King of Kings wor-2

by Harry Sidebottom

  Ballista stepped aside to let a troop of Equites Singulares pass. The cavalrymen were hunched in cloaks dark with the rain. Their horses' heads drooped, their sides ran with water.

  Ballista would have one less friend at the consilium now Aurelian was gone. The failure of the embassy had done neither of them any good. Ballista knew it had been designed to fail. The northerner himself was unwelcome to the Zoroastrian Sassanids as the man who had burned their dead at Circesium. Aurelian was renowned for his lack of tact and short temper. Presumably, Quietus had been included to keep an eye on them. It had been a cunning move on the part of the Persian king to send no gifts to Valerian but to hand regal ones to Aurelian. As soon as they had returned to Samosata, the Danubian had presented the elephant to Valerian. But the suspicion had been sown. It could be no coincidence that Aurelian had been precipitously posted away to the court of Gallienus in the far west.

  There was something else about the embassy that worried Ballista. When they first met the Persians, Vardan had said something like 'We have been expecting you.' And there were the words of Shapur himself as he gave the sacrificial saucer engraved with an image of the sun god to its devotee Aurelian: 'I thought you might find it suitable.' Was Macrianus actually in touch with the enemy? Had the evil, lame bastard hoped that the Sassanid king would not respect Ballista's diplomatic immunity, hoped that the northerner would not return at all but die a horrible death of eastern refinement?

  Cold and wet, Ballista walked on. At least this would be the last council of war which Macrianus would attend, as he was remaining in Samosata, safe. Surely his creature Maeonius Astyanax and his repulsive son Quietus could not exercise the same control over Valerian? And while Macrianus might be plotting the overthrow of the aged emperor, even he could not want to bring about the destruction of the whole army. Not with his son in its ranks.

  The praetorians outside the imperial pavilion came to attention smartly. A silentarius escorted Ballista into the vestibule. The rain lashed at the material of the roof. The ab Admissionibus appeared. 'Cledonius, a word in private,' said Ballista.

  The long, thin face peered around. 'No. We have nothing to say to each other.' The big eyes looked hunted. 'Nothing at all,' Cledonius said loudly, and turned to lead Ballista into the inner sanctum.

  Inside, Ballista dropped to his knees and kissed the ring the emperor proffered. Valerian did not look at him. Ballista rose and stepped back. It was a small, intimate consilium; not much above a dozen men. As custom dictated, the praetorian prefect was at the emperor's right hand. As was now normal, Macrianus was leaning on a walking stick at his left. Ballista froze at the sight of the man beyond Macrianus: the receding hairline, the turned-down eyes matching the turned-down mouth, the yellow-on-blue four-petal-flower embroidery — what in all the names of the Allfather was Anamu doing here?

  Valerian nodded fondly at Macrianus, who began to speak. 'The wisdom of the emperor's pious actions against the atheists who worship the crucified Jew have made the gods smile on us again. The plague is gone. Now we have further proof of divine love. A loyal friend has returned to us. You all know how bravely Anamu fought at Arete. After the fall of that town, the Sassanids captured his wife and family. They threatened them with unspeakable tortures if he did not serve their vainglorious king. Despite this, Marcus Clodius Ballista can confirm how Anamu turned the Persians away at the Horns of Ammon.'

  Thrown, Ballista muttered that Anamu had run with the Sassanids.

  Macrianus continued. 'Now Anamu has put his love for Rome and love for our sacred emperor even above that for his family and has come covertly to tell us the secrets of the enemy.' He gestured Anamu forward.

  'Most noble Valerian, Comites Augusti, I bring you good news. Shapur's siege of Edessa is in disarray. Every day the inhabitants sally out with swords in hand. The Persians die in droves. They do not know which way to turn. Their beds bring them no rest from fear and danger. Now is the moment for Rome to strike. The road between Samosata and Edessa is rough and rocky. The Sassanid cavalry cannot operate there. They cannot stop us reaching the plains before Edessa and, when we come there, they will run like sheep.'

  Ballista took a deep breath and stepped forward. 'It is not true. I was at Edessa but twelve days ago. The inhabitants did not stir. The gates were blocked with stones. They could not venture out. And the country between us and Edessa is not as rocky as men say. Over most of it, cavalry can manoeuvre with ease.'

