The Amber Road

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘That is intended for the king of the Angles.’

  ‘My father has many plates and bowls. He will not miss a few more.’

  Zeno looked round to tell one of his slaves to bring the precious things. They were already dragging them out of his baggage. Yet more annoyingly, as they did so they were tossing his treasured papyrus rolls anyhow on the ground. Zeno would let them feel his displeasure later.

  The tall Goth called Tuluin examined the embossed huntsmen, hounds and beasts cursorily, passed them to the others. He said something else.

  ‘What?’ How could Zeno be expected to conduct diplomacy with people so savage they spoke neither Greek nor Latin?

  ‘He has invited us to a feast. He says our boats make excellent fuel.’

  ‘The boats!’ Zeno exclaimed.

  ‘I think he is joking.’

  Tuluin smiled. ‘Health and great joy,’ he said in good Greek.

  XVI

  Gallia Narbonensis

  A gust of wind took the purple hangings, and, before an attendant gathered them, it gave a glimpse outside. Beyond the forum, the emperor Postumus saw the theatre built into the side of one of the hills at the eastern end of Colonia Vienna. It was a fine morning. Briefly, he heard the sounds of the port, and could smell the water.

  It would be good to be out on the river. He had always found fishing soothing, ever since his childhood on the Rhine. After the ordeal of the day before he needed to be soothed.

  The heavy curtains back in place, a reverent silence and gloom was restored. There was nothing to smell but the incense burning on the sacred fire.

  A morning of leisure – fishing, hunting or just staying at home – was out of the question. Postumus was emperor, and an emperor had little leisure and no home. There were always demands on him; he was always in motion. Postumus had arrived only three days ago. Colonia Vienna was one of the leading cities of the province of Gallia Narbonensis, and thus one of the most important communities in his imperium. When an emperor arrived, everyone clamoured for justice.

  The will of the emperor was law. He could make new laws, ignore, alter or abolish old ones. No jurist would demur. Yet no one was more constrained by the processes of law. This was the first of four days Postumus had set aside to sit in judgement. The curia of the town council had been transformed into an imperial courtroom. Postumus sat as judge, the senate as his assessors. They had already heard two cases: a boundary dispute and the unpaid inheritance of an orphan. At least the one before them now was more amusing. It was the sort of thing that pleased Postumus’s son. The boy sat forward on his bench, jotting notes.

  The son of a local worthy had put on the rough cloak and staff of the Cynic philosophers and taken to their ascetic lifestyle in public. The father had disowned him. The son had brought a case for wrongful disinheritance. The father was speaking in his own defence, upbraiding his son.

  ‘Why are you embarrassing me by begging food from other people when you have a home and a father? Are you training yourself against fortune? What worse can happen? Do you suffer cold and hunger for fear they may happen some day? You and your kind have a new type of ambition – you seek veneration for misery.’

  Having ended on a note of righteous indignation, the father glowered across the curia, the very embodiment of outraged provincial decorum. Hairy, straggle-bearded and rather dirty, the son stood on the other side, as if virtue itself arraigned. In order of precedence, the assessors murmured their advice. Postumus listened with all signs of attentiveness before delivering his verdict.

  ‘Not all philosophy is hostile to the mores of Rome. True lovers of wisdom, those who honestly seek virtue, are at one with the spirit of our age.’

  Actually, Postumus had no time for any of them, but an emperor was expected to be a man of culture. It was the sort of thing he should say.

  ‘Philosophy concerns itself with the highest good, the soul of man. Material things it rejects as irrelevant and unworthy of consideration. Therefore, by bringing this case the son has shown he is not a philosopher at all. In which case his father’s argument that he has adopted these ways as a form of ambition has validity. The Cynics are the most debased of false philosophers, always yapping against their betters and the established order, outraging public decency. The son should either welcome the removal of the distraction of worldly goods and become a philosopher in reality, or take himself to the baths, put on respectable attire, comport himself according to the station of his birth and seek reconciliation with his father. Having consulted my consilium, I dismiss the case.’

