by Unknown
After a time, as if by mutual consent Ballista and his opponent backed their horses a pace or two. Panting heavily, each waited for the other to make the next move. The din of combat echoed back from the rocky slopes and the dust rose up like chaff from a threshing floor. Around Ballista and the Persian the hot battle roared, but their perceptions had narrowed to a space little bigger than the reach of their swords. Ballista’s left arm was stiff, almost useless. Every breath he took seared his chest. He noted another rider in eastern dress looming up in the murk behind his assailant. Ballista recognized him.
‘Anamu!’
Ballista had last seen him just days before, serving as a temporary Roman officer in the defence of his home town, Arete.
‘Anamu, you traitor!’
The long, thin face of the man from Arete turned towards Ballista. The wide-spaced eyes showed no surprise. ‘It is not my fault,’ the man shouted in Greek. ‘They have my family. I had to guide them after you.’
Seeing Ballista’s distraction, the Sassanid surged forward. Instinct and the memory in his muscles let Ballista flick the blade aside.
Anamu tipped his head back and shouted, loud, in Persian, ‘Every man for himself! Run! Save yourselves!’ He kicked his horse. It gathered itself and set off. Over his shoulder he called to Ballista again in Greek, ‘Not my fault.’
The Sassanid facing Ballista backed his horse again, four, five steps, then hauled on the reins, jerked the beast round and followed Anamu. Suddenly the air was full of high eastern cries. The rattle of hooves echoed round the Horns of Ammon. As one the Persians desperately sought to disengage and spur their way to safety. The fight was over.
Ballista watched the Sassanid cavalry disappear down the defile. His own men were already busy, throwing themselves off their mounts, slitting the throats of the wounded easterners, stripping them, searching for the wealth they were rumoured always to carry.
‘Leave one alive,’ Ballista shouted. But it was too late.
Haddudad and Turpio arrived and calmly announced the butcher’s bill: two troopers dead, two men wounded, including Turpio himself, who had an ugly gash on his left thigh. Ballista thanked them, and all three climbed stiffly to the ground.
Ballista checked over Pale Horse: a graze on the left shoulder, a small nick on the right flank, but otherwise the gelding seemed unharmed. Calgacus appeared with water and strips of clean cloth. He started to bandage Ballista’s arm, swearing volubly as his patient kept moving to stroke his mount.
Bathshiba cantered up. Ballista had forgotten all about the girl. She jumped off her horse, ran to Haddudad and threw her arms round his neck. Ballista looked away. Something shining on the ground caught his eye. It was the helmet he had discarded earlier. He went over and picked it up. It was buckled. A horse’s hoof had trodden on it. The bird-of-prey crest was bent, twisted out of shape, but it could be repaired.
Dux Ripae
(Autumn AD256–Spring AD257)
‘Alas, the earth will drink the dark blood of many men.
For this will be the time when the living will call the dead blessed.
They will say it is good to die,
But death will flee from them.
As for you, wretched Syria, I weep for you.’
– Oracula Sibyllina XIII, 115–119
I
Ballista wanted to be a good Roman. Woden the Allfather knew he did. But it was difficult. At times like these it was almost impossible. How could they stand the stupid rules and ridiculous rituals, the stifling impediments of civilization? If a wounded man coated in the dust of nineteen days of almost non-stop travel rode up to the imperial palace in Antioch, staggered slightly as he dismounted, and said that he had news for the emperor’s ears only, news of the terrible Persian enemy, you would think that the courtiers might usher him without delay into the presence of the Augustus.
‘I am most abjectly sorry, most high Dominus, but only those specifically invited to the sacred consilium of the emperor Valerian Augustus can be admitted.’ The fat eunuch was adamant.
‘I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome. I have ridden non-stop from the Euphrates, and I have news of the Sassanid Persian enemy that the emperor needs to hear.’ There was a clear dangerous edge to Ballista’s voice.
‘I could not be more abjectly sorry, most noble Dux, but it is impossible.’ The eunuch was sweating hard but, metaphorically, he did not lack balls. He was standing his ground.
