Humanity and pity were the kindly sisters of the virtues. For an individual of quality, if the offence was not heinous, it was not unknown for a King of Kings to order the cloak of the miscreant to be whipped instead of his body. The executioners might cut off the tassels of his headgear, not his ears. They might sever his turban, not his head.
But Shapur was not known for his clemency. At the siege of Arete, the Roman prisoners had been blinded with boiling oil. Barbad had seen a rebel sent back to his city tied to a maimed donkey. The man’s ears, hands and feet had been cut off. At Ctesiphon, a traitor had been tied to a wheel for ten days. In the end his eyes had been gouged out, and molten brass poured in his ears. And then there was the even slower yet more horrible execution by the troughs. Barbad had witnessed that, many years before. That day was not something he wanted to remember, but something he would never forget.
Barbad would not let such a fate befall the boy. Men thought eunuchs contemptible and weak. They were wrong. To be sure, vicious horses, when gelded, ceased to bite and kick, but they remained serviceable for war. The same was true of bulls. When castrated, they lost their unruliness, yet retained their strength. After being cut, dogs became less savage, though were still just as useful for hunting or guarding their masters.
Barbad would do his duty to Prince Papak. He would serve his son until the end.
The warden had been thorough, even extending to measures such as the new bars on the windows, preventing the boy throwing himself to his death. The only thing Naduk had overlooked were the braziers. Swallowing the hot coals would bring death. The agony would be no better than that inflicted by the executioners. Still, it need not come to that.
Hidden in the sleeve of Barbad’s tunic was a knife. Only about the length of a finger, and not more than one third as wide, it was intended for trimming nails. Yet it could serve another purpose.
CHAPTER 2
Rome
THE CAMP OF THE STRANGERS was a place of ill omen. Situated on the Caelian Hill, it was the headquarters of the frumentarii, the Emperor’s spies and assassins. Political prisoners important enough to be transferred to Rome from the provinces were held here, awaiting execution, or further interrogation. The tortures were agonisingly efficient. Ordinary citizens kept away from the place. Some held that its appearance in a dream signified an evil future. Only informers, driven by greed or malice to denounce others, willingly crossed its threshold.
Murena had loved the camp ever since he had first set eyes on it years earlier. Entering its walls, immediately he had sensed its power. Here all the secrets of the empire were gathered together, all hidden plans laid bare. From here, nondescript-looking men rode out across the breadth of the imperium carrying letters that could put armies in motion or order the execution of their generals. Sometimes the writings they carried were a ruse to gain access to their target. Then their mission was direct and brutal.
Walking between the neat barrack blocks in the gloom of first light, Murena stopped at an apse that housed a shrine of Hercules. As was his habit, he placed his hand on his chest, and offered a prayer to the god. Hercules had travelled the world overthrowing tyrants, casting down evil. The deity was a fitting patron of the work of the frumentarii.
The demands of piety satisfied, Murena crossed the paved square in the centre of the camp. Ascending the steps to the commanding officer’s building, he returned the salute of the two guards. One of them opened the door for him.
Inside, Murena stood motionless for a time surveying the plain, unassuming room. There was a desk, on it a stylus with other writing equipment, two lamps, and a pile of reports. Behind the desk was a chair, two more for visitors in front. Apart from a stand for armour in a corner, there was no other furniture. All the walls were lined with pigeonholes, each stuffed with documents.
As he did every morning, Murena regarded the scene with a quiet satisfaction. Four years previously he had arrived at the camp as a mere army scout. Seconded from the Fourth Scythian Legion, he had carried an important despatch from the east. Its news had been welcome. The generals Odenaethus and Ballista had turned back a Persian invasion, and a pretender had been killed. Enrolment as a centurion of the frumentarii had been Murena’s reward. Now he was promoted to Princeps Peregrinorum, the Leader of the Strangers, commander of the frumentarii. If the Emperor’s spies were imagined as a spiderweb spread out across the empire, Murena sat at its heart, pulling the threads, catching those who whispered plots against Rome or its ruler, luring those who even thought such things to their doom.
