by Unknown
‘Are you all right?’
‘Never better. Like a slave at Saturnalia.’
‘Sure, but you are a cruel man to be reminding me of my servile status.’ Maximus grinned. ‘Julia and the boy are safe enough for the moment with Calgacus down below. Want me to go up and look for him?’
‘No, he will be long gone, and it’s dangerous up there. I do not want you getting hurt by any rough men. Let’s all get out of here.’
Maximus turned to go. Ballista paused.
‘What is it?’
‘Probably nothing,’ said Ballista. ‘It is just that the others wanted to rob and rape, and that one… I think that he was only interested in killing me.’
IV
Solid-looking shafts of light came through the windows of the great apse and shone on to the floor of the audience chamber. Ballista stared at them, his face carefully composed into a look of thoughtful attention. The glass of the windows gave the light a strange, underwater look. Thousands of motes of dust and the odd oily flick of incense smoke moved in it. Ballista thought about the paradox of Heraclitus: no man can step into the same river twice. The imperial council was ever changing, always the same. For some time, the praetorian prefect Successianus had been telling the members of the consilium a story they all knew, except for the ending.
The outrages of three days earlier had been confined to the island in the Orontes. As soon as the disgraceful scenes in the hippodrome had begun, troops had sealed off the five bridges that led to the city and the one that led to the suburbs. In fact, the unrest had been contained in only a small part of the island – as ever, the imperial palace had been well garrisoned, and a sweep by Batavian auxiliaries supported by Dalmatian cavalry had dispersed any looters, at the cost of only one burnt bath house and four burnt dwellings. In the hippodrome itself, the praetorians had promptly escorted the emperor and imperial party to safety. After his sacred majesty had left, there were scenes of the most appalling depravity – four equestrians had been killed, several beaten and robbed, and six women of the equestrian order raped. Much worse than all this, wooden pictures of the imperial family had been stoned, the mob jeering when they splintered, and a bronze statue of the ever-victorious imperator Valerian had been toppled from its pedestal, beaten with shoes, broken apart, before street children had dragged the pieces through the dirt. Although the people of Antioch had always been notorious for their unruliness and lack of respect for their betters, it was clear that the outbreak was the work of a handful of brigands – foreigners, for the most part. Selected squads of soldiers had been sent in to arrest the ringleaders. The unpleasantness had lasted just a few hours, having ended soon after dark. It was estimated that some two to three hundred rioters had been killed. All the surviving ringleaders were in custody – forty-five men, seven women and four children. They awaited the emperor’s infallible justice.
Words are slippery things, thought Ballista, and these were weasel words. No one who had been there and had a less than blinkered view could believe that the riot had been instigated and carried on by only a few foreign brigands. How, in that seething mass of humanity, had the troops identified these supposed ringleaders? Above all, how in the name of the Allfather, could children have been involved its organization? These were the weasel words that one heard in the consilium. Free speech, freedom itself, the much-vaunted libertas of the Romans, the eleutheria of Greek philosophy – how could they exist when one man was all powerful? How could they exist when one man was, depending on your viewpoint, either the vice-regent of the gods on earth or a living, walking god himself?
In the silence that followed the praetorian prefect resuming his seat, all eyes turned to the emperor. Seated high above his councillors, Publius Licinius Valerianus remained immobile. He stared over the heads of all, into the distance. Eventually the heavy head nodded, the golden wreath rustling in the unnatural quiet. The emperor spoke.
‘We are renowned for our clemency. But clementia must not be confused with weakness. It is a stern virtue. Severitas is its other face. We Romans did not win our empire by weakness. We have not held our empire for over a thousand years by weakness. In the beginning, the gods themselves charged us to spare the humbled but also to crush the proud.’
The emperor paused to let his words sink in. The heads of the councillors nodded approvingly at the echo – the so very apt echo, they might have said – of the Roman imperial epic, the Aeneid of Virgil.
‘The unbearable superbia, arrogance, of Shapur the Sassanid threatens war. This is not a moment to show weakness. The wickedness of these malcontents, if not inspired by Shapur himself, would at the very least bring him joy, confirm him in his arrogance, were it not punished. An example must be made.’
