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  ‘Macrianus, you cunt, you know that I am the Dux Ripae.’ Although he must have heard, the Count of the Largess did not pause. Click, drag, step. He vanished up the steps and into the inner gate.

  Almost gently, one of the guardsmen punched Ballista in the side of the head.

  ‘Keep a civil tongue in your head when talking to the nobility, you barbarian fucker.’

  Ballista ceased to struggle. He let his head loll. The toecaps of his boots were dragging on the ground. Expensive boots – that will do them no good, he thought inconsequentially.

  ‘Halt.’ The voice was one accustomed to being obeyed. The praetorians halted. ‘Let me see him.’

  The guardsmen let go of Ballista, who collapsed onto the flagstones.

  ‘Put him on his feet, so that I can see him.’

  The rough hands that grasped Ballista were almost solicitous as they manoeuvred him to his feet. Seeing the northerner sway, two of the praetorians supported his arms.

  A long, thin face swam into Ballista’s view. It came very close, the big eyes squinting. Ballista thought it was strange: he was so light-headed with fatigue that he felt no real pain. His forehead tickled as blood ran down from a cut on his hairline. He tried to wipe it away with his left hand, but only succeeded in smearing it over more of his face.

  ‘Gods below, is it really you, Ballista, under all that filth?’

  Ballista stared back at the man. The long, thin face was oddly asymmetrical. It looked familiar.

  ‘Cledonius, it has been a long time.’ Ballista smiled. It hardly hurt at all. Although not a close friend, Cledonius, the ab Admissionibus, had long been something of an ally of Ballista’s at the imperial court.

  ‘What in Hades has happened to you?’ Cledonius sounded genuinely concerned.

  ‘You mean before the praetorians beat me?’

  Cledonius rounded on the praetorians. ‘On whose authority did you do this?’

  The praetorians came to attention. ‘The order came from the Count of the Largess, Dominus.’

  Cledonius’ face gave nothing away. Life in the palace did not encourage wearing your heart on your sleeve. He turned back to Ballista.

  ‘The last I heard, you were Dux Ripae.’ Cledonius opened his mouth to say something else but stopped. Ballista could almost see the thoughts running through the other man’s mind. You were appointed Dux Ripae. You were ordered to defend the city of Arete from the Sassanids. You are here hundreds of miles away in Antioch, wounded, covered in dirt. The city has fallen. You have failed.

  ‘We had better clean you up a bit. Then you can tell the emperor what happened.’ The look on Cledonius’ face now was not all that different from that which had been on Macrianus’ earlier: closed, careful calculation. At an autocrat’s court, advance knowledge could be turned to advantage, but close association with some newsbringers could also be dangerous.

  Cledonius made a courtly gesture with his arm. The two praetorians let go of Ballista and, together, he and Cledonius set off across the courtyard. The crowds parted. Although his head ached and his shoulders and back were stiff, Ballista found that he could walk quite normally. As they neared the inner gate he saw the three Borani warriors scowling. At the steps the silentarii moved aside. The praetorians saluted and swung back the great doors.

  Cledonius and Ballista walked through into another courtyard. This one was long and narrow compared with what had gone before. A colonnade of free-standing Corinthian columns linked by arches ran down either side. The doors shut behind them. It was quiet and almost deserted. Their footsteps echoed as they walked. Statues of deified emperors of the past looked down at them. At the far end was the third gate, a relatively modest affair only three or four times the height of a man set in the middle of four more Corinthian columns.

  Another squad of praetorians saluted and opened the doors. Cledonius and Ballista passed from the sunlight through into the near-darkness of the imperial vestibule. They stopped, letting their eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. Dark, rich, purple hangings seemed to absorb what little light was shed by two rows of golden lamps. The air was heavy with incense.

  A fat eunuch approached, his hands decorously hidden in his robes. Ballista was not sure if it was the one he had seen before. Cledonius spoke quietly and the eunuch waddled away.