Murena liked to arrive early each morning. Recently appointed, there was much for him to master, and every day brought fresh rumours of sedition. His secretary had stacked the documents on his desk. Each was read and considered, some acted upon, all carefully filed. Hanging his cloak on the armour stand – the late spring dawn was still chilly – Murena sat down. He was eager to find new evidence, to uncover more of the alienated and malignant.
No sooner was he sat at his desk, the first papyrus unrolled, than there was a knock at the door.
‘Come.’
‘Visitor for you, sir,’ the guard said.
A tall figure in a hooded cloak entered without waiting to be summoned.
Murena remained seated. His dignity might be slightly affronted, but he was unalarmed. Secrecy was the stock in trade of the frumentarii, and the guards would admit no one without authorisation.
The large man pushed back his hood to reveal a ruddy, broad face.
Murena leapt to his feet. ‘My apologies, sir. I was not expecting you.’
‘No apologies are necessary.’ The weather-beaten man smiled. ‘Do you have any warmed wine? Have them bring three cups. It is as cold as a witch’s tit out there.’
As Murena went out to arrange the drinks, his heart was thumping. A visit from the Praetorian Prefect, unannounced and incognito, would not be undertaken without good reason.
By the time Murena came back into the room, Volusianus had thrown his cloak on the armour stand, and was seated behind the desk. The Praetorian Prefect waved Murena to one of the visitors’ chairs.
‘I have arranged a discreet meeting,’ Volusianus said. ‘The officer should be here soon. You will remain. As you know, in a few days I will leave with the imperial entourage for the north. The Emperor Gallienus is determined to cross the Alps and crush Postumus the pretender, who holds Gaul. Should anything happen to me, I want a trustworthy man to know what has been arranged.’
Murena acknowledged the compliment with a nod.
Volusianus said no more. He sat waiting, perfectly at ease in the silence.
As the leader of the frumentarii, Murena reported to the Praetorian Prefect. Volusianus answered directly to the Emperor. Apart from the sacred majesty of the Emperor himself, no one was more powerful than the Praetorian Prefect. There was a ritual when a new prefect was appointed. The Emperor would take the prefect’s sword. If I reign well, use this on my behalf. If I rule badly, turn it on me. The prefect commanded the Emperor’s bodyguard. The Praetorians, the twelve thousand most highly paid troops in the empire, guarded the palace in Rome, and accompanied the Emperor on all his travels. Over the years the prefects had also acquired rights of civil jurisdiction, often presiding over court cases in place of the Emperor.
Such power was an evident threat to the Emperors themselves. To counterbalance the Praetorians there were other military units stationed around the capital: the Urban Cohorts in Rome itself, the Second Parthian Legion in the Alban Hills outside. Most Emperors maintained a personal bodyguard of German warriors recruited beyond the frontiers. To watch for disloyalty in each other, usually there were two Praetorian Prefects: Volusianus’s colleague was currently in Milan gathering forces to cross the Alps into Gaul. To curtail their ambition, the men appointed prefect tended to be drawn not from among the senators, the highest social order, but from the equestrians, the second rank. The idea was that the senate would be reluctant to accept a man of lower status than t
hemselves if a prefect murdered his ruler and aimed to take the throne for himself.
None of the carefully constructed checks and balances worked. Only one Emperor had been killed by the barbarians, but several had met their end at the swords of the Praetorians. Two Praetorian Prefects had arranged the assassination of Emperors they had sworn to protect, and assumed the purple in their places. The danger remained. As the poet Juvenal had rightly asked: Quis custodiet ipsos custodies? Who guards the guards?
A tap on the door announced the arrival of the wine. Murena got up, dismissed the soldier, and served the drinks himself.
Volusianus took a deep swig, then warmed his hands around the cup. ‘When I was young – serving on the Danube, the Rhine – I never felt the cold.’
Murena made a vague noise intended both to express sympathy and reject the implication that his superior was old.
‘There was a frost the other night. It will have done the spring vegetables no good.’
