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  There was a knot of men under the standards of Legio IIII. It parted as Ballista approached. Aurelian was lying on his back. His right leg was at an odd angle. An army doctor was on his knees, preparing to set the broken limb.

  Ballista jumped down from the saddle. Aurelian’s face was grey, and he was sweating. Through gritted teeth, he whispered, ‘I give you joy of your victory.’

  Ballista looked into his friend’s eyes. ‘Thank you.’ Unable to say more, Ballista leant down and very gently squeezed Aurelian’s shoulder. Then he straightened up, turned away, and got on with what needed to be done.

  The army had stayed at Circesium for thirteen days. It had been a busy time for Ballista. He had pushed cavalry patrols out further and further in all directions. There had been no sign of any Persians – or none that were still living. The premature charge of Acilius Glabrio had robbed him of the chance to destroy the Persian army, but it seemed the easterners had withdrawn, at least for the time being.

  There had been many, many burials to attend to. Aelius Spartianus, the tribune commanding the Roman forces in Circesium, who had fallen with almost all his men when the Sassanids took the town, was interred in a slendid sarcophagus in a fine tomb by the main road into town – admittedly, both sarcophagus and tomb were reused, but the local stonemason made a good job of the new inscriptions. The other Roman dead among the soldiers were buried in communal graves, but they were accorded all due respect: their eyes closed, a coin in each mouth, a newly sculpted monument on top of each grave.

  Things had been different with the Sassanids. Their often mutilated remains were burned and the ashes thrown anyhow into pits. But this was not just casual contempt for the enemy. The Romans knew that the Sassanids were Zoroastrian fire-worshippers who exposed their dead to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field. They knew well that the Zoroastrians held that the mere touch of a corpse polluted the very sacredness of fire. A small voice at the back of Ballista’s mind had whispered that this could only exacerbate the conflict between east and west, that it might even rebound personally on its perpetrator. The Sassanids would see it as an atrocity, a deliberate insult to their religion. They would, of course, be right. Yet there was little that Ballista had felt he could do. His men had suffered day after day at the hands of the easterners. They had wanted revenge even on the dead bodies of their tormentors.

  Ballista had tried to set the defence of the town on a sounder footing. Across the Chaboras a tower was built to give early warning of any Sassanid forces advancing up the Euphrates. The walls and gates of Circesium itself had needed little work, as the town had fallen to a surprise attack rather than regular siege works. Ballista had arranged for supplies and materials of war to be transported by boat downriver from Zeugma. Two thousand inhabitants of Circesium had been conscripted to form a local militia. Legio III Felix and the Mesopotamian archers were to be left as a regular garrison. They would be supported by three of the small war galleys.

  The whole was to be commanded by Rutillius Rufus, the prefect of Legio III. The gods knew it was a small force, but Rufus seemed solid enough. While having done nothing outstanding, he had performed creditably on the march and in the battle. Ballista had started to give him a lengthy lecture on the tactics and stratagems to be adopted in defending a town against the Sassanids. The northerner had stopped abruptly when he thought he detected a badly suppressed smile on the prefect’s face. Ever since he had entered the imperium as a sixteen-year-old from barbaricum, Ballista had had a strong dread of being mocked. He knew he was still oversensitive about it. But there again, it had to be admitted that Arete, the only town Ballista had defended from the Sassanids, had fallen in a bloody sack. And now it seemed Acilius Glabrio had stolen much of the credit for the victory at Circesium.

  The march back had initially retraced their steps, north to Basileia and Leontopolis, across the Euphrates by the wide stone bridge at Soura, and on to Barbalissus. It had been hot and tiring but, with no enemy in sight, it had been a stroll in a Persian paradise by comparison with the march south. At Barbalissus, Castricius had taken his leave, marching his vexillatio on up the Euphrates to the base of Legio IIII at Zeugma. Ballista had led the remainder of the army west, skirting the southern shores of the great lake of Garboula to the city of Chalcis ad Belum and on to the main road to Antioch.

