. Plague is a terrible thing. The first part of the prediction of Appian, the Christian martyr of Ephesus, had come true.
Turpio paused for a moment to get his breath back after the steep climb to the citadel. In front of him was the residence of the Roman governor of the province of Commagene, which Valerian had taken over as his campaign headquarters. Once, it had been the palace of the independent kings of Commagene. It was a strange building, made of diamond-patterned small blocks of limestone. Over the gate was a newly cut inscription: 'Phoebus, the unshorn god, keep off the plague's dark onset.'
Turpio took a deep breath and moved on. His nose and ears were unplugged, but that was not because he was unafraid. Coming up through the town, he had hurriedly walked a block out of his way when he heard the bells of the libitinarii, the carriers-out of the dead, in the street ahead. He was very scared. But he had always had a particularly acute sense of smell. Strong-smelling herbs or perfume in his nostrils, or even in his ears, would have been insufferable.
The throne and dais at the end of the basilica were unoccupied so far. Below them, the consilium was filling up. One man was standing with a space around him. Turpio hesitated. A man of prudence might not choose to stand with Ballista. The loss of the imperial charger under the waters of the Marsyas had deepened the impression that the northerner was out of imperial favour.
Turpio walked over and stood next to Ballista. They nodded to each other. Now the plague had struck, no one embraced. Turpio ignored the covert glances of the others. When Turpio and Ballista first met, the northerner could have had him executed for corruption. Instead, Ballista had promoted him, had given him his trust. Now Turpio knew it was his turn to show fides, good faith. Besides, Turpio liked the man. The big northerner had never asked how it was that Turpio had come to be blackmailed. Not that Turpio would have told him; that secret would go to the grave with him. But it was good of the man not to ask.
The basilica was hung everywhere with swags of laurel, that sure preventative of plague. Its pervasive odour formed the base to a riot of other scents. Turpio felt slightly
nauseous. The Danubian Aurelian joined Turpio and Ballista. Since Tacitus had been posted to the west, they were the only two that stood with the northerner.
A herald announced the emperor Valerian. The principes, the leading men of the imperium, dipped their faces to the floor in respect. Turpio noticed that the floor had not been properly swept. There were no charms or sweet-smelling prophylactics on the person of Valerian. His courage had never been in question. But he looked old and frail. As he made his way down the aisle, he held the arm of Macrianus. Click-drag-step. Click-drag-step. It would take little imagination, thought Turpio, to see it as an omen: the aged seeking support from the infirm.
When the imperial party had ascended the dais, the members of the consilium rose to their feet and shouted ritual acclamations of good health that went on a long time.
Eventually, Valerian cleared his throat and began to speak in a voice that seemed to struggle for breath. 'Far-shooting Phoebus Apollo has sent his plague arrows amongst us. Rumours run through the camp. Some talk of the past. A hundred years ago. A shadowy temple in Babylonia. A golden casket wrenched open by Roman soldiers. An evil released on the imperium. Superstitious nonsense!' He paused. 'Some talk of the present. Criminals at dead of night. Flitting through the dark. Poisoned needles in hand. Bringing death to the unsuspecting. All nonsense! Superstitious nonsense!
'The real explanation of this evil is at hand.' The old emperor looked fondly, almost devotedly, at Macrianus. 'Christians! Our orders for persecution have not been implemented with true religious zeal. The gods punish us, Phoebus Apollo unleashes his arrows on us, because still we let many of these atheists live.' Valerian's voice began to fill out with an almost youthful vigour.
'All this will change tomorrow. Through the piety of our devoted friend Macrianus and the diligence of the head of the frumentarii, Censorinus, those disgusting atheists here in Samosata have been apprehended. There are many of them. Men and women. Tomorrow they will burn. Their ashes will be scattered to the four winds.'
