Warrior of Rome III

by Harry Sidebottom

  They were at the steps. Holding together, hauling the tree trunk, shuffling up the steps. Ballista fought down the urges to peer upwards, to cower down, to try to get free and run to safety.

  A terrible crash. Thank the gods, off to the right. The statue had hit the other testudo. Poor bastards – but thank the gods it was them.

  Sheltered under the jutting-out pediment, the legionaries broke out of the testudo. No arrow or falling statue could get them here. They readied themselves. One, two, three … now. Those with the ram swung it into the doors. A hollow boom. Plaster falling from the door frame. The doors shivered, but still stood.

  The other testudo reached the shelter. Its legionaries shook themselves into order. Five of their contubernales lay twisted and broken on the steps.

  One, two, three … The two rams struck as one. The doors were massive. But their thickness was ornamental. If the god had foreseen this, the architect had not. A splintering, rending sound. The bolts and bars gave. The doors swung inward. The temple was open.

  Arrows like disturbed hornets flew out at the faces of the legionaries. A man near Ballista staggered drunkenly, clawing at the shaft protruding from his neck.

  Before the second volley, the legionaries charged into the cavernous gloom. They set about their grim work. Blades chopped and slashed. The air was close, thick with incense and the smell of blood.

  A line of flickering candle-holders on the floor; beyond, the golden statue of an eagle, and beyond that again, dominating all, the great mass of the black stone loomed up. Huge, dense, pitiless, the top of it lost in the rafters. In front, light silks against the stone’s gross negritude, Sampsigeramus.

  As Ballista kicked one of the candle-holders out of the way, his right leg gave out. He crashed to the floor. A movement in the choking air. Ballista scrambled, crab-wise, ungainly. The Emesene guardsman’s blade sparked off the marble.

  The easterner recovered his sword, raised it, came on again. On his arse, leather soles of his boots slipping, Ballista scrambled backwards. He raised his sword. His left hand was empty; somehow, his shield had gone. The Emesene struck. Ballista parried. The Emesene rolled their blades wide. With the advantages of height and weight, the easterner forced Ballista’s out of his grip. The heavy spatha skittered away across the floor.

  Ballista grabbed a big metal amphora. He swung it round to shield himself. The jar was unexpectedly heavy. It was full; liquid slopped out. The easterner chopped down. A clang of broken metal, the blade cut through the amphora, embedded itself. More liquid sloshed out – it was blood, the detritus of some sacrifice. Holding the handles tight, Ballista twisted the jar, twisted his body, put all his weight into it. They all went sideways – Ballista, the amphora, the sword, the Emesene. They landed hard in a tangle. Hands and feet skidding in the gore, Ballista scrabbled on top of his opponent. Grabbing his hair, he smashed the man’s face down into the marble, again and again, in a frenzy. At first the Emesene struggled. Then he did not.

  Ballista took the easterner’s sword. He crawled over to a pillar and used it to pull himself to his feet. Blood slick on the marble, the dead Emesene, and, lolling out of the top of the ruined amphora, the dismembered arm of a child.

  Ballista hobbled over to retrieve his own sword. He felt sick. Obviously, Sampsigeramus had stopped at nothing to try to ensure the support of his ancestral god. The sacrifice of a child had probably seemed a reasonable price to pay for his own survival.

  The fighting boomed and swung through the monumental obscurity of the temple. The footfalls of the fighters echoed back as if from an age away.

  Sampsigeramus still stood in front of his god. There were fewer guardsmen with him. One lunged at Ballista. The northerner took the blow on the sword in his left hand, severed the man’s arm with the one in his right. The guard reeled away; Ballista limped forward.

  Sampsigeramus saw him coming. He backed away. Nowhere to go. The stone was behind him. He was screaming incoherently.

  The priest-king held his sword in front of him. With a savage blow, Ballista smashed it from his hand. It went spinning into the darkness.

  Sampsigeramus turned. With hooked fingers and scrabbling toes, he tried to climb the side of the great black stone. There was no miracle. The smooth stone resisted his efforts.

  Ballista dropped the alien sword from his left hand. He gripped the hilt of his own weapon in two hands, steadied himself and swung. The blade bit into flesh, sinew and bone. Sampsigeramus’s head jerked sideways, almost severed. The killer of children, the would-be emperor, slid slowly down the side of his god. The blood that pumped so freely ran down the side of the dark stone. Deep in the shiny blackness of the god, the enigmatic markings rippled and moved.

