‘On the Euphrates, Macrianus the Lame has taken command of what remains of the field army. He has claimed maius imperium over the east. He has had Exiguus, the governor of Cappadocia, killed. He is appointing his own men to commands. When I fled Syria, it was openly said he would put his sons, Macrianus the Younger and Quietus, on the throne.’
Treachery, revolt, civil war – would it never end? A time of iron and rust. This was not a moment to show weakness. Gallienus knew he had to be decisive.
‘When we have killed and enslaved the last of these Alamanni, we will send troops to the Caesar Saloninus on the Rhine. He has good, loyal men around him. Silvanus and Postumus will help him hunt down the Franks in Gaul. We ourselves will march without delay against Ingenuus. When his head is on a pike, we can deal with the cripple in the east.’
Gallienus forced himself to smile. ‘The imperium was not won without bitter strife. It will not be held by the faint-hearted. No one has defeated us. We will triumph over these rebels as we have triumphed over these Alamanni.’ The emperor raised his voice, made it ring. ‘Today we won a heroic victory. Tonight we will hold a heroic feast. We will distribute the booty and then drink until the sun is back in the sky, until the wine peeps through our scars.’
As the protectores and others close enough to hear his words cheered, Gallienus’s thoughts flew to the east. Shapur at the head of the Sassanid horde. Macrianus the Lame commanding the Roman forces. And between them, holding the balance, was Odenathus, the Lord of Palmyra. The man they called the Lion of the Sun.
PART THREE
Vir Perfectissimus
(The East, Summer–Autumn AD260)
‘You know well that you have not kept your oaths to me.’
Euripides, Medea, 495
Hidden in the unlit colonnade, Ballista waited. It was the last hours of the night, some time after the start of the fourth watch. Away from the palace to the south, across the open space of the citadel, he could make out furtive figures in the darkened temple of the Tyche of Zeugma. Without Ballista consciously directing it, his right hand moved: first to the dagger on his right hip, freeing it an inch or so from its sheath and snapping it back, then to the sword hanging on his left, drawing it a couple of inches and pushing it home again, finally to the healing stone tied to the scabbard. What was going to happen was all bad. But he had no choice but to play his part.
At last he heard them moving up the hill; a confused murmur of voices, the rattle of weapons, no attempt at concealment. As the first of them came through the gate, the torches they carried flickered through the leaves of the fruit trees. Snatches of boisterous, rough voices reached Ballista. The men emerged from the orchard fully armed for war – helmets, mail shirts, shields and weapons. But the column was in no order. The soldiers walked with friends from their units, talking in loose groups. The centurions present led some of them off to left and right. In no time at all, the palace was surrounded.
There goes all hope of escape, thought Ballista. His mind had been running on slipping away on the far side of the citadel; down through the trees, over the low wall, across the roofs, saddling Pale Horse and riding west, following the route Castricius’s man had shown Calgacus and the others. Of course it had been an idle thought. Even if he reached Antioch, how would he get Julia and the boys away? Come to that, what welcome would Gallienus give him in the west? He remembered entertaining a similar idea before the siege of Arete. Childish fantasies. It was time he put such things aside. Still, it was good of Castricius to have reunited him with Pale Horse and his own weapons. He touched the healing stone again.
The ring of armed men around the palace began to chant.
‘Come out! Show yourselves! Quietus and Macrianus, come out! You cannot hide from the soldiers!’
Nothing happened. The soldiers clashed their weapons on their shields. Their chants became impatient. Flasks of drink passed from hand to hand. One or two whistled, called out obscenities.
This cannot go on for long, thought Ballista.
A rectangle of orange light sprang out from the palace as a door opened.
‘Come out! Come out!’
Quietus and Macrianus the Younger stepped out. There was tension in their movements, none of the usual arrogant swagger.
Macrianus the Younger raised his right arm in an oratorical pose. The noise from the soldiers gradually fell away. Torches hissed in the night air.
‘Soldiers of Rome, what is the meaning of this? Have you forgotten your disciplina? Return to your quarters.’
‘Never! Never!’ The men roared back.
Now Quietus came forward. His arms were stretched out in entreaty. ‘Remember our youth, our blameless lives. Have pity on our father’s grey hairs. Do not put us in this danger. We have not asked for this. We have done nothing to deserve it.’