Again Valerian paused. Again his councillors nodded. Belatedly Ballista thought it best to join in.
‘We Romans are the children of the wolf. We are a hard race. When our soldiers betray cowardice we decimate them; one man in ten is beaten to death by his comrades. Justice demands that we must not be harder on our own men than our enemies. The prisoners of high status will be beheaded in the hippodrome, the scene of their depravity, and their heads exhibited on pikes across the river in the suburbs. Of the rest, some will be crucified outside the various gates of the city, some burnt alive in the agora, and some reserved for the wild beasts in the amphitheatre. The praetorian prefect will see to the arrangements. This is our judgement, against which there can be no appeal.’
Bastard, thought Ballista. You callous old bastard. You want to play the stern old Roman, the man merely following the ways of your ancestors, following the mos maiorum, yet surely somewhere in over a thousand years of Roman history there must be an example to follow which would allow you to spare at least the women and children.
The praetorian prefect got back to his feet, saluted and intoned the standard army response: ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
Successianus remained on his feet. He had a broad, flat face like a shovel. It was the face of the simple peasant turned soldier he had been a long time ago. No one on the consilium would consider that Successianus’ face was a clear window on to his soul. The praetorian prefect cleared his throat and spoke again.
‘There is something else that we must discuss. Yesterday, a messenger arrived from Aelius Spartianus, the tribune commanding Roman forces in Circesium. On the tenth of October, six days before the ides of the month, Sassanid cavalry appeared before the city.’
Ballista felt the air thickening around him. Whether they were looking directly at him or not, for every one of the other fifteen men in the imperial council, he was suddenly the centre of attention. To his discomfort, the northerner realized that this included the emperor himself. Make that sixteen men.
Ballista looked straight ahead across the chamber. The Count of the Sacred Largess, Macrianus, was impassive, but half-smiles seemed to play on the faces of his sons Macrianus the Younger and Quietus and, behind his carefully shaped beard, the young patrician Acilius Glabrio was openly exulting. It was all too easy for Ballista to imagine what thoughts were lighting up those smiles – Circesium is three days’ march up the Euphrates from Arete. The Sassanids are before the walls of Circesium; they can set Mesopotamia ablaze, because a barbarian upstart like you could not even hold the well-fortified city of Arete. With this news your luck has run out. Today the imperial favour that you have inexplicably enjoyed will end.
There was nothing else for it: Ballista sat upright and set his face into immobility. He sensed a slight movement to his left. A hand touched his arm. The tough, close-cropped head of the young Danubian general Aurelian did not turn, but he patted Ballista’s arm again, reassuringly. Ballista felt better to know that he was not without allies, was not totally alone in the consilium. And, across the room, did the long face of Cledonius momentarily betray a wink?
‘Spartianus’ report states that the Sassanids were not led by Shapur in person and did not appear to have siege equipment with
them. He believes that it is not the main Persian field army but that, even so, it is a dangerous force of about ten thousand men.’
The praetorian prefect paused, choosing his words. ‘All… ah… internal reports indicate that Spartianus is a reliable officer. In this case, his information is partly corroborated by another… external report that states that Shapur is journeying back south down the Euphrates to winter in his own territories.’
Internal reports, thought Ballista, a delicate way of referring to the activities of the frumentarii, the imperial secret police that swarmed around all men of office. One or two of them might be good men. They might even be necessary. But, in essence, they were an instrument of oppression, causing nothing but fear, inertia or trouble. By contrast, the spy in Shapur’s camp who had provided the external report, even if a paid traitor to his own people, seemed positively heroic.
‘The question before us is simple: what shall we do about this new menace? The emperor wishes his amici, his friends, to give him their advice. He commands you to speak freely.’
The opportunity to be the first to obey an imperial command, even one issued indirectly, such as this, was irresistible to an ambitious courtier. With a graceful speed that contained no hint of haste, Gaius Acilius Glabrio was on his feet. Ballista grudgingly admired both the young patrician’s quick thinking and his supreme confidence. The northerner himself was still pondering the possible implications of the words of the praetorian prefect when Acilius Glabrio started talking.