  As they approached the capital of the Roman east, they had passed through the small village of Meroe. It was strange how some unimportant places stuck in one’s mind. Ballista could always picture the dingy, dust-covered, mud-brick houses which flanked the road, the cracked public fountain, the thin, straggly trees which passed for a sacred grove. He had been through the village four times, on his way to and from first Arete and then Circesium. Nothing of note had happened on any of these occasions. Yet he could summon it up exactly, down to the smell of the water evaporating in the sun as it leaked from the fountain.

  For five days, the returning army had been camped outside the Beroea Gate. Finally, the emperor Valerian had given his gracious permission for them to enter. Ballista looked up and down the procession. Everything was nearly ready.

  Turpio rode up and saluted, the gold bracelet he had taken from the Persian king’s tent sparkling in the sun. All was ready. Ballista cast a last look down the line. The army made a brave show, standards flying, infantry in serried ranks, cavalry and officers on prancing horses. Acilius Glabrio looked particularly splendid on a glossy black charger. Aurelian, on account of his broken leg, was having to ride in a carriage. Ballista adjusted his helmet and made the signal to move off.

  The crowds were waiting through the Beroea Gate. They lined the colonnades of the Street of Tiberius and Herod. They threw flowers and called out compliments. A few girls, surely prostitutes, lifted their skirts or pulled down their tunics, offering the troops tantalizing glimpses of flesh.

  ‘Keep the line straight, boys,’ exhorted Ballista. ‘Plenty of time later.’

  They turned off into the street that ran down to the second bridge over the Orontes. They made their way across the island, the circus and the imperial palace to their right, past the Tetrapylon, the four columns supporting statues of elephants where imperial orders were posted, through the district known as the Bull, and out over the far bridge to the suburbs. There were no crowds on the western bank of the river. Instead, at no great intervals, the heads of malefactors and those who had earned imperial disfavour rotted on their pikes. They reached the campus martius and drew up in front of the imperial tribunal.

  Ballista played with Pale Horse’s ears as they waited. Imperial ceremonies tended to involve waiting. Junior officers scurried about checking the men were standing properly squared off, their kit just so. The sand of the campus martius had been watered that morning. No one wanted the polished arms and armour coated in dust. The usual wind from the south-east that blew up the Orontes valley was getting up. Already it tugged fitfully at the purple hangings of the imperial tribunal. Ballista smiled to himself. Outside verse Panegyrics, the gods and not the emperors controlled the winds.

  After a decently short amount of time, the imperial party arrived. Slowly, the aged emperor Valerian stepped down from his carriage. After him, equally slowly, emerged the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum. There were few higher honours in the imperium than the invitation to ride in the emperor’s carriage. Macrianus the Lame looked as if he felt he belonged there.

  Laboriously, the two old men climbed the steps. The other great officers of state followed them. When they were all in the position their rank dictated, Valerian alone moved to the front of the tribunal. He saluted the army. The army saluted back. The prearranged chants rang out: ‘Hail, Valerian Augustus, may the gods preserve you!’ – twenty times; ‘Valerian Augustus, deliver us from the Persians!’ – thirty times; ‘Valerian Augustus, long may you live!’ – forty times.

  In the quiet that followed, the snap of the purple hangings in the wind echoed across the parade ground. Valerian filled his lungs, put his
head back and began to speak.

  ‘Ave, hail the victors of the battle of Circesium. Ave, hail the conquerors of the eastern barbarians!’

  He had got no further when an exceptionally strong gust of wind tore one of the purple hangings from the front of the dais. It eddied for a moment. An imperial servant ran after it. A second gust sent it skidding along the ground, to come to rest where the injured Aurelian stood, leaning on a walking stick. The Danubian picked it up and handed it to the slave.

  There was a slight stir at the back of the dais, but most of the men standing there had not risen high in the imperial service by exhibiting obvious interest in things that might be interpreted as dangerous omens. The emperor himself had paused, but he did not deign to look directly at the incident. Now the servant had retrieved the bit of cloth, Valerian continued.

  ‘From the very earliest times, the west has been relentlessly attacked by the cruelty, avarice and lust of the east. First, duplicitous Phoenicians who sailed to Greece under the pretence of trade abducted Io, daughter of King Inachus of Argos. Since then, Mardonius, Xerxes, and now Shapur, in their pride have led innumerable Asiatic hordes against us.