Volusianus had never hidden his peasant origins. If anything, he drew attention to them. Some claimed it was vanity, to point out just how far he had risen. A personal favourite of Valerian, the previous Emperor, Volusianus could not have climbed higher: through the ranks of the army, admitted to the equestrian order, appointed Praetorian Prefect, granted senatorial status. The capture of Valerian by the Persians had not stopped his ascent. The Emperor Gallienus, Valerian’s son, was said to rely upon him. Certainly Gallienus had confirmed him as commander of the Praetorians. Indeed, Gallienus had shown the former peasant the signal favour of holding the office of consul with Volusianus. For eternity, the one thousand and thirteenth year since the founding of the city of Rome would be known as the year when Gallienus and Volusianus were consuls. It was a proud form of immortality.
Loyalty and ruthless efficiency were the public qualities that underpinned the meteoric career of the Praetorian Prefect. Of course there were rumours. But, looking at that open and guileless rustic face, Murena found them hard to credit. There were always unfounded rumours. Anyway, Murena owed his own office to Volusianus.
Another knock at the door.
‘Gnaeus Claudius Severus,’ the guard announced.
The officer saluted as the door closed behind him.
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,’ Severus said.
After the formal words of a soldier to his superior, no one spoke. Severus remained standing at attention. Volusianus regarded him closely, like some physiognomist trying to read his innermost soul.
Murena half recognised Severus. He had seen him before – years before. The stubby beard and short hair, the grey eyes, the slightly sticking out ears; all were familiar, but Murena could not place from where.
The silence stretched, was fast becoming oppressive.
Murena kept his face expressionless. What was this about? Was it the arrest of a traitor, the promotion of a deserving officer, or something altogether more sinister? There were no guards in the room, and Severus was armed. It was unlikely to be the detention of conspirator.
A horrible suspicion surged up, like a monster emerging from the depths. Was the man detained to be Murena himself? Would he be dragged to the cells and subjected to hideous tortures? In the twilight world of the frumentarii no one was above suspicion; innocence was no guarantee of safety. Murena pushed the thought back down into the darkness.
‘You are Gnaeus Claudius Severus, son of Publius, an equestrian from Samosata in Cappadocia.’ Without pausing for an answer, Volusianus continued. ‘You have commanded the First Aquitanian Cohort in Britain, the Third African Cavalry in Germany, and the Second Thracian Cohort in Syria.’
That was where Murena had seen Severus. At the start of Valerian’s ill-fated campaign, somewhere north of Carrhae, he had delivered a report to Severus and his Thracians. He remembered him now – a tough, experienced officer.
‘Since then you have served as a procurator, overseeing imperial estates in the provinces of Arabia and Macedonia.’ Volusianus had consulted no notes, but spoke from memory.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you ready to return to the standards?’
‘Ready, sir.’
With an energy that defied his age, Volusianus bounded to his feet. Smiling, he extended his hand. Severus shook it.
‘Have a seat, Severus.’
The tension had gone from the room.
Pouring the officer a cup of wine, Volusianus settled himself back in his chair. He exuded the amiability of a farmer at a festival.
‘Health, and great joy.’
They toasted each other.
‘Am I right in thinking that growing up in the east, Severus’ – somehow the name was pronounced as if to an intimate friend – ‘you speak Greek, as well as a smattering of Syriac and Persian?’ Volusianus was beaming like the sun.
‘I do, sir.’
‘Then you are the man that I am looking for.’ Volusianus dropped his air of bucolic geniality with the speed and finality of a theatre curtain. ‘Tell me what you know of the Castle of Silence.’
Severus narrowed his eyes with the effort of recall. ‘A Persian fortress, somewhere in the mountains south-east of the Caspian Sea. They use it as a prison.’
‘Quite so,’ Volusianus said.
Murena wanted to add that for Persians it was a capital crime to mention the name of anyone condemned there, but he did not. A frumentarius must know when to hold his tongue.
‘Prince Sasan, a nephew of the King of Kings, has been confined in the fortress.’ Volusianus gave Severus a measuring stare. ‘You will go and get him out.’