A wistful look came into the emperor's eyes. 'All will be well. Long-haired Apollo will turn aside his bow. The kindly gods will hold their hands over us again. Our subjects will behold in the broad plains the crops already ripe with waving ears of corn, the meadows brilliant with plants and flowers, the weather temperate and mild. The strength of our arms will return. The Persian reptiles will flee before us. United we will conquer. Let us rejoice. Through our piety, through our sacrifices and veneration, the natural gods, the most powerful gods, will have been propitiated. The gods will smile on our endeavours. Let us rejoice!'
As the basilica echoed to the acclamations of his piety and wisdom, the silver-haired emperor slumped back on to his throne as if exhausted. After the thirty-fifth 'Valerian, happy are you in your piety, safe are you in the love of the gods, safe are you in our love,' it was quiet. Macrianus came forward to the edge of the dais. He leaned on his walking stick topped with the silver effigy of Alexander the Great. 'Comites Augusti, Companions of the Augustus, our noble emperor desires your advice on how to proceed against the Persians. He commands you to speak freely.'
Several hands shot up. Macrianus indicated that his own amicus, Maeonius Astyanax, should speak. 'There can be no doubt that the sagacity and piety of the emperor will avert the displeasure of the gods and sweep away the plague. But some five thousand fighting men have died, many more are sick. Just as it does with a man, it takes an army time to recover from illness. We are in no condition to campaign. We must stay here in Samosata and convalesce. An embassy must be sent to the Sassanids to negotiate a truce. The envoys should take rich gifts, the sort of luxuries that turn the head of an avaricious barbarian such as Shapur.'
There was a general rumble of approval. As Macrianus gave Pomponius Bassus the right to speak, it occurred to Turpio that the lame courtier had usurped the role of the ab Admissionibus. That functionary stood impotently at the back of the dais. Cledonius appeared to be fuming.
Striking an oratorical pose, Pomponius Bassus began. 'There is a time for war and a time for peace. A time for tears and a time for rejoicing.' Turpio heard Ballista exhale with irritation as the nobleman's sententious phrases rolled out. 'A time for love and a time to hate.'
Four more of the comites had spoken in favour of the proposal when Ballista raised his hand. Turpio was surprised, and even more so when Macrianus gave the northerner permission to speak. Out of the corner of his eye, Turpio thought he saw the sons of Macrianus smirking.
'With all due respect, I do not agree.' There was silence at Ballista's words. 'To open negotiations is to show weakness, never more so than in time of war. It will only serve to encourage the superbia of the eastern barbarians. To initiate diplomacy is not the Roman way. Embassies come to the emperor. He does not send them. Has not emperor after emperor interpreted embassies from the Indies and beyond as tokens of submission?'
A hostile muttering ran through the basilica. Ballista ploughed on. 'We should not remain in Samosata. Plague comes to armies that remain in camp. We should take the field. If we impose strict disciplina on the march to Edessa, issue rigorous orders for hygiene and the digging of latrines, the plague is more likely to abate.' One or two of the comites, led by Quietus, sniggered.
Macrianus gave Piso Frugi permission to have the floor. Another of Macrianus' creatures, thought Turpio. 'While I will bow to Ballista's knowledge of barbarians and latrines' — he paused for laughter — 'I think none of us here need his advice on the ways of the Romans.' There was more laughter. 'The previous speakers were right. We must buy time with glittering trinkets.'
Amid the roar of approval, Macrianus turned and smiled encouragingly at the emperor. The hubbub died as Valerian laboriously got to his feet. 'We have heard your opinions. We thank you for them. Free speech is the heart of libertas. We have made up our mind. An embassy will be sent to Shapur. It will take costly gifts. It will speak soft words. It will make a truce. It is the Roman way to send young men, those not yet of the highest rank, to deal with barbarians. The ambassadors will be the son of our beloved Comes Sacrarum Largitionum Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus, the fierce young fighter from the Danube Lucius Domitius Aurelian and Marcus Clodius Ballista.' As soon as he had stopped talking, Valerian reached for the arm of Macrianus and left.