A few soldiers laughed. Then, as if at an order, they all began a rhythmic chant:
‘Quietus imperator, Augustus free from all guilt, may the gods keep you. Macrianus imperator, Augustus free from all guilt, may the gods keep you.’
Over and over, the words were chanted. Quietus and Macrianus the Younger made half-hearted gestures of unwillingness.
From the gloom, Ballista listened and watched. He had heard that, in some Scythian tribes, a man’s ritual reluctance to rule was overcome by pelting him with mud. It seemed a custom the Romans could adopt with profit.
A new chant boomed out. ‘The good faith of the soldiers, happiness!’ Louder and louder it was repeated. ‘Fidei militum feliciter! Fidei militum feliciter!’
Slowly, Macrianus the Lame made his way out of the palace to stand between his sons. He raised his walking stick. The silver head of Alexander glinted. The soldiers instantly stopped chanting. The father gestured Quietus to speak.
‘Fellow soldiers, it is a heavy burden you wish to place on our shoulders. Commilitiones, you know that neither my brother nor myself has sought this honour. Yet the gods know our love for the Res Publica.’
Quietus paused, as if in deep thought – the effect slightly spoilt by the half-smile on his weak mouth.
‘Commilitiones, we hear your command. The soldiers of Rome are the sword and shield of the imperium, the embodiment of our ancient virtus. But to be Augustus is not just to be a military commander. Our minds would be easier, our burden less heavy, if we knew that the senate and people also called us to the purple.’
As Quietus finished, lights blazed out from the temple behind the soldiers. Through its open doors Ballista could see a group of civilians gathered around the statue of the Tyche of Zeugma. The ring of soldiers opened to let them pass.
Maeonius Astyanax, toga-clad and backed by other senators, halted before the candidates for the throne. In the torchlight, his eyes were like pebbles under water.
‘Too long the ship of state has drifted, no firm hand on the rudder. Valerian was old and ineffectual. Now he is gone, may the gods have mercy on him. His son, Gallienus, lies sunk in luxury and debauchery. Shunning the senate house, the forum and the army camp, he disports himself with pimps and prostitutes, actors and barbarians. Fit only to be dragged with a hook, he brings disgrace and disaster. The throne of the Caesars calls for vigorous young men of courage and decency. The senate calls for Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus and Titus Fulvius Iunius Macrianus. Take the purple. Each of you: trust us, trust yourself!’
The senators took up the call: ‘Crede nobis, crede tibi; crede nobis, crede tibi.’
At the twenty-fifth repetition, another group of civilians came forth from the temple. The man at their head looked overawed. He was sweating heavily.
‘I am Barlaha, son of Antiochus, a member of the Boule of this city.’
Some of the soldiers, well refreshed with wine, sniggered. Barlaha stumbled on.
‘Rome has made one city of the civilized world. She has given all who dwell in the imperium citizenship. All the citizens of Rome speak through us, the Boule of Zeugma, when we call Quietus and Macrianus to the throne.’
The two young men inclined their heads in acceptance.
‘The immortal gods grant long life to Augustus Quietus, long life to Augustus Macrianus. Happy are we in your imperium, happy the Res Publica.’
Like a well-trained chorus, the audience chanted.
Two small groups of soldiers encircled Quietus and Macrianus. A flat, oval infantry shield was placed on the ground before each brother. They stood on them. The soldiers bent down and carefully, if with a certain unsteadiness, lifted the shields and raised Quietus and Macrianus to the heavens.
Macrianus the Younger, wobbling just a little, waved and made a fair show of imperial dignitas. Quietus, pouchy little eyes darting here and there, could contain himself no longer. Now and then clutching at the top of a soldier’s head for balance, he giggled in open exultation.
Once the two young men were safely back on terra firma, their father embraced them and spoke.
‘This has been so sudden, so unexpected, the hands of the gods must be behind it. Man must always bow to the dictates of the divine. But it has been so sudden that the necessary regalia is not prepared.’ The old man produced two ropes of gold, glittering with jewels. ‘These were your late mother’s necklaces; for now, use them as diadems.’