‘It is an outrage. A terrible outrage to the maiestas, majesty, of the Roman people. And it could not be more dangerous. Let no one mistake that. We all know what barbarians are like.’ For the first time, Acilius Glabrio’s eyes left the emperor and looked round the consilium. They lingered just that bit too long on Ballista before returning to Valerian.
‘Superbia, overweening arrogance, is ever the mark of the barbarian – whether he is a slippery, decadent little easterner or a big, stupid northerner.’ Again the eyes flicked to Ballista. ‘If the superbia of a barbarian is not crushed when it first rears up, it will grow uncontrollably. Already the superbia of the Sassanid ruler grows after his triumph at Arete. Let it go unpunished again, and it will know no bounds. Will he be satisfied with Mesopotamia? With Syria, Egypt, Asia – Greece itself? Never. His irrationality allows no limit to his desires. Let Shapur flout the imperium, and every other barbarian will think that he can do the same, along the Danube and the Rhine, across the Black Sea and the Atlas Mountains. I see the Tiber flowing with blood. Our very homes, our wives, our children, the temples of our ancestral gods – all are at risk. We must act now, and act decisively.’
Carried aloft by his own rhetoric, the young nobleman glared around the room, every inch the stern patriot of the old Republic.
‘What can avert this danger, kill this eastern reptile? Only old-fashioned Roman virtus. And where can we find such antique virtue? Here in this very room. After our noble emperor, who could exhibit old-style Roman virtus more clearly than…’ Acilius Glabrio paused, motionless, for dramatic effect, then turned and thrust out his arm towards an elderly, rather portly senator.
‘… Marcus Pomponius Bassus. A man whose ancestor, 769 years ago, sat in the very first meeting of the free Senate, the very day after the expulsion of Tarquinius Superbus, the last king of Rome. I say that, this very day, Pomponius Bassus should be ordered to gird on his armour, take up his sword and march with an army large enough for the task to eradicate this upstart eastern threat once and for all.’
Silence succeeded Acilius Glabrio’s ringing words. If Pomponius Bassus was surprised by this turn of events, he gave no sign of it. He arranged his plump features into an expression of nobility called up for hard duty and in a voice quivering with emotion, real or assumed, he announced that, onerous as the task was, if called, he would not hang back.
End the eastern threat once and for all, my arse, thought Ballista. For over three hundred years, the Romans had fought first the Parthians and now the Sassanids, and they were no nearer ending the eastern threat once and for all than they had been after the first clash, when the Roman triumvir Crassus was killed at the disastrous battle of Carrhae.
The silence stretched. The gods alone might know what subtle calculations, what delicate balancing of favours given and received, rushed silently through the thoughts of the majority of the councillors. Ballista knew that there were depths here that he could not penetrate.
At last, Macrianus slowly rose to his feet, his lame leg impeding him. In a measured voice he supported giving the command to Pomponius Bassus. Following that, there was an almost undignified scramble to agree. In the arrogance of their youth and the reflected power of their father, Macrianus the Younger and Quietus made sure that their voices were heard next. After them came one Maeonius Astyanax, a middle-aged senator with a reputation for both intellectuality and slavishly following the house of Macrianus. Next, ponderously trying to impart an air of dignity, another descendant of the old republican nobility spoke, the polyonymous Gaius Calpurnius Piso Frugi. By now, Pomponius Bassus’ attempts to assume an air of dutiful resignation to hard service had failed, and he gave off his more accustomed impression of unreflecting self-satisfaction.
Ballista felt a movement at his side. Aurelian rose to his feet. Not you too, thought Ballista. Surely you cannot think that old fool is up to the task?
Aurelian stood for a few moments. His tough-looking head, with its close-trimmed hair and beard, turned to take in the whole room.
