King of Kings

by Unknown

  Any idea that they were being hurried into the presence of Shapur had been quickly dispelled when the Roman party had ridden into the encampment. Vardan had brusquely ordered them to pitch their tents at the eastern extremity of the camp, between the elephant lines and one of the main latrines. Sassanid guards were posted. The Roman envoys were told to await the royal summons. There they had remained for fourteen days. The smell was appalling. The food provided was barley bread, chickpeas, lentils and raisins – the food of the local poor. The wine brought in was thin and sour. Every night, they were kept awake by the singing of the guards. And, if final proof had been needed of the deliberate contempt that was being displayed, it came when the guards mockingly recounted how envoys from Velenus, the king of an obscure people called the Cardusii, who lived far away by the shores of the Caspian Sea, had just been most hospitably received by Shapur as soon as they arrived.

  Aurelian had paced about, fuming at the disrespect being exhibited to the maiestas of the Roman people. Quietus took it all with surprising equanimity. Ballista, as nothing could be done, had settled down to wait. He was rereading the Anabasis of Xenophon, the classic text about fighting easterners, when out of the blue the summons finally came. Aurelian was all for making Shapur wait, paying him back in kind. Both Ballista and Quietus thought it unwise.

  After hurriedly changing into their best uniforms and getting the diplomatic gifts together, they were led out of camp towards a place on the bank of the Scirtos river where parasols shaded a high, elaborate throne, from which the King of Kings could survey the siege.

  As he trudged across the plain, Ballista studied the scene. Edessa was in a good state of defence. The orchards and inns outside the city had been torn down to deny cover to the attackers. A dry wadi fronted well-built double walls. To the south was a high citadel topped with the columns of a temple or palace. Rush mats to deaden the impact of missiles hung from the walls. The gates had been blocked with large stones. Where the Scirtos river emerged from the town, the watergates were protected by solid-looking metalwork.

  Ballista knew there were ample springs of fresh water within the walls. But the attackers had to depend on the river, and that ran through the town. If he had been in charge, he would have found a way to poison the water before it flowed out to the camp of the enemy on the plain. Again, he would not have sealed the gates, making it impossible to sally out. He thought the situation demonstrated a lack of initiative on the part of the defenders. But, looking outside the walls, he saw no artillery and no evidence of a siege mound or mines. The attackers appeared to be no more active than the besieged. The whole affair had more the feel of a blockade than a closely pressed siege.

  ‘Who comes before the divine, virtuous, powerful Shapur, King of Aryans and non-Aryans, King of Kings?’ At the herald’s question the Romans performed proskynesis, full length in the dust and, possibly carefully placed, horse droppings.

  Ballista stood. He spoke in Persian. ‘We are envoys from the virtuous, peace-loving Valerian, emperor of the Romans. This is Lucius Domitius Aurelian and Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus. I am Marcus Clodius Ballista.’

  As the silence lengthened, Ballista looked at the tableau in front of him. He had seen Shapur many times at Arete, but never this close. The Sassanid king was a tall, powerfully built man in vigorous middle age. He had a full, black beard and wore the dress of a horseman: short, purple tunic and white trousers. On his head was a high golden crown. Huge pearls hung from his ears. His eyes were lined with kohl. Across his lap lay a strung bow.

  The King of Kings was flanked on one side by the great men of his empire. Tall, armed men, bright, embroidered surcoats over gleaming armour, each had a long, straight cavalry sword at his left hip. The men on the other side were equally gorgeously costumed but unarmed. These were the magi, the priests of Mazda. High above them all floated the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the battle standard of the house of Sasan. A line of ten terrifyingly big elephants, carrying turrets full of armed men, formed the backdrop.

  Suddenly, first one then another, Ballista recognized two of the men flanking Shapur. Among the warriors, dressed in Persian fashion, was a man with a long face with eyes that were too wide, and which matched the turned-down corners of his mouth. Ballista had last seen that distinctive face at the Horns of Ammon. It was no great surprise that Anamu, sometime leading man of the city of Arete and consummate survivor, had risen high in the service of the Sassanid king.

  The other man was a total surprise. Ballista looked carefully: the tall, thin figure; the bushy beard and hair; the dark eyes that regarded him with no evident recognition. No, he was not mistaken. There, among the high priests of the Sassanid empire, stood the Persian boy who had once gone by the name of Bagoas and had once been the slave of Ballista, bought in the marketplace of Delos. At times, the northerner thought, it is a very small world – small, complicated and dangerous.

  Another group of envoys was ushered forward. They were clad in eastern costume. They stopped next to the Romans and performed proskynesis. Again, the herald demanded identification.

  ‘I am Verodes. I am the envoy of Odenathus, Lord of Tadmor, King of Palmyra.’

  Shapur plucked the string of his bow. He had an air of supreme indifference. He looked at the Romans, then turned to the newcomer. ‘What does Odenathus want?’

  The envoy from Palmyra smiled a courtly smile. ‘My Lord wants for nothing except to be admitted into the warmth of the friendship of the King of Kings. He brings gifts suitable to your majesty.’ Verodes clapped his hands, and servants came forward. First, bales of silk were spread then piles of spices heaped. Finally, a magnificent white stallion was led forth. The mingled scent of spices and horse filled the air.