Quietus held up his hand. ‘Thank you, Father, but no; such a female adornment would not be right. There will be nothing womanly about our reign,’ he simpered.
A couple of cavalrymen approached. ‘Use these gilded horse trappings, Domini.’
This time it was Macrianus the Younger who demurred. ‘Many thanks, commilitiones, but what has been worn by a beast would impair the dignitas of an Augustus.’
There was an awkward pause. A centurion hissed, ‘Now, you fools.’ Two standard bearers shuffled up. They removed the gold collars from their necks. Evidently overcome by the occasion – or by alcohol – they had forgotten their lines. The new emperors snatched the offerings and placed them on their own heads.
Servants swarmed out. Two purple cloaks were produced and draped around the shoulders of Quietus and Macrianus. In front of each was placed a low altar on which burned the sacred fire of an emperor. Behind them, men ran about fixing imperial symbols to the front of the palace: eagles, the shield of four virtues, wreaths, bay leaves for victory, oak leaves for saving citizens’ lives.
All of this rather gave the lie to the ‘impromptu’ nature of the events, thought Ballista. He would not be able to remain lurking in anonymity behind a column for long. His own unwanted part in these ghastly theatrics was fast approaching. He fiddled with his sword.
It was Quietus who made the expected formal speech of acceptance.
‘Commilitiones, senators, citizens of Rome, it is with humility that we accede to your demand and take the imperium. Our joint reign will be marked by courage, clemency, justice and piety.’ He gestured at the golden shield now being hammered to the wall behind him on which ‘Virtus’, ‘Clementia’, ‘Iustitia’ and ‘Pietas’ were inscribed.
‘It is gratifying to us that the senate, people and soldiers unanimously call us to the throne,’ continued Quietus. ‘All shall benefit. The senate shall return to its ancient dignitas. Our consilium shall be open to senators. The senate house will be purged of informers. Senators will be free of unjust condemnations and confiscations of their estates. The great military commands will again be open to men of the senatorial order.’
The senators at least cheered this with enthusiasm.
‘To the people, their ancient libertas will return. We decree that ten days of games will be held, starting as soon as gladiators and animals can be gathered.’
The town councillors of Zeugma, as the only representatives of the people on hand, made suitably grateful noises.
‘Fitting reward must be given to the loyalty of the soldiers – two gold pieces to every man with the standards. But to those of our commilitiones present, to those through whom the gods brought us to the throne, much more is due.’
Quietus had his audience now.
‘The majority of the Praetorian Guard was lost with Valerian. All those here will be enrolled in the reformed unit, and accrue the resulting increases in pay.’
The men cheered. Shouts of ‘Rich soldier’ broke out. Quietus gestured for silence. He was ignored until his father joined in.
‘And a donative – five gold pieces and a pound of silver per man,’ Quietus continued.
The shouts returned, much louder, swelling into unison: ‘Dives miles! Dives miles!’
Again Macrianus the Lame had to calm the throng.
Quietus resumed. ‘A new guard needs a new commander. A man of loyalty. As our new Praetorian Prefect, it is right that Maeonius Astyanax should be first to take the sacramentum in our reign.’
Chin high, short beard jutting, Astyanax stepped up and took the military oath:
‘By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the emperors’ commands, never desert the standards or shirk death, to value the safety of the emperors above everything.’
Ballista listened to the words with misery. He had broken the sacramentum he had made to Maximinus Thrax and earned himself the undying hatred of that emperor’s daemon. He had broken his oath to Valerian. Now he was about to take another sacramentum, one he had no intention of keeping. But all this was nothing. It was breaking the oath to Shapur that plagued him: Spill my brains on the ground … my brains and the brains of my sons too.
Next up was Gaius Calpurnius Piso Frugi, the new governor of Syria Coele. He was followed by the other two governors present, Annius Cornicula of Syria Phoenice and Achaeus of Palestine. Then it was the turn of Ballista, the Vir Perfectissimus, Prefect of Cavalry, as he was announced.
As Ballista stepped out, most of the soldiers cheered perfunctorily, but one group showed real enthusiasm. The eagle, lion and Capricorn on their shields showed them to be from Legio IIII Scythica. They must have been part of the detachment that fought under Ballista at Circesium. The distinctive angular face and huge hooked nose of one of the legionaries confirmed it – Ahala, Aharna, his name was something like that. His was not a face you would easily forget. Ballista waved.
