King of Kings Read online

  Certainly, a good omen was welcome. There had been others; they had all been bad. Up at Daphne, from a clear sky a violent wind had torn down several of the sacred cypress trees – the trees, thought Ballista, which Isangrim had said he would chop down. Although he had not been present, the northerner had been told that, during the last meeting of the emperor’s consilium, the huge beams of cedar that supported the palace roof had groaned like souls in torment. At the same moment, in the outer hall, the statue of the deified emperor Trajan, that great conqueror of the east, had dropped the orb which signified mastery of the world. Among the superstitious, there was talk of the birth of a horribly deformed child.

  Undoubtedly, the swan was welcome. It was a fine-looking bird. Ballista sadly thought of farmers in the imperium sowing shut the eyelids of swans so that, in their darkness, they would fatten better. As the number of men in the precinct increased, the majestic bird removed itself to behind the open-air altar.

  A hand touched Ballista’s elbow. He turned to see the close-cropped head of Aurelian. Beyond him was the sardonic face of Turpio. It was good that not everyone had disowned him. It had been a bad nine months since he came back from Ephesus. Until today, no summons had come from the imperial palace. Instead, after a few days, a praetorian had hammered on the door demanding Ballista hand over his letter of appointment as Vicarius to the Governor of Asia. After that, Ballista had been ignored. Julia had persuaded her husband that he should not petition the emperor for permission to leave Antioch and return to their home in Sicily. It was best to keep the lowest of profiles. Following her outburst on his return, Julia’s temper had cooled, her practical nature reasserting itself, but a slight strain remained. The worst of it was that she still did not believe that Macrianus the Lame was plotting against Valerian. None of the few that Ballista had told did: not Aurelian nor Turpio, not even Maximus or Calgacus. They all readily accepted what Quietus had said, but they all put it down to the wild temper of a petulant youth. Just as no one would allow a cripple such as Macrianus on the throne, so no one would follow two spoilt brats such as his sons Quietus and Macrianus the Younger if they seized the purple. Besides, Julia added, their father was of the basest origins.

  Ballista watched the courtyard filling up with the good and great of the imperium, the high commanders who would travel with Valerian to the east. He wondered why he had been recalled. His friends and familia argued that, at such a time, an experienced commander who had faced the Sassanids in the field was not to be overlooked. He was not so sure. What was it Quietus had said? ‘When my father decides your usefulness is at an end, then I will kill you.’ Silently, Ballista made a vow. Far from being useful to Macrianus the Lame, he would do everything he could to put a stop to the plot of the sinister Comes Largitionum. The northerner had no great love for Valerian, but he would not stand by and watch the elderly emperor overthrown. There had been too many coups, too many insurrections; they weakened the very fabric of the imperium. And, one day – maybe not on this campaign, maybe not even soon, but one day – he would kill Macrianus’ repulsive son Quietus. Allfather, Woden-born as I am, hear my vow.

  The booming voice of a herald announced the most sacred Augustus Publius Licinius Valerian, Pontifex Maximus, Pater Patriae, Germanicus Maximus, Invictus, Restitutor Orbis. As the sonorous titles rang out, every man in the precinct performed proskynesis. Stretched out on the ground, Ballista watched the small procession. Valerian looked old, his step infirm. As ever in public these days, he was flanked not just by Successianus, the praetorian prefect, but also by the Comes Largitionum. Click went Macrianus’ walking stick; his lame foot dragged; his sound one took a step. Click, drag, step; click, drag, step.

  The imperial fire on its small altar was ceremoniously placed in front of the great altar of Zeus. The audience got to their feet. Out of sight, the swan hissed.

  Valerian intoned a prayer to Zeus, let the king of the gods look favourably on the expedition, let him hold his hands over the army. The emperor’s voice was high, reedy. At one point he seemed to lose his way. He looked to Macrianus. The Comes Largitionum nodded and smiled encouragingly, as one would to a child.

  As priests brought fire to the great altar, the swan emerged. Its little black eyes regarded them with suspicion. Then it began to run, its wide wings beating. It took to the air. The front row of dignitaries cowered as it swept over their heads, the wind of its passing ruffling their hair and the folds of their togas.