  ‘There have been times when oriental cunning and treachery have brought defeat to the west. The aged Roman general Crassus betrayed and beheaded at Carrhae. The agonies of hunger and fear suffered by Mark Antony and his men on the retreat from Phraata in Media. A few years ago, in the time of troubles, the defeat at Barbalissos, the sack of so many cities, including mighty Antioch herself. Last autumn, the fall of Arete.

  ‘But there have been many, many victories won by open western courage and disciplina. From the Athenians of old burning Sardis to the Roman emperors Trajan and Septimius Severus sacking Ctesiphon, the capital of the oriental despot.

  ‘And there will be more western victories. Make no mistake, war is coming, all-out war. The insolence of Shapur, the so-called King of Kings, must be crushed once and for all. It will not be this year or next, there are many preparations to make, many things at home to set in order but, soon, your emperor at your head, we will march east and finish the Persian menace for ever.’

  Valerian paused to allow for the required cheering. After a time he waved a hand to quieten the army. ‘You, the victors of Circesium, must have your rewards.’ The aged emperor had their attention now.

  ‘After your labours, you deserve rest, a time of pleasure. Every man in the victorious army will receive five days’ leave. Your valour deserves recognition. When you return to the standards you will each be issued with a new red military tunic.’

  When the soldiers were sure the emperor had stopped, they cheered again, rather less enthusiastically.

  ‘The officers – just as their duties are greater, so should be their honours. Each officer in command of a unit will be presented with a silver-ornamented swordbelt.’ There was a most perfunctory cheer.

  ‘Your commander, the Dux Ripae, Marcus Clodius Ballista, must be praised for the rigours of the army’s training, the dedication with which he kept order on the march down the Euphrates. To him will be presented a golden armlet weighing seven ounces, a gilded silver clasp, and four handkerchiefs from Sarepta.

  ‘In every battle there is a time when all hangs in the balance. Our sacred majesty is well informed that, at Circesium, the moment was seized by one of the noblest of young Romans. With no thought for his own safety, on his own initiative the Legate Gaius Acilius Glabrio led a daring charge against overwhelming odds which shattered the Sassanid army. To our most dear Gaius Acilius Glabrio we will present a golden collar weighing one pound, a golden clasp with a Cyprian pin, and a white part-silk tunic ornamented with purple from Girba.’

  As the old emperor, accompanied by Macrianus the Lame, made his way to his carriage, the army repeatedly chanted, ‘Valerian Augustus, long may you live!’

  The men in the ranks were chanting loud enough, but Ballista knew they were not happy. They had five days’ leave, but no donative, no gift of money, in their hands to spend on drink and women. As for being given a military cloak, the Comes Sacrorum Largitionum was responsible for supplying clothes to the army. Several thousand new cloaks must be some scheme of Macrianus the Lame to further enrich himself. The majority of the officers also were unlikely to be thrilled. An ornamental sword belt seemed a tawdry reward.

  At least one man in the army would be delighted, Ballista thought sourly. Despite disobeying orders, despite putting the entire army at risk and throwing away the chance to wipe out the Sassanid army, Gaius Acilius Glabrio, with his patrician glamour and excellent contacts at court, had somehow emerged as the hero of the battle of Circesium. Publicly honoured and flattered, there could be no doubt he stood high in imperial favour.

  Equally, there was no doubt where Valerian’s speech left Ballista himself. The inclusion of Arete in the list of western defeats, the faint praise for his training and ordering of the army, the lack of kind words and, above all, the demonstrable inferiority of his gifts compared with those of Acilius Glabrio, showed clearly that he had lost imperial favour. The gods alone knew how long it would be before he might get a chance to win it back – if ever.

  ‘Valerian Augustus, long may you live!’ As the imperial carriage left the campus martius, the chanting died away.

  Vicarius Proconsularis

  (Summer AD258–Spring AD259)

  ‘For it is written, “I shall destroy the wisdom of the wise, and bring to nothing the learning of the learned.” Where is the wise man now? Where is the scribe? Where is the investigator of the present age?’