  As the plaintiff and the defendant were removed, the assessors voiced decorous approval. Postumus regarded the senators benignly. He had never had any intention to invade Italy and attempt to seize Rome. Civil war was to be abhorred. Having been forced to take the purple, he was content to rule over those the gods had allotted to his care. But to have legal authority, an emperor must have his powers voted to him by the senate; without a Lex de Imperio, there was no legitimacy. There had been enough senators serving as magistrates or living on their estates in the west for Postumus to constitute his own senate.

  Postumus had never hidden his humble Batavian origins. But, unlike Maximinus Thrax, the first emperor to have risen from the ranks of the army, he had no desire to be seen as a military autocrat at odds with the traditional elite. With Gallienus ever more estranged from his own senators, conspicuous respect for rich landowners might bring advantage.

  There were more than forty toga-clad senators on the benches around Postumus. The governor of Gallia Narbonensis, Censor, sat on his right hand. The governors of two neighbouring provinces, Honoratianus of Gallia Lugdunensis and Aemilianus of Hispania Tarraconensis, were on his left. All three had held the consulship since Postumus’s accession. The curia of Colonia Vienna paraded a fine spectacle of loyalty.

  As the previous day had shown, loyalty could never be taken for granted. Lollianus was an old friend. He had commanded Legio XXX Ulpia Victrix when Postumus had defeated the Franks at Deuso. He had counselled Postumus to take the purple. His rewards had been vast: money, land and promotion to Prefect of the Imperial Cavalry. No one had stood higher in the regime. Postumus had not wanted to believe the treachery, but the evidence left no doubt. Lollianus had approached an officer, Probinus, in his command. This Liberalinius Probinus had reported everything that Lollianus had said. Postumus was a half-barbarian usurper. He must be struck down, and the west restored to the rightful ruler, Gallienus. Worse yet, Lollianus – the very man who had proposed the horrible deed – had condemned Postumus as the cold-blooded killer of a defenceless child. Lollianus had urged Probinus to think how Gallienus would thank those who brought him the head of the man who had murdered his son, Saloninus.

  It had been terrible to watch, but Lollianus had incriminated himself under torture. A man had come to him from Rome. Although dressed as a civilian, Lollianus had known him for a soldier. The frumentarius had handed over a letter from Rufinus, the Princeps Peregrinorum of Gallienus. It had contained many promises: the consulship, command of Gallienus’s comitatus, admission to the ranks of the protectores and five million sesterces would be granted to Lollianus when he had killed Postumus. As the claws tore his flesh, Lollianus had sworn his innocence. Fear of unjust suspicion was what had stopped him reporting the approach. He had destroyed the letter. The latter was damning. It had been a relief to Postumus, as well as the bloodied hulk of the man on the rack, when he ordered Lollianus executed. The body had been disposed of discreetly.

  Haloed by sunshine, the dramatis personae of the next case were ushered into the courtroom.

  Gallienus had no monopoly on underhand means. Postumus reflected that his own attempts to suborn Gallienus’s supporters continued. Admittedly, the consul Saturninus had feigned incomprehension when approached, and nothing could be expected there. Equally, nothing yet had been reported of the sounding out of the protector Carus or the Praefectus Vigilum Placidianus, although, in time, things migh
t develop. But, at Mediolanum, the net around Proculus, the commander of the detachments of the Pannonian legions, was cunningly laid. Knowing the reputation of Proculus for lechery, the frumentarius had travelled there well disguised as a merchant, with a beautiful woman posing as his wife. Sure enough, Proculus had begun an affair. Now it remained for either the woman to draw Proculus into betrayal or her supposed husband to threaten denunciation to the authorities. Adultery was a serious crime. Gallienus might indulge in it himself, but he could not be seen to condone it in others.

  The hangings cut off the light, and the gold-gleaming, perfumed shade of imperial sanctity was restored. Postumus welcomed the interruption to his murky thoughts.

  Unlike those earlier, this case involved a capital offence. In fact, there were two conjoined: sacrilege and treason. Faustinus, a Roman senator with wide estates spreading across Narbonensis and Lugdunum, was accused of cutting down a sacred grove and erecting imperial images where corpses were buried. Given the seriousness of the potential consequences for both accused and accuser, depending on the outcome, and the high status of the former, the facts had been carefully scrutinized.