  Smiling, Quietus raised his hand. 'I was also at Edessa. While it is true that the northern and eastern gates were blocked then, they may well be clear now. And Ballista cannot deny that we ambassadors were given no opportunity to inspect the western and southern gates. As for the road to Edessa, I fear the habitual caution of Ballista makes it easier for the Sassanid cavalry than is the case.'

  Eagerly, Anamu joined in. 'Nothing is needed but quick hands and feet to catch the reptiles before they flee to the east, to Scythia or Hyrcania. As your Latin poets say, 'Carpe diem' — you must seize the day.'

  Valerian raised his hand for silence. 'It is decided. This very night, our trusty and beloved Anamu will return to the camp of our enemies to keep us informed of their plans. His courage will be richly rewarded. At dawn, we will march. We will chase Shapur and his horde of goat-eyed easterners back to his capital at Ctesiphon. With the gods as our companions, we will pursue him to Bactria, India, the outer Ocean — wherever he may flee. Let those remaining atheists lurking in their holes witness the impotence of their false god, let them witness the power and the glory of the true gods!'

  Valerian laboriously stood up. The consilium was over. The night had not improved. The rain still fell. Thunder rolled around the hills across the river to the north. That was good: few men would venture out on such a night.

  Deep in the dark of the overhang of a tent, Ballista and Maximus waited for the watch to pass. Then, faces blackened, dark clad, they slipped like ghosts on the Lemuria, the festival of the dead, from one tent to another.

  Things became more dangerous as they drew nearer to the imperial pavilion. The tents of the courtiers had guards in front of them.

  A dog sensed their approach. Hackles up, it came closer. It barked once. Maximus produced some of the air-dried beef he always seemed to have on him. He tossed a piece to the dog, who sniffed it with profound suspicion, then ate it. It came closer. The Hibernian fed it again. He fussed its ears. He threw another piece of meat out into the rain. The dog trotted after it. The two men moved on.

  In the lee of the emperor's quarters, they came to the right tent. There was a praetorian sheltering under the entrance. Hands and knees in the mud, they slipped under the guy ropes and worked their way around to the back.

  They waited, listening. Nothing could be heard but the falling rain, the distant thunder. Ballista unsheathed a knife. About two feet up, he pushed it through the taut side of the tent. He stopped to listen. Nothing. He slit the material down to the ground. Then, holding where he had cut, he made another slit parallel to the ground. He pulled back the flap. He put his head through into the darkness and listened. Nothing but the rain on the canvas — then, below that, the sound of a man snoring.

  Gripping the blade in his teeth, Ballista wriggled into the tent. From outside, Maximus pulled the flap shut. Ballista waited, stilling his breathing. A little light shone through the inner wall from a lamp in the outer chamber. Gradually, Ballista began to make out his surroundings: a campaign chest, a folding chair, a stand for armour and, in the centre of the room, a bed.

  Slowly, slowly, feeling with a hand for anything on the floor, he crept across to the bed. The man in it stirred in his sleep. Ballista stood motionless. The rain beat down on the roof. The man coughed, then began to snore again.

  Ballista rose up. There was the white blur of a face against the pillow. Ballista put one hand over the man's mouth. With the other he brought up the knife. As the man woke, big eyes wide with fright, Ballista showed him the knife. Automatically, the ma
n tried to lurch upwards. Ballista pushed him down, then put the point of the knife to his throat.

  'Shout for the guard and you die.'

  The man lay still. Ballista could feel the other's's heart beating. 'I just need to talk. I am going to take my hand away. Do not shout or I will kill you.'

  The man nodded slightly. Ballista uncovered his mouth.

  Cledonius sucked in air. 'What the fuck are you doing? Creeping in here like a fucking ghost. I nearly died of fright.' There was an edge of panic in the hissing, whispered voice of the ab Admissionibus.

  'Quietly, amicus.' Ballista smiled. 'You seemed reluctant to talk to me earlier.' If anything, the asymmetrical face on the pillow looked more frightened. Ballista conspicuously did not sheathe the knife.