Ballista could feel his anger rising. He breathed deeply. ‘Then pass a message to the emperor that I am outside and need to speak to him and his advisors.’
The eunuch spread his hands wide in a gesture of desolation. ‘I fear that it is beyond my powers. Only the ab Admissionibus could authorize such a thing.’ Rings – gold, amethyst, garnets – glittered on his chubby fingers.
‘Then tell the ab Admissionibus to give Valerian the message.’
A look of genuine shock appeared on the heavily jowled face – no one in the court would dream of baldly referring to the emperor by just one of his names. ‘Oh no, the ab Admissionibus is not here.’
Ballista looked around the courtyard. Brick dust hung thick in the air. From somewhere came the sound of hammering. At the foot of the steps stood four silentarii, their title eloquent of their function – no man should disturb the sacred calm of the imperial deliberations. They were backed by a dozen praetorian guardsmen by the great doors at the top of the steps. There was no chance that Ballista could force his way into the imperial presence. He listened to the hammering. Although it was almost a year to the day since Ballista had been at the new imperial palace at Antioch, it was still unfinished and much would have changed. There was no real likelihood that he could expect to find an unguarded way to sneak in among the confusion of builders. He knew that his fatigue was making his grip on his temper tenuous. As he rounded again on the functionary barring his way, the eunuch began to talk.
‘Not all members of the consilium are here yet. The ab Admissionibus is expected at any moment, Dominus. Perhaps you might speak to him.’ The eunuch’s smile was placating; his expression was like that of a dog which fears a beating and bares its teeth.
At Ballista’s nod the eunuch quickly turned and waddled away.
Ballista looked at the heavens, then closed his eyes as his tiredness provoked a wave of nausea. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said in the language of his native Germania.
Opening his eyes, Ballista again looked round the courtyard. The large, dusty square was crowded with men from all over the imperium of the Romans. There were men in Roman togas, Greeks in tunics and cloaks, Gauls and Celt-Iberians in trousers. Other groups clearly came from beyond the borders. There were Indians in turbans, Scythians in tall, pointed hats, Africans in colourful robes. Wherever the emperors went, the business of the empire followed them in the form of innumerable embassies. There were embassies from communities within the empire waiting to ask for benefits, both straightforwardly tangible – relief from taxation or from the billeting of troops – and more symbolic: honorific titles or the right to enlarge their town council. And there were embassies from further away, from the so-called ‘friendly kings’, wanting help against their neighbours or financial subsidies. They always wanted financial subsidies. Now the empire was reeling – attacked on all its frontiers, rebellions breaking out in province after province – those near enough to raid across the borders always got their subsidies.
‘Excuse me.’ Ballista was exhausted. He had not noticed the man approach.
‘I heard you speak in our language.’ The man was smiling the smile of someone who thinks that he has come across one of his own race a long way from home. His accent pointed to one of the southern German tribes, one down by the Danube or the Black Sea. It put Ballista on his guard.
‘I am Videric, son of Fritigern, the King of the Borani. I am my father’s ambassador to the Romans.’
There was a silence. Ballis
ta pulled himself up to his not inconsiderable full height.
‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the Warleader of the Angles. The Romans know me as Marcus Clodius Ballista.’
The look on Videric’s face changed to something very different. Automatically, his hand went to his hip, where the hilt of his sword should rest. It was not there. Like Ballista’s, like all other weapons, it had been taken by the praetorians on the front gate.
Two other Borani came up and flanked Videric. The three warriors glowered. They looked much alike: big powerful men, long fair hair to their shoulders, a surfeit of gold rings on their arms.
‘You bastard,’ Videric spat. Ballista stood his ground. ‘You fucking bastard.’
Ballista looked at the three angry men. He had sent his own men, his bodyguard Maximus and the others, to the barracks. He was alone. Yet there was little immediate to worry about. The praetorians did not encourage those waiting in the hope of seeing the emperor to fight among themselves.