  The sunshine was blinding after the shady corridors of the palace. Ballista stood blinking, letting his eyes grow accustomed to it. A grey horse was led out, its trappings purple and gold.

  Time to go. As Ballista walked across, a groom hastened up with a mounting block. The northerner thanked him but waved him away. Even in armour, he swung up easily enough into the saddle. His leg was much better. He arranged the imperial cloak, settled the diadem on his head. Leaning forward, he patted Pale Horse’s neck, murmured into his ears. Who would have thought we would wear the purple? Enjoy it – like holding a wolf by the ears.

  There had been little time. With the death of Sampsigeramus, his supporters – the Emesene warriors, the men of the detachment of Legio III Gallica and the few Roman auxiliaries who had favoured him – had all put down their arms. Yet there had been much to do. Looting had broken out and had to be suppressed. A few high-profile beheadings, nothing too harsh – a dozen outside the palace and the temple, and a similar number in the agora – had taken care of that. Groups of individuals and whole units had left their stations on the city walls. They had been chivvied back into place. A large donative had to be promised to the soldiers and was then paid out of the treasures found in the palace. The family of Sampsigeramus was wealthy, and Quietus’s father, Macrianus the Lame, had always been efficient in gathering money. Now, for a brief time until the bar and brothel owners took it, the milites were dives indeed. At a more exalted level, the army high command had been confirmed: Rutilus remained Praetorian Prefect and Castricius Prefect of Cavalry.

  All the soldiers, from Rutilus as Praetorian Prefect to the lowest Emesene militiaman, had hurriedly taken the sacramentum. One from each unit had recited the oath: ‘By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the emperor’s commands, never desert the standards or shirk death, to value the safety of the emperor above everything.’ Then all the others had shouted, ‘Me too!’ It had always struck Ballista as slightly comic, but when addressed to himself, it came close to a ludicrous mime or farce.

  Then there were the issues of familiarity and contempt. To how many emperors had these men given their oath? For a veteran nearing the end of his twenty years, there would have been a horde of imperatores: Gordian III, Philip the Arab, Decius, Gallus, Aemilianus, Valerian, Gallienus, Macrianus and Quietus. And that was if he had not followed any of the many ephemeral pretenders such as Iotapianus or Uranius Antoninus. And now there was Imperator Caesar Marcus Clodius Ballista Augustus.

  So many oaths given. So many oaths broken. The new emperor knew all about that. Gone is the trust to be placed in oaths; I cannot understand if the gods you swore by then no longer rule, or if men live by new standards of what is right?

  Ballista made a sign. Ahala rode up behind him and unfurled the northerner’s white draco. The Equites Singulares fell in behind Ahala. Ballista waved, and they set off.

  The streets were muted. Both soldiers and civilians acknowledged the cavalcade, yet the cheers were tentative, uncertain, and those he passed performed the lesser form of proskynesis. Of course, they knew the purpose of Ballista’s ride – even if the outcome was in deepest doubt.

  At the Palmyra Gate, the others were waiting on horseback. Ballista dismissed the cavalry guard, except fo
r his new standard bearer. He spoke briefly with Castricius, who was to remain behind to ensure order in Emesa. Leaning far out of the saddle, they embraced and said farewell.

  Ballista looked down the line at who would go with him. Ahala carried the draco directly behind him. Then, in columns of twos, were Rutilus and three senatorial governors. It had not only been the army Ballista had had to conciliate. Fabius Labeo, the noble and surprisingly resilient governor of Syria Coele, would probably have been grateful enough just to have been released from his iron cage over the northern gate. But he, like Cornicula of Syria Phoenice and Achaeus of Syria Palestina, had received substantial material inducements to join the new regime. It slightly rankled with Ballista. He had a healthy dislike of the religious bigot Achaeus but, ultimately, it was not his money. The avarice and ruthless efficiency of Macrianus the Lame had proved useful. For the moment at least, the three governors followed Ballista Augustus.

  The gates squealed open. As he rode under the tall arch, Ballista saw the sculptures of the eagle, altar and black stone of Elagabalus and the innumerable scratched prayers for a safe journey. It was not his god, and it was not his way. Allfather, Deep Hood, Death-blinder, keep your one eye on your descendant.