  'Macrianus is leading the army into a trap. He intends to depose Valerian and replace him on the throne with his own sons.' Ballista talked low and fast. 'You have the right of admission to the emperor. You must talk to him, warn him.'

  Cledonius rubbed a hand over his jaw. 'The gods know you may well be right, but there is no proof. Anyway, even if there were, it would do no good. Valerian relies on Macrianus in everything. And now it is far too dangerous. Macrianus has completely won over Censorinus. If any of the few loyal men left near the emperor — me, Successianus, the young Italian Aurelian, who commands the Equites Singulares — if any of us try to warn the emperor, Censorinus will unleash the frumentarii on us and we will be killed on a trumped-up charge of maiestas.'

  Ballista put the knife away. He leaned forward. 'Let me talk to the emperor. All you need do is get me in to see him on my own. I have served him for a long time. Seven years ago I fought for him at Spoletium when he crushed the rebel Aemilianus and took the throne. Valerian trusted me once. Maybe he will listen now.'

  Cledonius smiled sadly. 'It would do no good. You would be killed, then the rest of the loyal men. We would all die for nothing.'

  'Then what can we do?'

  Cledonius grimaced. 'Do our duty. Watch and wait. Pray to the gods for salvation. Hope Macrianus makes a mistake.'

  'Allfather, this is not right,' Ballista said vehemently. 'We are being led like lambs to the slaughter. There must be something we can do.'

  'Watch and wait.'

  'Doing nothing goes against the grain. But if there is nothing else?'

  'Nothing else.'

  Ballista walked back the way he had come. 'I am sorry I woke you like that.'

  'I would rather this than you spoke to me in public.'

  Ballista slipped out into the wet night.

  XXVII

  By midday, it was as if the equinoctial storm had never happened. The south wind had pushed away the clouds, leaving a perfect blue sky. Every puddle had been swallowed by the parched, yellow-grey soil. With the sun and wind, soon the high plain before them would be as dry and dusty as before.

  Ballista and Turpio sat side by side on the ground, watching the last of the baggage train emerge from the marching camp. It had been a hectic day so far. At dawn, Valerian had ordered the army to march light: all except essential baggage was to be left in camp to be taken back over the remaining bridges and be left safely in Samosata with the forces still there under the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, Macrianus. All morning, Ballista and Turpio had worked, deciding what was to go and what stay, their deliberations continually interrupted by messengers from officers demanding that their own possessions must travel with the field army.

  'This is madness,' said Ballista. Turpio, toying with his Persian bracelet, gave an eloquent shrug, as if to say, What else can one expect in this world? 'Not to march in a hollow square' — Ballista shook his head — 'it invites disaster.' Convinced by Anamu and Quietus that the way to Edessa was unsuitable for the Sassanid cavalry, who anyway were on the verge of retreat, Valerian had commanded the army to advance in column. At the head rode half the cavalry, under Pomponius Bassus. The infantry came next, under Valerian himself, with Quietus close to his side. They were followed by the other half of the cavalry, under Maeonius Astyanax. The baggage brought up the rear.

  'Time to go,' Turpio said. Ballista, whose clandestine nocturnal visit to Cledonius had left him no time to sleep, climbed wearily into the saddle. His familia — Maximus, Calgacus and Demetrius — fell in behind. They cantered down to take up again the frustrating task of trying to keep the non-combatants in order.

  Valerian, no doubt urged on by Quietus, from the outset pushed the army hard. Soon the baggage train was moving down a road flanked by stragglers from the fighting units. From the rear, the way back to the north was seen to be already dotted with deserters from the standards heading back to the Euphrates. Worryingly, no orders had been given to post guards to stop them.

  After about two hours' hard marching, word was passed down for the army to halt, for an overdue meal. In keeping with the feverish sense of urgency emanating from the emperor's staff, the men were ordered not to leave their posts but to eat and drink standing by the banks of a small, nameless stream. Even so, the command to move on came before most had finished.

  Another hour en route, and horsemen galloped back down the column. They had cloaks bunched in their fists and were waving them above their heads. Enemy in sight! Enemy in sight!