  The swan soared up to the height of the cornice of the temple. Then, stretching out its long neck, it circled the sacred building. As it flew, it sang, a low, mournful warble. After its third circuit, it climbed higher. The spring sunshine played through the feathers at the back of its huge wings. It turned and, following the line of the main street, flew out over the Beroea Gate and away to the east.

  As everyone silently watched the dwindling shape, Macrianus seized the moment. He pointed after the swan with his walking stick. ‘Behold,’ he shouted, his voice resolute, ‘a sign! The piety of our beloved emperor is rewarded. The gods approve. Zeus himself leads the way!’

  Men cheered. They shook back their togas and applauded. Some prostrated themselves. Others literally jumped for joy. ‘Zeus leads the way!’ ‘Zeus leads the way!’

  Amidst the jubilant throng, Ballista stood silent. For sure it looked like a sign from the gods. But a sign of what? The swan, the bird from Zeus’ precinct, had flown without them. Of its own choice, it had flown away to the east, away towards Shapur, the King of Kings.

  Turpio, newly raised to equestrian rank and appointed Praefectus Castrorum of the imperial field army, sat on his horse and looked at his special area of responsibility. The baggage train stretched for miles. On paper, the army was seventy thousand strong, fighting men drawn from all over the imperium. How big the baggage train was, no one knew. Turpio guessed it was at least half as big again. It contained every type of wagon and cart, every breed of draught animal – horses, mules, donkeys, camels – slaves, numberless merchants offering all sorts of goods: drink, food, weapons, glimpses of the future, their own bodies or those of others.

  The unwieldy tail of the army straggled about in no sort of order. Turpio had been given just one unit of Dalmatian cavalry, nominally five hundred men, in reality not much over three hundred, to keep them in line.

  Still, the journey so far had gone reasonably well. They had marched in easy stages from Antioch, via Hagioupolis and Regia, to reach the Euphrates at Zeugma. Now they were moving north, the mighty river off to their right, up to Samosata. Until they arrived there, they should be safe enough within the borders of the imperium.

  When they crossed the Euphrates at Samosata, things would be very different. Then they would face the eastern horde. Shapur had taken the field in early spring. The King of Kings had divided his army and was besieging the towns of Edessa and Carrhae in Mesopotamia. The Roman plan was very simple. A detachment under the ex-consul Valens had remained in Zeugma to prevent any Sassanid attempt to move west and invade the provinces of Syria. Another sizable detachment, under the Comes Largitionum Macrianus, would stay in Samosata to likewise block the road north to the provinces of Asia Minor. The remainder of the field army, the aged emperor Valerian at its head, would advance south-east from Samosata. If Shapur wished to take Edessa and Carrhae, he must stand and fight.

  The plan was straightforward, but Turpio did not think it was good. Carrhae was not a good place for Romans. Long ago, the army of Crassus had been annihilated there; thousands of legionaries were left dead, thousands more marched off to end their days in oriental captivity. Old Crassus himself had been decapitated, his head used as a stage prop in a production of Euripides’ Bacchae. Much more recently, in Turpio’s childhood, the emperor Caracalla had been killed near there. Riding to the temple of Sin, the moon god, he had dismounted to relieve himself. He had been crouched, trousers round his ankles, when the assassins had come for him. An inglorious death.

  And it was more than
just the ill-omened name of Carrhae that gave Turpio pause for thought. The army was in little better order than its baggage train. Valerian seemed to lack the will to impose disciplina. There were no regular roll calls, no athletic competitions for the men, no training manoeuvres for the units. If the silver-haired emperor did not impose better order by the time the army marched out of Samosata, disaster beckoned.