‘Last year in the Aegean, two longboats of Borani warriors, and you only spared about a dozen to sell as slaves.’ Videric’s face was very pale.
‘Men die in war. It happens.’ Ballista kept his voice neutral.
‘You shot them down when they could not resist.’
‘They would not surrender.’
Videric stepped forward. One of the other Borani put a hand on his arm to restrain him. Videric gave Ballista a look of complete contempt. ‘And that is why we Borani are here to collect our tribute from the Romans. While you…’ Words failed him for a moment. Then he laughed, a harsh snort. ‘While you wait like a slave for your orders. Maybe your Roman master will see you after he has handed his gold to us.’
‘I live in hope,’ Ballista replied.
‘One day we will meet again where there are no Roman guardsmen to protect you. There is a bloodfeud between us.’
‘As I said, I always live in hope.’ Ballista turned his back on them and walked away to the centre of the great courtyard. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you.
A deep metallic boom rang out from the inner gate. Ballista turned. Around him all conversation died as almost everyone turned and gazed up at the gate. High up on the second storey was a gilded statue of a naked man. In his right hand the statue held a tall stake. Nine large golden spheres were suspended at the top of the stake; three more rested at the bottom. Despite his fatigue, Ballista found the mechanical water clock caught his attention. Obviously, one of the spheres slid down at the start of each of the twelve hours of daylight. It was the third hour. Conventionally, this was when the salutatio, the time for receiving visitors, ended and the courts began to sit. The autocratic powers of the emperors had long ago blurred such distinctions.
As the reverberations died away a low hum of talk returned. The water clock was new. It had not been there a year earlier. The engineer in Ballista made a mental note to find out how it worked. He looked away, scanning the courtyard. The great fortress-like walls with their embedded Corinthian columns dwarfed the crowd. The Borani were near the inner gate, still gawping up open-mouthed. Ballista moved away towards the outer gate.
A small group of peasants, thin men in much-patched tunics, shifted to one side as Ballista sat on the ground. The big northerner settled himself to wait. His elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, he shut his eyes. The sun was warm on his back. The peasants started talking softly in a language Ballista did not know. He thought it was Syriac.
His mind drifted. Once again he saw the flames engulf the city, the strong south wind pull long streamers of fire into the night sky, the eruption of sparks as a roof gave way. Once again he saw the city of Arete die. The city that he had been charged to defend.
Inexorably, Ballista’s thoughts turned to the nightmare flight from Arete. The hellish, relentless pursuit through the desert. His sword slicing into Titus’ guts. The trooper gasping out his life breath. The vicious fight at the Horns of Ammon. Then two days crossing the mountains. Hunched in the saddle, sharp, gnawing hunger driving out all other thoughts. Their staggering journey from one brackish watering hole to another.
Ballista’s thoughts moved on. Down from the mountains at last. The first Roman-held village. Clean water, food, a bath, the news that the emperor Valerian had set up his court in Antioch. Then on down a broad Roman highway to the caravan city of Palmyra. And there he had left Bathshiba. Left her and Haddudad. It had been a hurried, tense parting for the three of them, with much left unsaid. There had been little time to say anything, and Ballista had lacked the words. He had not known what he wanted to say.
The rest of the journey had been physically easy. Good Roman roads all the way. West from Palmyra to the next great caravan city of Emesa. Then north up the lush valley of the Orontes River. Ballista again felt the motion of the horse under him as they plodded through the water-meadows towards Antioch, towards the imperial court and the report that he must give today. The city fell. The Sassanid Persians took it. I failed.
Click, drag, step. Click, drag, step.
The sounds jerked Ballista awake.
From under the arch of the outer gate came Macrianus. Click went his walking stick, his lame foot dragged, and his sound one took a step. Click, drag, step. The crowds parted as he moved into the courtyard. He was followed at a couple of paces by two other men in togas. In all bar one respect they were younger images of himself; the same long, straight nose, the receding chin, the pouches under the eyes. But the sons of Macrianus walked easily. There was a lithe, confident swagger in their step. Ballista had never seen the sons before, but he had met Macrianus once or twice.