  ‘Wait here,’ Cledonius said. ‘The eunuch will bring you some water and towels. Wash the blood off your face. I will come and get you.’ With no further ado the ab Admissionibus went on through the hangings at the far end, leaving Ballista alone.

  The eunuch returned. Ballista cleaned his face. Wetting his hands, he pushed back his long blond hair. It lay lank on his shoulders. He slapped some of the dust from his tunic and trousers. Most of his body ached. He needed to sleep. It was very quiet in the vestibule. Four praetorians stood to attention. Now and then court functionaries crossed the room with silent, purposeful tread.

  Ballista wondered if, at the very limit of his hearing, was the sound of distant hammering. At last, after the endless ride, here he was. Time to make his report. The city fell. The Sassanid Persians took it. I failed. Then the worm of suspicion was back in his mind. I failed, as you always knew I would. Men sent on suicide missions can not expect to be welcomed as heroes if they return.

  Ballista knew that he had done what he had been sent to do. The imperium was being attacked on all sides; its forces were stretched beyond breaking point. North Africa was ablaze with a native revolt led by a charismatic warrior called Faraxen. In the west Valerian’s son and co-emperor Gallienus had based himself at Viminacium in a desperate attempt to hold back beyond the Rhine and Danube the hordes of the north – the Franks, Alamanni, Carpi, Iuthungi, Danubian Goths and many other peoples. Valerian himself had come east to Antioch to try to repel both the barbarians from the Black Sea, the Heruli, Borani, Black Sea Goths and what most saw as the greatest threat of all, the Sassanids from beyond the Euphrates. Yes, Ballista had done what he had been sent to do. He had held up Shapur, the Persian King of Kings, for a whole campaigning season. Through the spring and summer, and into the autumn, the great Sassanid horde had sat before the walls of the city of Arete. They had sweated, laboured and died in their thousands, their every assault thrown back in bloody ruin. Ballista had bought the Romans a year’s grace.

  But it would have been less embarrassing for the empire if Ballista had died sword in hand in the ruins of Arete. Dead, he could have been a hero. Alive, he was the walking proof of heartless imperial duplicity, a continual reminder that the emperors had cynically sacrificed two units of Roman soldiers and an entire city for the greater good. You bastards, you lied. There never was a relief force. You sent me there to die.

  The hangings parted and Cledonius reappeared. He gestured Ballista to come. The asymmetrical face was mask-like, revealing not a flicker of emotion. Ballista began to smile at the contrast between the short, neatly trimmed beard and carefully forward-combed hair of the ab Admissionibus and his own long, filthy locks and several days’ stubble.

  The hanging fell behind them and they were plunged into almost complete darkness. They stood still, just listening to their own breathing.

  With no warning, the inner hangings were pulled back and Ballista was momentarily blinded by the rush of light. Squinting, he peered into the audience chamber of Imperator Caesar Publius Licinius Valerianus Augustus, Pontifex Maximus, Pater Patriae, Germanicus Maximus, Invictus, Restitutor Orbis.

  As befitted his role as mediator between mankind and the gods, the emperor Valerian appeared suspended in mid-air. He was bathed in bright sunlight from the windows of the great apse where he sat. His toga gleamed painfully white and rays flashed from the golden wreath on his head. The emperor’s face was immobile. His gaze was fixed on the distance, over the heads of mere mortals, far beyond the confines of the palace. As the Romans deemed right, the emperor looked as remote as a statue.

  As Ballista’s eyes adjusted, he saw the low altar where the sacred fire burned at the foot
of the steps up to the throne. He took in the Praetorian Prefect, Successianus, standing at the right shoulder of the emperor, the row of secretaries behind his left.

  Cledonius touched Ballista’s elbow and they set off to walk slowly the length of the long audience chamber. In front of the pillars on either side sat the members of the consilium, a dozen or so of the great men of the empire, as still and quiet as cowed schoolboys. Out of the corner of his eye Ballista saw the sons of Macrianus glowering. The face of their father, longer schooled in the ways of the court, was expressionless. Near them, Ballista saw another man he thought that he recognized. The artfully curled hair and beard, the supercilious expression reminded him of someone. In his fatigue the recognition remained tantalizingly out of reach.