  The little column of six riders went on. Past the stark, stained crosses, the ornamented tombs of the necropolis. Across two hundred paces of no-man’s land. Through the lines of the besieging Palmyrene army. Dark eyes, expressionless faces watched them. Up to the open space in front of the great tent, where the many standards flew.

  The Lion of the Sun was seated on the ivory-trimmed curule throne of a high Roman magistrate. Odenathus was backed by his court. On one hand were his chief minister Verodes, two of his generals, Zabda and Haddudad, and the son by his first marriage, Haeranes – now grown into an active-looking young man. On the other stood the Romans: Pomponius Bassus, governor of Cappadocia; Virius Lupus, governor of Arabia; and Maeonius Astyanax, sometime Praetorian Prefect of the rebels Macrianus and Quietus – may their names everywhere suffer damnatio memoriae. In the background, but determined not to be left out, was his current wife. Zenobia was holding by the hand their infant son, Vaballathus, or Wahballat, as some called him. With her were a couple of earnest, hirsute men in Greek dress.

  The entourage of the Lord of Tadmor was splendid in burnished steel, gilded armour and bright, nodding plumes. But the open space was dominated by someone else. More than half lifesize, the emperor Gallienus stood to one side. Brows furrowed, eyes hooded, the statue looked down on the scene. Ballista was reminded of a story that the successors of Alexander could only be brought to meet together if presided over by the empty chair of the great Macedonian.

  Ballista dismounted. Those behind him did the same. Grooms took their horses away. Ballista took a couple of paces forward and stopped.

  Odenathus rose from the curule chair. He was wearing a western-style corselet with big, buckled-down shoulder guards. On his arms and legs were cunningly embroidered eastern tunic and trousers. A golden brooch on his right shoulder secured a scarlet cloak; it was matched by a scarlet sash tied around his waist. His left hand was closed around the hilt of his long sword. The pommel was in the shape of a flower. The Lion of the Sun was magnificent, his painted face inscrutable.

  The two principals regarded each other, in the background the unnatural silence of the crowd, the hiss and snap of the standards, the silica sounds of the breeze moving the sands – patterns fleeting across the surface.

  Ballista walked to the statue of Gallienus. Under his long nose, Gallienus’s beak-like mouth seemed set in disapproval. Ballista unclasped his purple cloak and set it at the feet of the statue. Then he took off his diadem and placed the strip of white material on top of the cloak.

  Slowly, Ballista performed proskynesis in front of the statue. He got up and turned back to Odenathus.

  In a confident, strong-voiced Latin, Ballista began: ‘For the safety of the Res Publica, the soldiers demanded that I take power. Having killed the usurper, I now lay down all my power at the feet of my rightful emperor Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus Augustus. I give myself to his clementia in the person of his Corrector totius Orientis, Odenathus of Palmyra.’

  At long last, the Lion of the Sun spoke. ‘How slowly and painfully should I kill a man who has the arrogance to assume the trappings of imperial power?’

  Ballista stood where he was.

  ‘Or there again, no.’ Odenathus smiled. ‘By the maius imperium over the eastern provinces entrusted in me by Gallienus Augustus, I declare Marcus Clodius Ballista innocent of any and all charges of maiestas.’

  The two men stepped forward, and formally embraced.

  ‘Let them come out,’ Odenathus called over his shoulder.

  Isangrim, Dernhelm – his darling boys – Julia, and Maximus, Calgacus; all here, all safe.

  ‘The throne of the Caesars is too high an eminence for weaklings like Quietus, or even for men like us,’ said the Lion of the Sun.

  Safe back in the arms of his familia, Ballista agreed.

  And all unnoticed at the back, Zenobia scowled and whispered to Maeonius Astyanax.

  Appendix

  Historical Afterword

  NB: Abbreviations mainly follow the standard forms of The Oxford Classical Dictionary (3rd edn, Oxford, 1996).

  AD259–61

  The events of AD259–61 are deeply obscure, because our sources are very poor. No two scholars agree on a narrative; neither the order in which events happened nor even in which years. Here is one example of this:

  David Potter (The Roman Empire at Bay AD180–395 (London & New York, 2004, pp. 256–7) holds that the revolts of Ingenuus and Regalianus happened in AD260 after the capture of Valerian; and that the raid by the Iuthungi and Semnones defeated in Raetia and known from an inscription (AE 1993, no. 1231) was part of the raid by the Alamanni which got as far as the outskirts of Rome and is known from literature (Zonaras 12.24; Zosimus 1.37.2, where they are part of an even larger ‘Scythian’ invasion, i.e. they act in concert with a Gothic invasion further east; cf. Eutropius 9.7, where they may be the ‘Germans’ who only get as far as Ravenna).