  The man bringing the charges performed adoration and answered the formal questions: Name? Race? Free or slave? The water clock was turned, and the accuser began his speech.

  Postumus did not need to give it his full attention. He had been thoroughly briefed. The evidence around the maiestas charge was ambiguous. The portraits of Postumus and certain past emperors deified for their goodness – Augustus, Trajan and Pius – had been set up in a small building next to a cemetery. But both were surrounded by the same wall. The charge of sacrilege was straightforward. Faustinus was guilty. He had ordered the trees sacred to the gods chopped down. His sole defence would be ignorance.

  Faustinus was a rich man from an established family, kin to many senators present in the courtroom. He was not yet bound to the Gallic regime. Postumus had no wish to bend the law to favour the influential, but sometimes the greater good demanded a clementia beyond the statutes. Now Lollianus was dead, imperial mandata had gone north summoning Lepidus, the governor of Gallia Belgica, to take command of the imperial cavalry. Postumus was minded to appoint Faustinus to the vacant province.

  The most pressing of the new duties of Faustinus would be to send detachments of troops south. The gathering of forces on the north Italian plains left no doubt that Gallienus would strike this summer. Postumus considered Gallienus would follow his previous invasion route over the Alps via Cularo down into Narbonensis. Postumus would await him here in the Rhodanus valley at Colonia Vienna. Detachments were being summoned from those provinces currently least threatened by barbarians: Hispania Tarraconensis, Gallia Belgica and Britannia Superior. Should Gallienus take the only other viable route, north into Raetia, Postumus would force-march north and east by Lugdunum, Vesontio and Augusta Raurica. The governor of Raetia, Simplicinius Genialis, would have to hold out as best he could. The only reinforcements Postumus had been able to spare him were the thousand or so Angles from his German bodyguard. As noble warriors, all Arkil’s men were experienced horsemen. Postumus had issued the Angles with mounts and watched them ride off into the mountains. The thought of them made Postumus glance at his bodyguards by the curtains: big, tough Franks. It was strange the ways by which these northern warriors ended up in the heart of the imperium. The Franks had come by the terms of a treaty imposed after defeat in battle, the Angles as a result of the treachery of one of their own.

  The accuser finished his speech. The water clock was turned again and Faustinus began his defence. Naturally, the senator had not been told his acquittal was a foregone conclusion. Considering he was on trial for his life, Faustinus was making a good showing: weighty, calm and without histrionics. Postumus was impressed. Faustinus had no military experience, but, as the composition of Postumus’s bodyguard showed, currently there was nothing to be feared from the Franks and Angles. With only civilian tasks, Faustinus should do well in Belgica.

  The acquittal of Faustinus would bring another problem. What to do with his accuser? Bringing a malicious charge on a serious matter – and what could be more serious than sacrilege and treason? – laid a man open to a countercharge of calumnia. A jurist had advised Postumus that the penalties for calumnia were exile, relegation to an island or loss of status. Postumus had no doubt the accusation had been motivated by money. Avarice most likely lay at the heart of the majority of maiestas charges. If a man was convicted of treason, his accuser stood to gain a quarter of his property. That the imperial fiscus got the rest was a standing temptation to impecunious and unprincipled emperors. Postumus needed money, never more so now war threatened, but he would not act the tyrant. Besides which, the accuser came from a landed family of equestrian status and was related to several senators loyal to his regime, including his amicus Volcatius Gallicanus.

  Faustinus timed his oration to perfection. It ended moments before the water clock ran out. The senators gave their opinions. Postumus stroked his beard and listened, for all the world as if he were Pius or Marcus Aurelius. ‘Clementia’ was the word most often on the lips of his assessors. Clemency would reign for both parties. Faustinus was exculpated because the sacred grove had fallen into disuse, which might have an element of truth. His accuser was guilty of nothing except excessive loyalty to his emperor. Faustinus would be appointed to Gallia Belgica, and Postumus would have Volcatius Gallicanus assure his kinsman that the failed prosecution had not brought any imperial disfavour; in fact, any reasonable petition he might wish to bring might well be granted. Postumus knew it was hardly the justice Marcus Aurelius might have dispensed, but times were hard. Disaffection had to be avoided with civil war looming and treachery everywhere.