  They stopped just short of the sacred fire.

  ‘Marcus Clodius Ballista, Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome.’ The voice of the ab Admissionibus was reverent but carried well.

  Valerian remained motionless, his gaze still far away.

  At a sign from Cledonius, Ballista advanced to the foot of the steps and performed proskynesis, adoration. Hoping that his reluctance was not evident, the northerner lowered himself to his knees then prostrated himself full length on the floor.

  Still Valerian did not look at him. But after a while the emperor held out one of his hands. Ballista got to his feet and, bowing, kissed the proffered heavy gold ring, set with a gem cut with an image of an eagle.

  At last the emperor looked down at the man in front of him. The thin, delicate leaves of the golden wreath rustled.

  ‘Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista, carissime Dux Ripae, my dear Commander of the Riverbanks.’

  Ballista looked up at the emperor. There was the prominent chin, the fleshy cheeks and neck. Now the sparse, carefully groomed moustache and whiskers framed a mouth that was set, eyes that contained no warmth. The word carissime was never more of a formality.

  The emperor looked at Ballista. The northerner looked back at the emperor. A Roman would have looked away, would have respectfully dropped his eyes. Ballista was buggered if he was going to look away. Motes of dust moved lazily in the sunlight.

  At length the elderly emperor nodded, as if to confirm something to himself, and spoke.

  ‘Marcus Clodius Ballista, tell the sacred consilium the things that have happened to you and the things that you have done. Take the floor.’

  Ballista carefully walked a few steps backwards, stopping just beyond the low altar of the imperial fire. Cledonius had melted into the background. Ballista was alone in the middle of the chamber. He was very aware of the members of the consilium seated on either side, but he kept his gaze and all his attention on the old man on the elevated throne.

  What has happened to me! No one knows better than you what has happened to me. You and your son betrayed me. Gave me false promises and sent me to my death. You bastard! Ballista swayed slightly. He was light-headed. He knew that he had to control himself. He started to talk.

  ‘Last autumn, following the mandata, instructions, given to me by the emperors Valerian and Gallienus, I travelled to the city of Arete on the Euphrates River. I arrived thirteen days before the kalends of December. The seasonal rains began the next day. Over the winter I readied the defences of the city. The Sassanid Persians came in April when there was grass for their horses and no more rain to dampen their bows. They were led by Shapur, the King of Kings, in person.’

  A faint rustle like a shiver ran through the consilium at the mention of the great enemy of Rome, the eastern barbarian who had the audacity to claim equality with the Roman master of the world.

  ‘The Sassanids assaulted the walls first with siege towers, then with a huge ram. We threw them back both times. Many of Shapur’s men died. The plain before the city was a charnel house.’

  Ballista paused, fighting his weariness to put his memories in order.

  ‘The Sassanids built a siege ramp to overtop our walls. We collapsed it. They undermined a stretch of the city wall and one of the towers, but our earth banks held the defences upright.’

  Ballista took a deep breath.

  ‘Shapur ordered one final assault. It failed like the others. Then… then, that night, the city was betrayed.’

  There was an audible intake of breath from the consilium. Even the emperor involuntarily leaned forward. Ballista did not wait for the inevitable question.

  ‘Christians. The Christians were the traitors.’

  There was a low babble of voices. Valerian shot a significant look at one of his advisors – which one? Macrianus possibly? – then again nodded as if something had been confirmed to him.

  The rising murmur of voices ceased like a lamp snuffed out as a silentarius stepped into view.

  The emperor sat back on his throne, recomposing himself into a suitably dignified immobility. After a time he spoke.

  ‘The city fell, and you are here.’ The imperial voice was neutral.

  Ballista felt a hot jet of anger rising in himself. ‘With a few companions, I cut my way out of the city. Nothing in my mandata said that I had to die there.’

