by Unknown
Asking Turpio if he would mind staying with the men, Ballista walked across the hillside to stand behind Valerian. Slowly, the Comites Augusti assembled. Quietus was last, until the very final moment whispering urgently with some centurions.
The Suren held an unstrung bow over his head. When he was a stone’s throw from the Roman line, he caracoled his mount to a halt. He took off his helmet and hung it on the horn of his saddle. He wore make-up, his face shone with a clean, almost feminine beauty but, when he spoke, his voice was masculine, that of a warrior.
‘Shapur, King of Kings, lord of all he surveys, would speak with Valerian.’ The Suren spoke in Greek. ‘Shapur will ride down to meet Valerian in the open between the armies. Each will be accompanied by five men. None shall be armed.’
There was a breathless hush on the hillside. Squaring his shoulders, Valerian stepped forward. ‘A Roman imperator does not come running when a barbarian calls.’
There was a murmur from the troops around the emperor. Then soldiers started to bang weapons on their shields. The first shouts came. ‘Meet him.’ ‘You expect us to fight him, but you dare not even talk to him.’ ‘Old coward, meet him.’ Officers barked orders, took names. It did no good. The core of the shouting came from those with whom Quietus had been whispering. Meet him. Meet him.
Valerian looked around coldly at the mutineers. In truth, the old man had never been a coward. He tried to stare them down. It did not work. Meet him. Meet him.
The silver-haired emperor turned back to the Persian envoy. He answered in Latin. ‘Tell your dominus it shall be as he asks. I will meet him in half an hour between the armies.’ Valerian turned away. Calling just Censorinus and Quietus to him, he abruptly dismissed the rest of the Comites Augusti.
XXXI
Ballista was walking back to Turpio and the others when he heard the horses coming up behind him. He stopped and turned. Quietus skidded his horse to a halt, so close that Ballista had to step back hurriedly or be knocked over. The other three riders encircled the northerner. They were Arabs. They carried short spears at the ready. All wore the yellow-on-blue four-petal-flower symbol of Anamu. They effectively screened Ballista from the surrounding troops on the hillside.
‘Get your horse. You have the honour of being one of the five Comites who will ride with the Augustus. Your amicus Turpio goes too.’ The little pouchy eyes of Quietus shone with malicious triumph.
Ballista stepped closer. The Arabs raised their spears. Ballista stopped. He flatly intoned, ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
Visibly angered by the northerner’s lack of emotion, Quietus leaned forward. ‘At every command we will be ready,’ he mocked. ‘You ignorant piece of barbarian shit. The weakness and arrogance of your kind have led you to be always ready to carry out every command of my father. Although you did not know it, you have done his will as if you were his most loyal slave.’
Ballista said nothing.
Quietus’ pride and loathing for the northerner made his words run on. ‘You did what he wished back in Ephesus. Your weakness unmanned you, stopped you killing the Christian scum, opened the way for my appointment.’
Still Ballista did not respond.
‘Did you not wonder why you were recalled for this expedition? My father knew that your arrogance would always make you speak out against his advice in the emperor’s consilium. And what could be better at swinging that old fool Valerian to follow the wise words of his most trusted friend, the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, than a disgraced, possibly disloyal barbarian arguing the opposite? Every time you spoke you were fitting the lid on Valerian’s sarcophagus a little tighter.’ Quietus snorted with humourless laughter. ‘If, of course, Shapur does not use his head as a stage prop and throw his body to the dogs.’
‘Your father and his creatures have manoeuvred the emperor and the army to disaster.’ Ballista held his voice level. ‘It is a consolation that you will go down with us.’
Now Quietus’ laugh was genuine. ‘Oh, you are misinformed, as ever, my barbarian amicus. Just now, Censorinus and I received the most sagacious emperor’s orders to ride to Samosata and inform my father how things stand with the army in the field.’
‘The Persians will kill you both before you get out of the valley.’
‘Oh dear, again you are misinformed. It has all been arranged by these men’s master. Even among Arabs, Anamu is splendidly resourceful. During Valerian’s talk with Shapur, a mere shout of Perez-Shapur and the Sassanid patrols will fall back and allow a small troupe of horsemen from the Roman army to go on its way unhindered. We should be in Samosata in time for breakfast.’