Having mouthed the words of the oath in a daze, Ballista found himself part of the new emperors’ entourage. He watched as everyone else took the sacramentum; those of importance as individuals, others in groups. The ceremony was far from over. When the oath-taking was done, they would process down to the main army camp and tour selected temples in the town before climbing the hill again for dedications in the temple of the Tyche of Zeugma and an audience in the palace.
Ballista supposed the ceremony had been well enough planned. Certainly Astyanax had devoted much effort to it; even trawling through old acts of the senate to select exactly right ‘spontaneous’ acclamations. Holding it at night had added some drama. Allowing only those soldiers already selected for the Praetorian Guards had been sensible. The unexpectedly generous donative had generated genuine excitement. Ballista could see the point of the theatricals with the diadems. It was meant to show that the new emperors had the dignitas of the imperium at heart, were close to their soldiers and could stand up to their father. Of course it was all nonsense.
Although the ceremony was passing off well, the same could not be said for the realities of the bid for power. Admittedly, all Roman provinces east of the Aegean had come over, including the initially uncertain military ones of Egypt, Arabia, Osrhoene and Syria Phoenice. But no governor in the west had declared for the sons of Macrianus, despite the sending of urgent letters accompanied by large bribes. And there was no possibility of winning over the vital Danubian armies now Ingenuus was leading his own revolt.
Far worse than all this, the Persians were on the move. Bypassing Edessa, they had crossed the Euphrates and taken Samosata. Macrianus the Lame had adopted what he called a strategy of containment. In the face of the Persian advance, Samosata had been hurriedly abandoned. The twenty thousand Roman troops there had been divided. Ten tho
usand had rushed south to Zeugma with the emperors-to-be. Five thousand had been sent north to reinforce the governor of Cappadocia, Pomponius Bassus. The final five thousand had been ordered to Doliche to block the road west. Ballista saw the latter as the problem. Unsupported, they had no chance of preventing Shapur riding west to Cilicia and beyond, should he wish.
Of course, there was another problem looming in the east. The Lion of the Sun. Still no word had come back from Odenathus. No one knew what the Lord of Palmyra would do. Would he join the revolt? Would he remain loyal to Gallienus? Was it possible he would throw in his lot with the Persians? Only a couple of months before, Ballista had been there when Odenathus had sent envoys to Shapur. They had been rejected, but events had moved fast, and a second approach might yield a very different outcome.
And then there were the gods. Macrianus the Lame had consulted widely among the oracles of the east. The responses were far from uniformly favourable. At the shrine of Aphrodite Aphacitis in the mountains between Byblos and Heliopolis was a sacred lake. If the offerings thrown in were accepted by the goddess, they sank, light and heavy alike. If rejected, they did not. The gifts of Macrianus – silk and linen, gold and silver – all had floated. The oracle of Apollo Sarpedon at Seleuceia in Cilicia had been similarly robust. When the envoys of Macrianus had asked about the success of the uprising, the god gave a reply that no amount of sophistry could make favourable:
Leave my temple, guileful baleful ones,
Who cause pain to the glorious race of gods.
Since breaking his oath to Shapur, the gods were much on Ballista’s mind. Were all the gods the same? If not, could his northern gods protect his sons from the southern gods of the Greeks and Romans? And even were they able to, would they wish to? Somehow, he doubted it. But he prayed anyway: Allfather, Hooded One, Death-blinder …
*
The bad news had reached Zeugma six days before. The Persians had marched from Samosata. With no warning, they had appeared before the walls of Doliche to the north-west of Zeugma. Outnumbered, the Roman force of five thousand stationed there could do nothing but watch them sweep on to the west. The following day, an exhausted scout had ridden into Zeugma with the further news that the enemy were taking the road up into the Amanus mountains, heading for the Amanikai Gates. Once through that undefended mountain pass, Shapur’s force, variously estimated at fifteen, thirty and fifty thousand men, would have the rich territory of Cilicia Pedias and the unarmed provinces of Asia Minor at its mercy.
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