  – Paul of Tarsus, I Corinthians I. 19–21

  XIII

  The imperial summons came early on a July morning one thousand and ten years ab urbe condita, since the founding of Rome. It was over a year since Valerian had addressed the returning army of the Dux Ripae, over a year since Ballista had lost the favour of the emperor. In all that time, apart from being told to remain in Antioch, he had received no further orders, no command to attend the imperial consilium. He had been ignored.

  At first Ballista had been happy enough in his unlooked-for freedom, away from the court and the poisonous intrigues that surrounded the vice-regent of the gods. He had money. Technically, he was still the Dux Ripae. His stipendium was still paid. He had peace. The sons of Macrianus the Lame made no new attempts on his life – the northerner was convinced they had been behind the assassin with the scar on his hand. Ballista had time to do all the things that made him happy. He had played with his son, made love with his wife, eaten a great deal of seafood, passed whole days reading.

  True, the social life of a man cast out from the imperial circle was somewhat reduced. Not all want to be seen to be too close to such a man. Ballista had spent more than a usual amount of time in waterfront bars with Maximus. Yet Aurelian and the Danubian circle had not deserted him. He had gone drinking and, once Aurelian’s injury had healed, hunting with them. They went searching for lion and tiger in the mountains. Sometimes they even took Julia and Isangrim with them. They found only fallow deer. However, there were always ostrich and humped ox out on the plains towards the lake.

  But a year is a long time. Although he would hardly admit it to himself, Ballista had found that a life of unremitting otium, leisured peace, can begin to drag. There are only so many times you can eat your favourite fish dinner. Of course, he told himself, things would have been very different if he had been at home, either in Tauromenium in Sicily, or his birthplace in the far north.

  The imperial summons, when it came, was a complete surprise. The emperor wished Marcus Clodius Ballista to attend him. He should bring his letter of appointment as Dux Ripae.

  As Ballista walked into the great courtyard of the imperial palace, the water clock struck. Four golden spheres rested at the bottom of the stake, held by the gilded statue on top of the inner gate. At least he would not be late.

  Something in the conviction of his stride conveyed itself to the throngs of petitioners, who moved o
ut of the way. Near the inner gate, he had to check his pace as a party of northern barbarians were slow to step aside. For a few seconds, he suspected they might be Borani, but a sharp look revealed the striped clothes and elaborate hairstyles of northern Germania. It was just the habitual truculence of a group of Franks.

  At the foot of the steps, the sight of the imperial codicil in his hand parted the ranks of the silentarii. The praetorians saluted and opened the doors. A eunuch appeared to lead him down the long peristyle. Their footfalls echoed. Statues of long-dead, deified emperors – Augustus, Claudius and Trajan among them – gazed down impassively as the heavy doors shut behind them.

  Through the next doors, the warm, scented near-darkness of the imperial vestibule surrounded them. With the utmost politeness, the eunuch asked Ballista to wait and then disappeared into the gloom.

  Ballista looked around. There were four other men waiting: three senators and another equestrian like himself. Ballista found an upright chair and sat down. He carefully arranged the formal folds of his toga and placed the imperial codicil on his lap. He nodded to the other men. They nodded back. One of the senators coughed. No one spoke.

  Left alone, Ballista studied the ivory document case in his lap: the gold corners, the gold roundel in the middle with the portraits of the emperors Valerian and Gallienus. It was tangible proof of his office as Dux Ripae, the office which, now, certainly, would be taken away. Would it be replaced with anything?

  A movement in the thick air rather than any sound indicated that someone was coming through the hangings from the audience chamber. All five seated men tried not to jump, tried not to stare. The long face of Cledonius, the ab Admissionibus, appeared through the curtains. He remained still for what seemed to the waiting men an improbably long time but was really only just long enough for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He walked over to one of the senators and spoke softly. The senator almost leapt to his feet and, gathering his toga around himself, hurried after the ab Admissionibus. The heavy drapes fell behind them. The vestibule was quiet and still again. The remaining men stared into space, avoiding each others eyes, hugging their dignitas close.