‘I hear what Gaius Acilius Glabrio says. I have nothing but the greatest respect for Pomponius Bassus. But he is the wrong man.’ Aurelian spoke quietly, his flat vowels, typical of those from the Danube, emphasizing the lack of traditional rhetoric, or subtly pointing to a rhetoric of plain speaking. Involuntarily, the councillors leant forward. ‘Pomponius Bassus is not as young as he was. It is many years since he commanded troops in the field. No, what this command needs is a man in the prime of life with a track record of recent military success. Tacitus here is fifty-five and straight from the army of the Danube. He should command.’
The blunt brevity of Aurelian caught all by surprise. Once he was sure that his fellow Danubian was not going to say anything else, Tacitus said that, if commanded, he would serve. Support came in slowly; the professional military men from the north of the imperium were far from universally popular with members of the elite from more traditional backgrounds. The first to offer it, however, was an elderly member of the great Italian nobility, one Fabius Labeo. Even Ballista could work out that Labeo was acting out of pique that Acilius Glabrio had proposed Pomponius Bassus rather than himself. Next was a younger senator, one Valens. Ballista had no idea why, but Valens always opposed Macrianus. Quietly, almost apologetically, the officer in command of the imperial horse guards, the Equites Singulares Augusti, a young Italian tribune also named Aurelian, and universally known as ‘the other Aurelian’, added his voice. When it was obvious that no one else was going to offer their support, Ballista himself briefly announced that he thought Tacitus was the right man.
As he sat down, it occurred to Ballista that, so far, three of the great functionaries had not yet spoken. There had been not a word from Successianus the Praetorian Prefect, Cledonius the ab Admissionibus or Censorinus the Princeps Peregrinorum. As the northerner sought them out with his eyes, he thought he saw Successianus almost imperceptibly nod to Cledonius. Sure enough, in a moment the latter was rising to his feet.
‘Dominus, imperial amici, we have been offered much good advice, all of it freely spoken in the highest tradition of the Res Publica of the Romans. Yet I think that the previous speakers have not explored absolutely all aspects of this case. Possibly there is more that we can draw out.’ Cledonius’ voice was sonorous, his tone one of helpful reasonableness.
‘Both Pomponius Bassus and Tacitus are great men. It would be unfitting to send either into the field without an army large enough to suit their dignitas. Yet there
may be reasons to suggest that such a course of action would not be a good thing. First, this is only a minor detachment of the Persian army, less than ten thousand men, and it is not led by the Sassanid king himself. Second, to equip a force befitting the dignitas of either of the proposed generals, it would be necessary to strip the imperial field army here in Antioch. No one would be so rash as to suggest that the dignitas of a subject, no matter how great, should outweigh that of the emperor himself.’ Cledonius’ face remained blank as he allowed a time for his audience to reflect.
‘This incursion must indeed be dealt with, speedily and effectively, but by a small, highly mobile force led by a younger man. There is a man here with very recent experience of fighting the eastern foe. A man burning with a desire for revenge. A small force must be sent to the Euphrates, led by Marcus Clodius Ballista.’
As if on cue, first Successianus then Censorinus spoke in favour of this idea. The two previous candidates, Pomponius Bassus and Tacitus, wasted no time in affirming their loyalty to the emperor by renouncing any interest in the command and most wholeheartedly backing Ballista – now it was mentioned, he was far and away the obvious man for the post. With varying degrees of reluctance – a great deal in some cases – all the remaining members of the consilium fell into line.
The emperor Valerian inclined his head – his amici had spoken well. Marcus Clodius Ballista, the Dux Ripae, would keep his title and, with a force to be determined later, would set off as soon as possible to fight the Sassanids on the Euphrates.
As he rose to his feet and accepted the command, Ballista realized that, for all the years he had spent in the Roman empire, he could still be completely at sea in the ways of the imperial court. Hopefully, Julia would be able to explain the political manouverings to him. But he had what he wanted: he had an army, a chance to redeem his reputation. And yes, he wanted revenge – revenge on the Sassanids who had tortured and killed so many at Arete and, one day, revenge on the man who had ordered it: on Shapur, the King of Kings.