  From his position on the edge of the bluff, Turpio surveyed the line of march. Below and in front of him, the road crossed the river Marsyas, a tributary of the Euphrates. There was a fine stone bridge. It was wide enough for ten men abreast, but it was a bottleneck for an army of this size. It had taken three days for the majority of the fighting men to cross. The gods alone knew how long it would take the bloated baggage train. As he looked, Turpio saw the huge, purple, sail-like flags that marked the personal baggage of the emperor edging through the crush towards the lip of the bridge. Off to the left, just in front of a stand of eucalyptus trees, a group of Arab nomads watched. Wherever you went in this part of the world, the tent-dwellers appeared from nowhere. They would stand and watch, completely impassive. Usually, they had their herds with them, children running about. But these were just a dozen or so men, standing still, watching.

  As Turpio tiredly ran a hand over his face, the gold ring, the symbol of his new membership of the equestrian order, flashed. He turned it this way and that, noting how well it matched the golden bangle he had taken from Shapur’s tent, taking pleasure in both of them. He had risen far from being a humble legionary. But he was not going to let it go to his head. Worldly success was transient. A poem came into his head:

  For mortals, mortal things. And all things leave us.

  Or if they do not, then we leave them.

  Nice lines, fitting. Their author, Lucian, had been born in Samosata.

  Down by the bridge, Turpio could make out the big figure of Ballista. Turpio felt intensely sorry for his friend. Nine months in the wilderness, then recalled to the standards and given the humiliating post of deputy to the Praefectus Castrorum, deputy to his own ex-subordinate. Turpio thought Ballista may well be right that it was a deliberate slight engineered by Macrianus the elder. Not that Turpio believed the northerner’s theory that the Comes Sacrorum Largitionum was plotting to overthrow Valerian. Whatever Quietus had shouted in Ephesus was just the juvenile outburst of a spoilt brat. The oily Quietus may have returned to court in something approaching triumph after his inventive massacring of Christians, but no one would stand him or his pampered brother on the throne of the Caesars any more than they would stand the old cripple of a father. Turpio knew that Ballista was hurt that even those closest to him did not give his theory any credence. Still, the northerner was bearing everything stoically. Turpio would do everything he could to make his position as least embarrassing as possible. Worldly success was transient.

  Movement to the left of the bridge caught Turpio’s eye. More Arabs were coming out of the trees. They were mounted, leading more horses. Those standing were swinging up into the saddle. They were all kicking on towards the bridge. They had spears and bows. There were at least twenty of them. Gods below, the camel-fuckers were raiding the baggage.

  Turpio gathered his cloak in one hand and held it above his head, the army signal for enemy in sight. He roared a warning. No one in the jostling throng by the bridge noticed.

  Although it was a mild spring day, Ballista was sweating heavily. His voice was hoarse from shouting orders. Which was the more bone-headedly recalcitrant, a camel or an imperial porter?

  ‘Get those fucking wagons in line astern.’

  Faces looked at him with incomprehension or dumb insolence. So this was what it had come to: the son of the warleader of the Angles, a Roman Dux, reduced to little better than a porter himself. Ballista realized his post as deputy to the Praefectus Castrorum was a deliberate slight. Still, if Macrianus thought injured pride would cause Ballista to slip up, he was mistaken.

  ‘You there, with the emperor’s charger, go next. You, with the imperial chariot, hold back here near me. The rest of you, with the wagons, wait over there where you are. There is only width on the bridge for one of you at a time.’ His voice was almost lost in the braying of animals and shouting of men. The nearest wagon driver was not paying the least attention. He was looking over the northerner’s head. Ballista filled his lungs to curse him. The man dived over the far side of the wagon. Something thumped into the wood next to Ballista. Shrill yells filled the air.

  Ballista turned. An arrow was coming straight at him. He leapt sideways. The arrow missed by a hand’s breadth. There were about twenty Arabs, mounted, armed, closing fast. He looked around. Chaos everywhere. Baggage handlers screaming, running, some trying to hide under wagons, others throwing themselves over the parapet of the bridge. A couple of Dalmatian cavalrymen, dismounted like himself, were nearby, standing open-mouthed. He roared at them to form up on him. They shuffled either side of him. The three men were without helmets, armour or shields. Ballista drew his sword and wrapped his black cloak around his left arm. He missed Maximus at his side. Typical of the Hibernian to choose this moment to go and see to their horses.