‘No one will accept you and your brother as emperors. Valerian’s son Gallienus has the western army, good generals. He will kill both of you, and your scheming father.’
Quietus shrugged. ‘With the Franks, Goths and the rest of your hairy kinsmen rampaging across the northern borders, I imagine he will be rather busy. Now, although I am deriving great pleasure from our conversation, I really have to leave. Breakfast in Samosata. I wonder what prisoners get in the Persian camp?’
‘I go as an envoy.’
‘Hmm, yes, it saved you last time. I wonder if it will again? The King of Kings might be thought to have little love for a man who burned the corpses of his devout Zoroastrians at Circesium. Now I am rather glad that the assassin I hired in Edessa was as inept as the one in Antioch. Anyway, I really must be off.’ Quietus half-turned his horse. ‘When I get back to Antioch I will give my love to your wife.’
Before the northerner could move, the spear points of the Arabs were at his chest.
Ballista called after the retreating Quietus. ‘One day, maybe not soon, but one day, I will kill you.’
Quietus did not respond. When he was at some distance the Arabs trotted after him.
Ballista turned and ran the other way.
Ballista reached his men. Not wanting to be conspicuous, he had slowed to a walk. They gathered round. ‘Saddle up, boys, we are leaving. Do it quietly. We don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves.
As the eight remaining Dalmatian troopers went to assemble their kit, Ballista indicated Turpio and his familia to remain. ‘Turpio, you and I have the unfortunate honour of riding with Valerian to the parley. We go disarmed.’
Turpio looked at the northerner, expressionless for a moment, then nodded and turned away.
‘Maximus, you have never cared for that mount of yours. You will take Pale Horse.’
The Hibernian said nothing. Nor did Calgacus or Demetrius. They tacked up in silence. Having double-checked the girths on Maximus’ horse, Ballista rummaged in his saddle bags. He found a document case. Gesturing the others close, he spoke so that his voice would not carry beyond them. ‘Calgacus, you will be in charge. As Turpio and I go to Valerian, you will lead the boys to the southern end of the hill. Do it with as little fuss as possible. When you see the imperial party set off for the meet, cross the perimeter. I doubt anyone will try and stop you. If they do, you will have to think of something. Say you have secret orders. Once out of the line, make your way around the far side of the hill. Ride north for the Euphrates. The Sassanid patrols have orders to let pass a small party of Roman horse who give the password, Peroz-Shapur. They are only expecting one group of riders, so you may have to talk your way through. But Maximus speaks Persian, and he is Hibernian.’ No one smiled at the attempted joke. ‘If all goes well, you should get to Samosata some time tonight.’
‘You think the parley with Shapur is a trap,’ said Calgacus.
Ballista nodded.
‘You must tell the emperor,’ Demetrius said.
‘I may well, but it will do no good. He will not listen to me.’
Maximus looked puzzled. ‘Then you must ride with us. We have cut our way out of bad places before.’
‘Not this time. The emperor is expecting me. If I do not appear, they will search. None of us will get away. It may be all right with me,
if they do not execute us straight away. I speak good Persian. I may yet be useful to the King of Kings.’
Ballista opened the document case. He took out three sealed papyrus rolls and handed one to each man. ‘Manumission papers. Completely legal. I had them drawn up a long time ago in Antioch. Your freedom.’
Demetrius could not contain himself. He fell to his knees, took Ballista’s hand and kissed it. ‘Thank you. Thank you, Kyrios.’
Ballista raised him up, kissed him on both cheeks, hugged him. ‘Don’t get too carried away. As my freedman, the Romans would consider you still owe me all sorts of duties.’
Neither of the other men had moved. ‘Time to go,’ Ballista said.
Maximus threw his papyrus to the ground. ‘I am not taking this, and I am not leaving you.’ He looked very angry.
Ballista picked up the papyrus. He pushed it down the neck of the Hibernian’s mailshirt. ‘You are taking this, and you are leaving.’
‘The fuck I am.’