Marcus Fulvius Macrianus may have been old and lame, and his low birth was widely known, but he was not to be taken lightly. As Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, Count of the Sacred Largess, as well as being in charge of clothing the court, the army and the civil service – the imperial dye works answered to him – he controlled all the money taxes in the imperium, the gold and silver mines, the mints that produced the coinage and, most potent of all, he paid both the regular cash salaries of soldiers and officials and the not infrequent donatives to the military. As Praefectus Annonae, Prefect of the Grain Supply, he fed the city of Rome and the imperial court. He had agents and depots in every province of the imperium. More to the point, he had the ear of the emperors.
Macrianus had risen high. Now he shone in the sunlight, his toga gleaming white, the golden head of Alexander the Great which topped his walking stick flashing. Click, drag, step. Neither he nor his sons looked right or left as they made their way towards the inner gate and the imperial consilium.
Ballista hauled himself stiffly to his feet.
‘Ave, Comes. Ave, Marcus Fulvius Macrianus.’
Click, drag, step. The lame man paid no attention.
‘Macrianus.’ Ballista stepped forward.
‘Out of the way, you filthy barbarian. How dare you address the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae.’ The contempt in the son’s tone was not feigned.
Ballista ignored him. ‘Macrianus, I need to talk to you.’
‘Speak when you are spoken to, you piece of barbarian shit.’ The youth was closing on Ballista.
‘Macrianus, it is me.’
The lame man did not break his slow progress, but he looked at the long-haired, dirty barbarian who was speaking to him. There was no immediate recognition on his face.
‘Macrianus, it is me, Ballista, the Dux Ripae. I have news of the Sassanids…’ The blow to the left side of his head cut off Ballista’s words. He staggered a few steps to his right.
‘Let this be a lesson to you.’ The youth waded forward, ready to punch again. Ballista crouched, one hand to his temple. He turned slowly, as if dazed, to face his attacker.
When the youth came close enough Ballista lashed out a straight right, hard and fast to the crotch. The youth doubled up, both hands clasping his balls. He tottered three steps backwards. The toga was a ceremonial costume, its very impracticality
its point. Romans wore it on special formal days when they were neither doing physical work nor fighting. Now the youth’s toga caught round his legs. He sat down hard.
Ballista straightened up and turned to Macrianus.
‘Macrianus, it is me, Marcus Clodius Ballista, the Dux Ripae. You must take me with you into the consilium.’
Macrianus had stopped. He stared into Ballista’s eyes. Something more than recognition, some guarded calculation, as if he had never expected to see Ballista again, played across his face.
‘It is vital that I talk to the emperor.’ Ballista heard men running, hobnailed boots pounding, others scrabbling out of the way. He kept his eyes on those of Macrianus. A small smile began to spread across the face of the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum.
Ballista was knocked sideways and crashed violently to the ground as the praetorian tackled him. The guardsman rolled off Ballista and got to his feet. Another praetorian arrived. He punched the butt of his spear into Ballista’s back. Despite the sickening surge of pain, the northerner tried to get to his feet.
A blow to the head stopped Ballista. Another to the stomach dropped him to his knees. He covered his head as a flurry of spear butts rained down on his arms and shoulders.
‘That’s it. Beat the barbarian pig. He threatened the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum and attacked my brother Quietus. Beat him senseless, then throw the dog out into the street,’ the other young man was shouting.
Ballista was curled up into a ball, the paving slabs gritty under his cheek as he tried to cover himself. After a short time the beating stopped. Ballista heard Macrianus’ voice.
‘My son, Macrianus the Younger, is right. Now throw him out into the street.’
Strong hands grabbed the northerner and began to drag him to the outer gate. Ballista twisted his head, and got a blow round the ear for his pains. But he saw Macrianus and his two sons resuming their rudely interrupted progress to the imperial consilium.