  With no emotion, Shapur took an arrow from the quiver that hung from his throne. No one moved. Shapur notched it, drew and aimed straight at the chest of the envoy from Palmyra. As he released, he altered the angle of the arrow. The bright feathers on its shaft quivered in the neck of the horse. The stallion threw up its head. It started to rear. Its legs gave way, and it collapsed. Its muscles trembled for some moments, and it was still. The dark blood pooled out.

  Shapur pointed with the bow at the other gifts. ‘Throw these baubles in the river.’ Men rushed to do his biding. ‘Tell Odenaethus that if he wishes the King of Kings to smile on him, to send no more slaves with trinkets suitable to win the favours of a whore but to come with his hands in chains, throw himself at our feet, let him prostrate himself and beg for our mercy. Now go!’

  With all the dignity they could muster, Verodes and the other Palmyrenes hurriedly performed proskynesis and left.

  Ballista could feel the anger radiating off Aurelian. The northerner himself was not angry – if anything, he felt a grudging admiration at the way it had been stage-managed. The Roman ambassadors had been kept waiting to witness one of Rome’s chief allies in the east trying to change sides. In a superb display of power, Shapur had rejected the offer. He had neatly undermined all trust between Odenathus and the Romans and at the same time demonstrated the supreme confidence he felt in his own power.

  Shapur pointed the bow at Ballista. ‘And you?’ He spoke now in Greek. ‘What does your kyrios want?’

  ‘He wants a truce, Kyrios.’

  Shapur smiled. ‘Does he? Even as we speak, Mazda strikes down the ungodly. Plague rages through the Roman army in Samosata. Why should we grant a truce?’

  ‘My lord, the fortune of war is unknowable. Many have found war against the emperors of the Romans a terrible thing.’

  Shapur laughed. ‘The house of Sasan has always found it a thing of unalloyed joy, a bringer of exquisite pleasure.’ He gestured, and a short, fat man dressed in an approximation of the martial costume of a Roman emperor scurried forth. Shapur clicked his fingers and Mariades, his tame pretender to the throne of the Caesars, dropped on all fours. Shapur swung his boots on to the back of his living footstool.

  ‘I take it you bring tribute? The usual gold and silver pl
ate finely embossed with lying images of easterners grovelling at the feet of Romans?’

  Aurelian drew in breath. Ballista put a hand on his arm to stop him saying anything. As Ballista indicated for the gifts to be presented, it occurred to him again that his friend ‘hand-to-steel’ was far from an ideal ambassador.

  ‘Delightful,’ Shapur said as he casually inspected the cunningly wrought precious metals. ‘I always admire the way Roman diplomacy is blind to irony.’ He kicked Mariades none too gently, and he scrambled away. ‘I will accept this tribute.’

  Before Ballista could stop him, Aurelian snapped angrily. ‘Gifts! Rome pays tribute to no one!’

  In the terrible silence that followed, Shapur thrummed the string of his bow. Then he smiled. ‘I have been told about you. You are the great killer of Sarmatians and Franks. I admire spirit in an opponent. To you, I will give suitable gifts.’ At his gesture, a servant handed Aurelian a sacrificial saucer engraved with an image of the sun god. ‘I thought you might find it suitable,’ said Shapur. ‘And, possibly, also this.’ There was a loud trumpeting. The ground shook. An enormous elephant swayed into view. ‘He is called Peroz, Victory. I give him to you. His mahout as well.’

  As Aurelian stared, open-mouthed, Shapur turned to Quietus. ‘To each his deserts. For you, this sack of gold.’ Quietus started to stammer what might have been thanks. Shapur cut him off.

  The Sassanid gestured at Ballista with the bow. ‘But to you, the ungodly defiler of fire at Circesium, I give nothing. You are an envoy. But if we meet again when you are not protected by that status, it will not be good for you.’

  Shapur rose. Everyone hurried to prostrate themselves. ‘Tell Valerian there will be no truce. I long to test the strength of my arm against his. There will be only war. You will return to Samosata tomorrow.’

  The torches along the via principalis, the main thoroughfare, of the first Roman marching camp south of the Euphrates guttered and flared in the remains of the storm. The south wind threw gusts of rain into Ballista’s face, tugged at his cloak. The foul weather matched his mood as he splashed through the puddles to the imperial headquarters.

  The plague had abated. The pious put it down to the sagacious immolation of fifty-three Christians. But if the gods had been pleased, they had given no other sign today as the expedition moved out. At dawn, during the ceremony of purification on the citadel of Samosata, the slimy, grey ropes of sacrificial intestines had slithered slowly and irretrievably out of the hands of the emperor. Valerian had done what he could to dissipate the omen: ‘This is what comes of being old, but I can hold my sword tightly enough.’ His words had elicited a half-hearted cheer. As the emperor went to leave, a servant had draped a black cloak around his shoulders. It had been some moments before Valerian had realized and called for the correct, purple one.

  As the last of the army crossed the river, the storm hit: thunder, lightning, driving rain. A savage gust had torn free one of the rafts of the pontoon bridge. ‘Be of good cheer,’ Valerian had shouted, ‘None of us will come back this way again.’ His words were received in silence as the rain beat down.

  Just before Ballista had left his tent, the first rations of the campaign had been delivered: lentils and salt – the food of mourning, offerings to the dead. Ballista suspected a malign hand. The Comes Sacrarum Largitionum was responsible for the imperial wardrobe; the Praefectus Annonae was in charge of provisions – but Macrianus could not be blamed for the trembling of the aged hands of the emperor or the fury of the elements.

  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 manoeuv
re 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!’