  The tent-dwellers sheered off to either side. They had no intention of fighting armed men if they were not forced. They were intent on plunder and the easy pleasure of killing the unresisting. Just to Ballista’s right, by the columns that marked the start of the bridge, half a dozen raiders surrounded the purple, gem-encrusted chariot and its four almost snow-white horses. The groom who had been too slow to flee was cut down. One of the Arabs jumped into the chariot. He was gathering the reins.

  Calling for the Dalmatians to follow, Ballista ran to the chariot. An Arab spun his horse, jabbed his spear. Ballista sidestepped, caught the shaft in his left hand and tugged. The rider was yanked forward, half out of the saddle. Ballista brought his sword down on his skull. It cracked like the shell of a snail. Blood and brains splashed hot in Ballista’s face.

  Ducking under the hooves of the rearing horse, Ballista vaulted up into the chariot. Wrestling with the reins, the Arab did not see him coming. Ballista thrust the point of his sword into the driver’s back. He twisted the blade, withdrew it, the man screamed and toppled out sideways. The battle-trained pale grey horses stood motionless.

  Ballista turned. He was alone. The Dalmatian cavalrymen were gone, swallowed up in the melee. The northerner was surrounded by four mounted raiders. They would fight now. They wanted revenge for their slaughtered kinsmen. For a few moments, the five men and eight horses were a still point in the eye of the storm.

  Ballista sensed as much as saw the Arab over his left shoulder throw his spear. He swivelled and, gripping his sword two-handed, batted the missile away, inches from his face. He spun through 360 degrees. The other three did not move.

  The one who had thrown his spear unslung his bow. He pulled an arrow from his quiver. He grinned. The others were grinning, their teeth very white in their long, dark beards. The bowman notched the arrow. He drew the bow. One of the others laughed.

  Out of the confusion, a Dalmatian soldier launched himself at the bow-armed Arab. With no fuss, the raider shot him through the chest. The soldier staggered back. Hands clutching uselessly at the black-feathered shaft, he fell.

  There was a surge of noise. Another tent-dweller galloped up. In a high, urgent voice, he yelled at the men facing Ballista. They hesitated. The newcomer yelled again, turning his own horse back the way they had come. Reluctantly, the others booted their mounts and, shouting over their shoulders what were threats in any language, raced after him.

  A small body of cavalry headed by Turpio appeared from the left and thundered after the raiders. There was little likelihood it would catch them.

  All around Ballista was utter chaos: dead and dying men and beasts; clouds of dust; deafening noise. Up on the bridge proper, Valerian’s war horse was rearing and plunging. The groom hanging on its back was incapable of controlling the maddened stallion. Th
ere was a vicious crimson gash along the animal’s flank. A stable lad ran to try to grab its bridle. With a wild eye, the charger span away on its hind legs. It bucked. Reared up again. And then, almost too quickly to be comprehended, it jumped clean over the parapet.

  With a resounding splash, horse and groom vanished beneath the waters of the Marsyas.

  XXV

  Almost all the men arriving at the imperial headquarters in Samosata had either neatly sewn little bags of herbs or perfume-drenched rolls of material wedged in their ears and pushed up their noses. They were very frightened. Some of those invited to the emperor’s consilium actually rattled, they wore so many protective amulets.

  Turpio had been no more concerned than most when it started. A couple of days after the army had crossed the Marsyas river, the camp dogs had started dying. No one had given it much thought. As they marched north, the turquoise waters of the Euphrates on their right, the strangely flat-topped grey cliffs to their left and again on the other side of the river, it spread to the baggage animals. By the time they were following the great river to the east, some of the Moorish light cavalry were complaining of an eye infection. Within twenty-four hours, those affected were so disorientated they seemed not to recognize their closest companions. They began to vomit and suffer uncontrollable diarrhoea. Then the dreadful pustules appeared. Men from other units began to be struck down, too. The line of march was marked by hastily dug graves. By the time the army reached Samosata, no one talked of anything else. Plague is a terrible thing. The first part of the prediction of Appian, the Christian martyr of Ephesus, had come true.