Both Ballista and Aurelian looked utterly dumbfounded. Quietus, however, appeared merely pleased.
Outside, Turpio stood waiting for other members of the consilium to finish congratulating Aurelian and Ballista. Fair-weather friends, he thought. From the town stretched out below him came the bells of the libitinarii, accompanying the carrying out of more of the dead.
Turpio really could not believe Ballista's claim that Macrianus was plotting to overthrow Valerian. But, every day, the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum seemed to have more control over the aged emperor. The consilium had been carefully orchestrated. It did seem that the lame one could do whatever he wished. Turpio wondered why Macrianus had chosen to have his son Quietus accompanied on the embassy by Aurelian and Ballista. Certainly the hateful courtier did nothing without a reason. Turpio played some lines of poetry over in his mind. May the earth cover your corpse lightly, loathsome Macrianus, so that the dogs have less trouble digging you up. Across the river from Samosata, the road to Edessa ran over high plains and rolling hills. It was a dry landscape. Already in April the yellow-grey, sometimes reddish, soil was powdered and dusty. Sometimes, away from the road, the hills bunched up into real mountains, bare and closely folded, but Ballista was surprised by the general openness of the terrain. He was not pleased. He had thought the countryside would be more rugged, unsuitable for large numbers of horsemen. He had thought that, when the infantry-based army of the Romans finally marched, it would be reasonably sheltered, at least as far as Edessa, from the cavalry horde of the Sassanids. Now he knew that would not be the case.
The embassy was moving very slowly. Each of the three ambassadors had brought their servants; just a few for Aurelian and Ballista
himself, a glittering cavalcade for Quietus. There were six interpreters and thirty packhorses carrying the diplomatic gifts, with half as many men again to look after them. There were twenty Dalmatian troopers to protect them from the nomadic tent-dwellers. But it was none of these that were slowing the pace, it was the garlanded ox that was being driven ponderously along at the front of the caravan. Quietus never missed an opportunity to sneer at its presence. But Ballista had insisted on it. Long ago, he had learned from Bagoas, the Persian slave boy he had owned, that it was a sign the Sassanids used to show they had accepted peace terms. Another was the bags of salt that he had ordered tied to the standards. To be sure, there was a Roman herald, complete with diplomatic wand, up front with the ox. But the symbols of one culture might mean something else or nothing at all in another. First contact with the enemy would be a dangerous moment. He did not want all his men riddled with Persian arrows before they had a chance to explain they were envoys who came in peace.
As he ambled along on Pale Horse, Ballista wondered for the umpteenth time why he had been chosen as an ambassador. On the one hand, he could speak Persian but, on the other, the embassy had been given a surfeit of interpreters. Ballista had been out of imperial favour for a long time. His advice against making these overtures of peace had been rejected. It was widely thought at court that the man who had frustrated Shapur for so long before the walls of Arete, who had killed so many of his warriors, the general who had ordered the burning of the enemy bodies after the battle of Circesium, would be far from welcome to the Zoroastrian, fire-worshipping Sassanid King of Kings.
Ballista's eyes followed a stork flying south-east, roughly parallel to them. His thoughts rolled on. Macrianus had run the consilium like a well-trained chorus in the theatre. The northerner now understood why Tacitus had been posted back to the west and the ex-consul Valens had been left behind to command the troops at Zeugma. Two less influential voices in the consilium to contest the growing influence of the Comes Largitionum. It galled Ballista that no one, not even those closest to him, accepted that that lame bastard was plotting to betray the frail old emperor who regarded him as his most loyal friend. Cledonius would no longer even see Ballista. The northerner had ceased to talk about it at all. It was doing no good and, even among amici, there was the ever-present danger of frumentarii spying. Still, as Ballista watched the stork disappear over a range of hills, he tried to comfort himself with the thought that surely even Macrianus would not send his younger son on a mission that would lead to his death.
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