It was to Severus’s credit that he received this order with the calm of a Stoic philosopher instructed to take his own life. The command amounted to much the same.
‘What troops would be at my disposal, sir?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Ten men. The leader of the frumentarii,’ Volusianus indicated Murena, ‘will provide you with a squad of eight of his best soldiers, and a junior officer of equestrian status.’
Severus glanced at Murena.
‘You will be disguised as a merchant caravan out of Antioch,’ Volusianus continued. ‘Murena here will arrange for mounts, baggage animals and suitable trade goods. Any questions so far?’
Severus frowned with concentration. ‘When we have freed the prince, how will we return to the empire? After the rescue there will be a pursuit. Our subterfuge will be exposed. We will not be able to cross back into Syria posing as merchants.’
‘You will not return to Syria,’ Volusianus said. ‘Murena, get a decent map.’
As he selected a recent map from one of the pigeonholes, Murena reflected on the confidence of Severus. When, not if he had rescued the prince. Murena doubted that the expedition would get anywhere near the Castle of Silence.
With the map spread on the desk, they stood looking down at the little depictions of towns, the lines representing roads, the imprecise drawings of mountains, rivers and seas.
Volusianus pointed to the great emptiness of the Steppes. His finger moved from north-east of the Black Sea to east of the Caspian. ‘All this territory is ruled by Naulobates, King of the Heruli. Since the mission of Ballista two years ago, the King has been recognised as a friend and ally of the Roman people. Naulobates will be informed of your coming.’
‘Sir,’ Severus cleared his throat, ‘might it not be better to send a man known to this Naulobates?’
‘I have other plans for Ballista.’ Volusianus dismissed the idea. ‘When you have the prince, you will ride due north, the Caspian on your left, until you reach the Heruli.’
His fate sealed, Severus nodded and turned to practicalities. ‘Where will I rendezvous with the frumentarii?’
Volusianus jabbed at the map. ‘At Zeugma on the Euphrates. There you will cross from Syria into Mesopotamia.’
Murena considered the small town on the wide, brown river. He had been born there, the son of a soldier with the Fourth Scythian Leg
ion. As a boy he had seen the army of the Emperor Alexander Severus straggle back across the bridge from defeat at the hands of the Persians. As a man enrolled in the same legion, he had fought in the vast wastes of Mesopotamia. Although the towns there were now held by the Romans, most had been sacked at one time or another. When Zeugma itself fell, he had barely escaped with his life. Only the gods had preserved him when the Emperor Valerian had been captured near Carrhae. The bare countryside of Mesopotamia was a no man’s land, subjected to endless raids by Persians and nomadic Arabs. Severus and his rescue mission would be lucky to get that far, let alone reach the distant Castle of Silence.
The Praetorian Prefect and Severus had turned to a discussion of the merchandise the caravan should take. As they talked, Murena mulled over the vital question that had not been asked. Why should Volusianus want to rescue Prince Sasan?
It was well known that the Praetorian Prefect had long urged the Emperor Gallienus to lead an expedition to free his father Valerian from Persian captivity. Gallienus had proved reluctant. If Prince Sasan fell into Roman hands, war would be inevitable. Even if he wished, Shapur would not be able to ignore the blow to his prestige as King of Kings. Gallienus would have to respond. Volusianus would get his desire. And his influence over the Emperor would be demonstrated.
But was Rome ready for another full-scale conflict with the Persians? The Roman forces in the east were understrength and ill-disciplined. This summer, Gallienus and the imperial field army were committed to cross the Alps to fight Postumus the usurper in the west. Volusianus must be gambling that the campaign in Gaul would be over by the autumn. It was a high-stakes bet. A previous invasion had proved indecisive.
Sardonyx and agate. Volusianus and Severus had settled on goods manufactured in the empire that were less widely available in Persia. Jewellery and carved cameo stones were small and expensive items. The former quality would account for the caravan consisting of only ten men, the latter that they would be heavily armed.
The Lost Ten Page 2