‘The fuck you are.’ Ballista pulled Maximus close. He whispered in his ear. ‘The boys. They need you more than me. When you get to Samosata, make your way to Antioch. Look after Isangrim and Dernhelm as you have looked after me.’
Maximus was crying. He could not speak. He nodded. Ballista felt the tears in his own eyes. He squeezed the Hibernian tight, kissed him, then pushed him to arm’s length. ‘And look after Pale Horse. I love that animal. If anything happens to him, I will fucking kill you.’
‘I will die before I let anyone harm your boys.’
‘I know it.’
Ballista turned to Calgacus. He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it over, then they embraced. ‘Get a message to my father in the north,’ Ballista said. ‘I will try to get back.’
The ugly old face twisted into a gentle smile. ‘Of course you will get back. Like a counterfeit coin, you always do.’
Turpio led up his horse. ‘Time to go.’
Ballista and Turpio rode in silence across the scorched hillside. Publius Licinius Valerian, Pius, Felix, emperor of the Romans, sat on his quiet horse. Bare-headed, the old man looked out at the enemy. The others were waiting behind him.
‘Dominus,’ said Ballista. The aged emperor regarded him with little recognition. ‘Dominus, I fought for you at Spoletium when you won the throne. I have served you for nearly seven years.’
The heavy, old face looked at Ballista. ‘You did not do well in Ephesus.’
‘Dominus, this parley is a trap.’
Wearily, Valerian drew a hand across his face. ‘It may well be. But what else is there? The army cannot march – the Sassanids will massacre us down on the plain. It cannot stay here with no water or food.’
‘Dominus, if we hold out until nightfall, we can try to break out to the north.’
Valerian shook his head. ‘The men will not stand for it.’
‘You still have over a hundred mounted men, the remains of the Equites Singulares, a few others. We could try and cut our way out.’
‘We would never reach the river.’ The old man laughed bitterly. ‘My men might mutiny, but I will not desert them. Besides, that dear boy Quietus tells me Shapur is a civilized man for a barbarian – a great lover of Euripides. We must talk to him. We may be able to negotiate a safe passage for the army. There is nothing else for it. Let us go.’
Ballista said no more. There was nothing to say.
They rode in columns of twos, Valerian flanked by the Praetorian Prefect Successianus, then the ab Admissionibus Cledonius and the commander of the Equites Singulares Aurelian. Turpio and Ballista brought up the rear.
The valley floor seemed very wide and very empty. They had not gone far when a cheer rolled across from the hillside in front where the Sassanids waited. Behind them was silence.
Half a dozen horsemen detached themselves from the Persian horde and cantered down the slope. In the centre was the unmistakable figure in purple and white, streamers flying out behind, high gold crown on his head – the glorious son of the house of Sasan, the King of Kings in all his majesty.
The eastern horsemen crossed the distance in no time. Shapur reined in his Nisaean stallion in front of Valerian. The other Persians spread out around the Romans.
No one spoke. There was silence. The wind was getting up again. It brought the smell of burning. Little dust devils swirled beneath the horses’ hooves.
Shapur’s dark, kohl-lined eyes studied the silver-haired Valerian. At length, the King of Kings smiled, almost pleasantly. ‘Who is this with the white crest that leads the army’s van?’ He spoke in Greek. ‘You are just as they told me you would be.’
Ballista nudged his horse towards the emperor. His way was blocked by the Lord Suren, on another great black Nisaean stallion.
‘Shapur, son of Ardashir,’ said Valerian, also in Greek, ‘this is an auspicious day.’
‘Rather more for me than you, I suspect.’ Shapur’s laugh seemed one of genuine amusement.
‘The first meeting of an emperor of Rome and a king of the house of Sasan. There is much to discuss.’
Shapur shook his head, the pearls he wore in his ears swinging. ‘I must tell you, the time for words is past, old man.’
The Nisaean stallion surged forward. With the grace of a natural horseman, Shapur leaned across and seized both Valerian’s wrists. He pulled them skywards, half hauling the old emperor up out of the saddle.
Ballista kicked his heels in. Frightened of the Suren’s huge mount blocking its way, the northerner’s horse refused. Ballista was thrown forward, off balance. The Suren’s mail-clad fingers dug into his throat. Desperately, Ballista’s fingers sought the Persian’s face. They grasped his beard. He pulled. Locked together, the two men struggled.
