King of Kings

by Unknown

  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 t
he 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.

  A shout brought Ballista back to his surroundings. The Dalmatian on point duty was holding his cloak in one hand above his head. The trooper pointed to the hills in the east. Ballista scanned the bare, undulating skyline. A few stunted wild olive trees, twisted by the wind. And there among them men on horses. Six or seven. Then more and more. Fifty, a hundred, more.

  Ballista ordered the caravan to halt. Automatically, the Dalmatian cavalry took up their positions around the column. Ballista took his helmet from the horn of his saddle. Inconsequentially, he noticed the marks of the repairs from the ambush at the Horns of Ammon. He settled the thing on his head.

  Beside him, the northerner heard the rasp of steel as Quietus drew his sword.

  ‘Put that away.’

  Quietus bridled. ‘Why should I take orders from you?’ The young man’s lip was trembling, his eyes wide with fear. For a split second Ballista wondered if his opportunity had come. Aurelian was the only witness of rank. Should he cut Quietus down now? But the moment passed. One day Ballista would kill him. Not today.

  ‘Put it away.’ Sulkily, his hands fumbling, Quietus sheathed his sword. Ballista raised his voice. ‘No one touch a weapon. Those with bows, make sure they are unstrung. Do as I do.’

  Ballista watched the Sassanid cavalry descend the hillside. Dark shapes against the yellow-grey dust they raised. There were at least two hundred of them. As they reached the level ground their line split, fanning out to surround the Roman column. Allfather, Hooded One, Grey Beard, watch over me now. Ballista forced himself to be calm. When the easterners were about two hundred paces away, Ballista pulled the bow from the quiver hanging from his saddle. He held it high above his head. From the shape of the composite bow, it was obviously unstrung.

  The Sassanids came on fast, horsemen jinking round thickets of brushwood, streamers flying out behind them, loose eastern clothing snapping. They broke into high, ululating cries. The bows in their hands were strung, arrows notched. With a thunder of hooves, they crossed the front and rear of the Roman column, galloping round to encircle it. Quietus was whimpering. Behind him, Ballista could hear Demetrius praying.

  A stone’s throw away, they reined in, horses breathing hard, tossing their heads. Hostile, dark eyes stared from behind drawn bows. After the pounding hooves and the wailing, the quiet was ominous. Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista saw Quietus’ hand moving to the hilt of his sword. Aurelian leaned across and stopped him. Their every move was tracked by Persian arrowheads. The tension was nearly unbearable.

  A Persian detached himself from the line. His face, framed by long, black hair, was a picture of disdain. ‘We have been expecting you, waiting for this invasion of the territory of the divine, powerful Shapur King of Kings.’

  Ballista moved Pale Horse out of the line. ‘We are not invaders. We are ambassadors from the pious Valerian, King of the Romans, to his brother, the virtuous, peace-loving Shapur King of Kings. We bring gifts and a letter of peace.’

  If the Sassanid was surprised that Ballista spoke in Persian, he gave no sign of it. His handsome face sneered. ‘Shapur does not have a non-Aryan brother. He has non-Aryan slaves. The only King of the Romans he knows is the one who by his mercy sits on a lower throne at his own court, the one called Mariades.’

  Ballista sensed a stir in the Rom
ans behind him as, among the foreign words, they recognized the name of Mariades, the fugitive brigand from Syria set up by Shapur as a pretender to the throne of the Caesars. Ballista ignored it. ‘The benefactor of mankind, the peace-loving Shapur King of Kings, beloved of Ahuramazda, would not smile on a man who harmed ambassadors.’

  A look of suspicion appeared on the Persian’s face. He brought his horse closer. He studied Ballista. ‘The word that was given to me was true. I know you. I am Vardan, son of Nashbad.’

  A distant memory struggled to surface in Ballista’s mind. He did not move.

  With no warning, the Persian drew his sword and thrust the long blade within inches of the northerner’s face. The memory came back. A dark night in the south ravine below the walls of Arete. Vardan’s sword at his throat, as it was now. The Persian smiled. ‘I see you remember. You tricked me once. I said then that I would seek you out, that there would be a reckoning.’

  Ballista fought down his fear. The blade at his throat did not waver. Vardan spoke. ‘Tell your men to throw down their weapons.’ Ballista gave the order, and Persians sprang forward to gather them up.

  With a fluid movement, Vardan’s blade sliced through the air. He sheathed it.

  ‘If Shapur does not recognize your status as an ambassador, I will ask him to hand you over to me. The ungodly man who defiled the sacred fire of Ahuramazda after Circesium will not die quickly.’ Vardan laughed with anticipation. ‘We will camp here tonight. Tomorrow, I will take you to the King of Kings.’

  Wherever you go, thought Ballista, old enemies will find you.

  XXVI

  The next day, Ballista and the others were marched down to the Sassanid camp on the plains before the walls of Edessa. As Vardan the night before had ordered the garlanded ox killed and eaten, he had been able to force a fast pace. It was a little after midday when they reached the crest of the last hill. The siege had been spread out below them like a scene in the theatre. Off to their right was the white-walled city of Edessa, nestled against the western hills. In front of them and to their left were the besiegers. Troops of cavalry wheeled across the plain. The camp itself stretched away into the distance. A cloud of blue smoke from innumerable fires of dried dung hung over it. The pungent smell carried all the way to the northern hills. There was an enormous, roughly circular palisade, but the camp had outgrown it. Thousands of tents and hundreds of horse lines were laid out in no discernible order, except at the very heart of the camp, where a series of huge purple pavilions marked the temporary home of the King of Kings.