  However, John Drinkwater (in The Cambridge Ancient History XII, A. K. Bowman, P. Garnsey & A. Cameron (eds.), 2nd edn, 2005, pp. 43–4) holds the revolts took place a year earlier, in AD259, before the capture of Valerian; and that the raids by the Iuthungi and Alamanni were distinct.

  (NB: John Drinkwater, in his provocative recent work, The Alamanni and Rome 213–496. Caracalla to Clovis (Oxford, 2007), argues that the threat of the Alamanni was mainly an ideological fiction constructed by the Roman ruling class to serve its own interests. In this novel I see their threat as much more real and dangerous.)

  Third-century Historiography

  The third century is still understudied in English; probably because so few Anglophone undergraduate courses cover it. There is a new short, thematic introduction, with English translations of many key documents, by the Dutch scholar Olivier Hekster, Rome and Its Empire AD193–284 (Edinburgh, 2008). Another useful work is by the Danish scholar Ragnar Hedlund, ‘… achieved nothing worthy of memory’. Coinage and authority in the Roman empire c. AD260–95 (Uppsala, 2008).

  Things are better on the Continent. There are several recent book-length studies: M. Christol, L’Empire romain du IIIe Siècle: Histoire politique (de 192, mort de Commode, à 325 concile de Nicée) (Paris, 1997); J.-M. Carrie & A. Roussel, L’empire romain en mutation: des Sévères à Constantin, 192–337 (Paris, 1999); M. Sommer, Die Soldatenkaiser (Darmstadt, 2004); K.-P. Johne, Die Zeit der Soldatenkaiser: Krise und Transformation des Römischen Reiches im 3. Jahrhundert n. Chr. (235–84) (Berlin, 2008).

  All the scholarly essays in M.-H. Quet (ed.), La ‘crise’ de l’Empire romain de Marc Aurèle à Constantin. Mutations, continuités, ruptures (Paris, 2006); and K.-P. Johne, T. Gerhardt & U. Hartmann (eds.), Deleto paene imperio Romano: transformationsprozesse des Römischen Reiches im 3. Jahrhundert und ihre Rezep
tion in der Neuzeit (Stuttgart, 2006) are relevant; as are most in O. Hekster, G. de Kleijn & D. Slootjes (eds.), Crises and the Roman Empire (Leiden & Boston, 2007).

  Sassanid Persia

  In addition to the works mentioned in Fire in the East, there are two excellent overviews of ancient Persia: J. Wiesehofer, Ancient Persia from 550BC to 650AD (London & New York, 1996); and M. Brosius, The Persians: An Introduction (London & New York, 2006).

  Specifically on the Sassanid era are a new survey by T. Daryaee, Sasanian Persia: The Rise and Fall of an Empire (London & New York, 2009) and a French exhibition catalogue with wonderful pictures and useful text, Les Perses sassanides: Fastes d’un empire oublié (224–642) (Paris, 2006).

  There is also much of interest in both P. Pourshariati, Decline and Fall of the Sasanian Empire: The Sasanian–Parthian Confederacy and the Arab Conquest of Iran (London & New York, 2008); and V. S. Curtis & S. Stewart (eds.), The Idea of Iran, Volume III: The Sasanian Era (London & New York, 2008).

  The Augustan History

  Also known as the Historia Augusta (and still sometimes as the Scriptores Historiae Augustae), it is a collection of Latin biographies of Roman emperors from Hadrian (reigned AD117–38) to Carinus (reigned AD283–5). They claim to be written by six men around the year AD300. They are an elaborate fraud, actually being written by one man around the year AD400. By the time the unknown author reached the mid-third century, he was writing free historical fiction. There is a complete translation in three Loeb volumes by D. Magie (Cambridge, Mass., 1921–32). The early lives, Hadrian to Heliogabalus, are translated by A. R. Birley, Lives of the Later Caesars (Harmondsworth, 1976), who also provides a clear and concise introduction to this endlessly fascinating text. For examples of the work’s untrustworthiness see H. Sidebottom, ‘Severan historiography: evidence, patterns, and arguments,’ in S. Swain, S. Harrison & J. Elsner (eds.), Severan Culture (Cambridge, 2007), 52, n.2; 56–8.