  Ballista's heart sank. They had barely set off, and the easterners were on them already. For some reason, he found himself thinking about the deaths of emperors: about Gordian III, mortally wounded by the Sassanids at the battle of Meshike; about Decius, cut down by the Goths in the marshes at Abrittus. In both cases, there were stories of a Roman betrayer. They were untrue. Ballista was certain it was untrue in the case of the latter. He had been at the side of the general Gallus, the supposed traitor, throughout the battle. But the idea of betraying a Roman emperor to the barbarians was in the minds of many men.

  Trumpets blared. Executing its pre-planned manoeuvre, the Roman army, one unit after another, turned and marched to the right. When they were strung out in line across the plain, they halted. Then, as one, each unit turned to the left. To be fair, the manoeuvre was carried out reasonably smartly. In under half an hour, the Romans had moved from order of march to line of battle. Now, the cavalry of Pomponius Bassus formed the right wing; the infantry, with the emperor, the centre; the cavalry of Maeonius Astyanax formed the left wing. In theory, forty thousand armed men, ten thousand of them mounted, faced the enemy. Yet, even before the plague, many of the units had been vastly under strength. In reality, not many over twenty thousand soldiers of Rome waited for the onslaught.

  Following orders, Ballista and Turpio brought the baggage train close up behind the infantry but kept it in line, strung out along the road. When it was in place, they took themselves and a few followers off to the left, to a low eminence from which they could see over the serried ranks of the infantry.

  Across the high, rolling plain was the enemy. There looked to be roughly five to six thousand of them. Unusually for Sassanid cavalry, there were no bright colours on view. Instead, the cavalry had a drab, ochre appearance. They milled about, circling their horses just out of bowshot.

  A huge kettledrum thundered. A high cry like that of cranes on the wing drifted down the south wind. The Sassanids came on.

  Roman trumpets sounded. Officers bawled orders. At about a hundred and fifty paces, the Roman light troops shot. Arrows and slingshots whooshed away. Some of the enemy went down. Moments later, the easterners released. Arrows rattled off Roman shields and armour. Some struck home. Men and horses screamed.

  Then the Sassanids were turning, spurring away. They rode hard, not even shooting back over their horses' quarters.

  A sharp trumpet call rang from the centre of the Roman line. It was picked up and repeated by bucinator after bucinator up and down the army.

  'Fucking Hades,' muttered Ballista.

  'Indeed,' said Turpio. 'Not exactly what one would have hoped for.'

  As the musicians continued to sound the general advance, the whole Roman line surged forward.
Within moments, the cavalry wings were pulling away from the infantry.

  Ballista looked at Turpio. Before the question was asked, Turpio gave the answer: 'Yes, go and try to make him see sense.' The northerner spurred away, with Maximus, Calgacus and Demetrius following. Watching them, Turpio spoke out loud, although to himself rather than to the handful of Dalmatian troopers around him. 'Not that it will do any good. The old fool will not listen. The eye of Cronus is on us. Some god wills our destruction.'

  At a flat gallop, Ballista raced after the charging army. He set his course for the huge imperial purple standard that was snapping in the wind above a cluster of lesser standards towards the rear of the infantry. He let Pale Horse pick his own way through the dead and wounded, the clumps of partially trampled undergrowth. On the wings, the cavalry were rapidly disappearing out of sight. In the centre, wide gaps were opening between the infantry units. The men were no longer in neat files but in loose clumps around their standards. Without a blow struck hand to hand, the army was fast disintegrating as an organized fighting force.

  Four Equites Singulares blocked the way. Furious, Ballista reined in. The commander of the imperial horse guards, the young Italian Aurelian, rode up. 'I have orders not to let you approach his imperial majesty.'

  Mastering his anger, Ballista spoke urgently. 'You are a good and competent soldier, Aurelian. You can see what is happening. Someone has to try and reason with him.'

  The young tribune hesitated.

  'If he does not countermand this order, we are all dead.'

  Still the Italian wavered between disciplina and his own judgement.

  'Remember the fate of the men with Crassus at Carrhae.' Ballista laughed bitterly. 'Valerian at Edessa — it will be the same.'

  Reluctantly, the young officer waved his men aside.