Shapur’s voice rang out over the din. ‘Valerian, emperor of Rome, with my own hands I take you prisoner.’
Over the Suren’s shoulder, Ballista could see the Sassanid cavalry pouring down towards them. A horse reared near by. Successianus was thrown to the ground, among the stamping hooves.
The fingers at his throat were choking Ballista. He could not breathe. His vision was dimming. The Persian cavalry were surging all around them.
‘Surrender, my children’ – there was a catch in Valerian’s voice – ‘surrender.’
Ballista ceased to struggle. The Lord Suren released the grip on his throat. The northerner looked up. The emperor caught his eye. Valerian shook his head slightly and spoke with infinite sadness. ‘I have been a fool. I doubted your loyalty and ignored your advice. And now it has come to this.’
The Sassanids had erected a raised golden throne on the hill opposite the remnants of the Roman army. Seated there, Shapur was shaded by a parasol. The mighty lords of the Sassanid empire flanked him. They were tall men. They stood proud, make-up immaculate, hands resting on the hilts of their long cavalry swords. Above them all, the Drafsh-i-Kavyan cracked in the breeze.
The six Romans stood, dirty, hands bound, waiting under the pitiless sun. Among the nobles, close to the throne, Ballista recognized the Lord Suren. Further away, the jaunty blue clothes, embroidered with delicate four-petal flowers in yellow, of the traitor Anamu. Off to one side stood the Magi and the sacred fires. Ballista noticed with trepidation that the priests of Mazda had set pots to bubble over the flames. The memory of the fate of Roman prisoners at Arete was strong in him. Boiling olive oil tipped into the eyes: a hideous way to die. The northerner fought down a rising feeling of panic.
Shapur held a strung bow in his hands. He pointed it at Valerian. Two clibanarii pushed the old man forward, threw him face down in the dirt, then yanked him to his knees.
‘Valerian, once emperor of the Romans, now slave of the house of Sasan, will you tell the remnants of your army cowering on the hill over there to surrender?’
‘I will not.’
‘A pity. It would spare much suffering.’ Shapur spoke reflectively. ‘Earlier today, my son, Prince Valash, the joy of Shapur, gave a noble example of the mercy of th
e house of Sasan when he let depart those who had fought bravely among the legion he had trapped and destroyed. Now, it seems, a different example is needed. That of exemplary cruelty; a sight of what will befall them if they do not come down from the hill.’
Shapur indicated the other prisoners be brought forward. One by one, they were thrown to the ground and their names and rank called out: Successianus the Praetorian Prefect, Cledonius the ab Admissionibus, Aurelian the tribune of the Equites Singulares.
Ballista was shoved forward, his legs kicked out from under him. Although his hands were bound in front, he landed heavily, the wind knocked out of him. A fist in his long hair jerked him savagely up to his knees.
Shapur leaned forward, the bow in his hands. ‘This one I know – the butcher of Arete, the ungodly one who defiled sacred fire with the bodies of true believers at Circesium. He will be the one.’
‘No!’ Turpio yelled.
A moment later, he landed face down next to Ballista. The clibanarii yanked him to his knees.
‘He fought you nobly at Arete, defeated your men at Circesium in open battle. A warrior deserves respect!’ Turpio roared defiance.
Shapur looked with curiosity at the prodigy of a man that would openly defy the King of Kings to his face. Then his expression changed. He rose. He sprang down from the throne, strode over, grabbed Turpio’s right arm. The ornate golden bracelet glittered.
‘Where did you get this?’ The Sassanid king’s voice was soft with menace.
Turpio said nothing.
‘You are the one who would have murdered me in my bed, cut my throat as I slept or took my pleasure.’
Shapur stepped back. He called over his shoulder: ‘Valash, my son.’
The tall, slim young man in the surcoat emblazoned with big cats came and stood by his father. He rested his hand on his long, straight sword. Shapur pointed at Turpio. ‘This one. Do it at the foot of the hill, where all the Romans can bear witness.’
Ballista lurched to his feet. ‘No, you bastard, not him!’