  XVII

  The Headwaters of the Vistula River

  The Grethungi had treated the expedition well. Ballista had liked Tuluin, the son of King Tulga. They had exchanged gifts as between equals: heavy gold arm-rings, cunningly wrought. After a round of feasts, when he had finished entertaining them, Tuluin had accompanied them upriver to the neighbouring Venedi. That people wore clothes like the Sarmatian nomads, but spoke the language and observed the customs of Germania. Their king, too, had shown them hospitality, and then led them on to the lands of the various tribes of the Lugii. Here they had come first to the Helisii, where they had left their boats drawn up on the banks of a tributary of the Borysthenes and continued on horseback. From there they had traversed the territory of the Naharvali, whose priests dressed as women, and the Manimi, who were more conventional in their religion. Finally, thirty days after the portage of the great rapids, they had reached Mirkwood and the headwaters of the Vistula.

  Ballista dismounted before the high-gabled hall of Heoden, the king of the Harii. Without asking permission of anyone in the courtyard, he ordered his men to stable the horses. The guards looked down from the surrounding palisade, and children peered around outbuildings. Ballista stood with Zeno and the eunuch Amantius, and waited. Nothing could be heard from inside the hall, but smoke issued from the smoke holes in the roof. When his men returned, Ballista led them to the iron-bound door of the hall and pushed it open.

  The hall stretched away. It was lit by torches and the fire that burned in the central hearth. Long tables and benches ran down both sides, the high table along the far end. The throne behind the latter was unoccupied. Men sat at most of the benches. They were all dressed in black, silent and watchful. It crossed Ballista’s mind to wonder what the Greek Zeno behind him was making of all this. Possibly he saw himself as Orpheus or some other hero stepping into the underworld. It was all very familiar to Ballista.

  Enough space had been allocated on the left-hand benches for Ballista and those who followed him. Up near the high table, it was an ale-bench of sufficient honour. Ballista led them through the hall. Their boots thumped on the boards of the floor, their spurs and war gear jingled. At the table they remained standing.

  An elderly warrior got up
from his seat at the foot of the empty throne. He addressed Ballista in formal tones. ‘Is this the Dernhelm son of Isangrim who left this hall as a boy of fifteen winters? Despite the beatings we gave him, he remained stubborn and full of boastfulness. Even the famed night-fighters of the Harii could not teach him how to set an ambush, how to move in the dark. He seems little changed except for his years. We heard that, undissuadable by friend or foe, his pride urged him to seize the throne of the Caesars. Once perched there, he found the eminence too high, and threw himself in the dust before a statue of the emperor, sobbing and begging for mercy. Despite that humiliation, he looks around now as if the hall of his foster-father Heoden is beneath him.’

  A low hooming of approval came from the black-clad warriors of the Harii.

  ‘Gifeca,’ said Ballista, ‘the drink lends eloquence to your tongue; although your wife always said it unmanned you in other ways. She could tell you how I moved in the dark all those years ago. No wonder she told me that a sober youth was more use to her than a drunken man.’

  The Harii snorted into their ale.

  Ballista had not finished. ‘No whisper has ever reached me of any deeds of Gifeca of the Harii among distant enemies, no perils or ambushes survived by daring swordplay. He has killed a few bare-arsed local tribesmen, but at the mere mention of the red-crested legions of Rome or the fierce Persians, it is said, old Gifeca reaches for more drink or shits himself with fear.’

  Now the Harii laughed, banging the tables. Gifeca himself grinned, walked across to Ballista, and enfolded him in his arms. ‘It has been a long time, you little shit.’

  Finding it hard to speak in the bear hug, Ballista grunted in assent.

  The formal flyting over, servants brought in more drink. Ballista got little of it, as many of the Harii who were companions in his youth or were kinsmen of his mother wanted to talk.