  Valerian betrayed no response, but on either side the members of the consilium grew even stiller. Ballista was tired and he was angry, but he knew that he had to be very careful or his words would yet see him executed. Everyone waited for the emperor’s next words. The emperor’s will was law. There was no appeal from his verdict. As a Roman citizen, Ballista would have the advantage of being beheaded and not nailed to a cross.

  ‘Our nature is merciful. We are filled with clementia, clemency. Let no one think that we would ever order one of our subjects to his death. We are not an oriental despot like Shapur the Persian, intent on enslaving the world, but the bulwark and embodiment of libertas, freedom.’ A mutter of assent ran round the consilium. ‘Who has a question for the Dux Ripae?’ Valerian gestured.

  Ballista half-turned. The man rising to speak was the one who had looked familiar as Ballista entered the audience chamber. That long, artfully curled hair, a short, neatly barbered beard, with at its bottom a ruff of hair teased out – Allfather, if I were not so tired, I would be able to place this man.

  ‘What happened to my brother?’

  Ballista stared stupidly. His mind was blank.

  ‘My brother, the commander of the legionary detachment in Arete, my brother, Marcus Acilius Glabrio.’

  Memories flooded into Ballista. He wondered how to say what he had to say.

  ‘My brother?’ The voice was tense, impatient.

  ‘Your brother… your brother died a hero’s death. The Persians were catching us. With one other, your brother said he would delay them. He said that, like Horatius, he would hold the bridge. None of us would have got away without his sacrifice. He died a death worthy of a patrician family of Rome, worthy of the Acilii Glabriones. A hero.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘You left him to die.’ There was raw fury in the patrician tones. ‘A jumped-up barbarian like you left a patrician of Rome to die. You left him to be cut down while you ran away.’ The young nobleman’s anger choked his words.

  ‘It was his choice. He volunteered. I did not order him.’ Ballista was not going to let himself be abused by a spoilt, pampered brat of the Roman nobility.

  ‘You barbarian bastard. You will pay for the death of my brother. I, Gaius Acilius Glabrio, swear it by the gods below.’

  The young patrician would have said more, he was even moving towards Ballista, when two silentarii appeared and, without words, herded him back to his seat.

  ‘If there are no other questions?’ The emperor’s words cut across everyone’s thoughts. ‘Arete has fallen. The road is open for the Persians, to Northern Mesopotamia, to Cappadocia. The time of troubles has returned. Again, as just three years ago, the road lies open for Shapur – to Syria, here to Antioch, to the heart of our empire. Bitter war looms. Each one of us can ponder in private the implications of the news brought by the Du
x Ripae. We will meet again in four days’ time at the tenth hour in the evening after the circus. The consilium is over.’

  The emperor stood up, and everyone else prostrated themselves as he walked out.

  Bitter war looms, thought Ballista. When he faced Shapur again he would not fail. He would not let himself be betrayed again.

  As they got to their feet, Cledonius quickly took Ballista’s arm and led him from the audience chamber.

  Outside in the sunshine, the ab Admissionibus kept them moving at some speed towards the main gate.

  ‘Impressive, Ballista, most impressive, even by your standards. You have been back at the imperial court for less than a morning and already you have made two lots of extremely dangerous new enemies.’ Cledonius adjusted his grip on the northerner’s arm.

  ‘First you make an enemy of Macrianus, the Comes Largitionum, one of the richest and most powerful men in the empire. A man who has two active and dangerous sons. Then, not content with that, you manage to make Gaius Acilius Glabrio, a strong-willed member of about the noblest family in the imperium, to swear an oath of vengeance against you. Very impressive.’

  Ballista shrugged. He decided it was not the moment to tell Cledonius about Videric and the Borani – and, anyway, they were hardly new enemies…

  ‘Luckily for you,’ Cledonius said, as he steered Ballista through the great courtyard, ‘very luckily for you, some of my servants are outside the gate with saddled horses.’

  ‘What?’ In his surprise Ballista stopped. ‘Are you suggesting that I ride out of the city? What – go into hiding or flee across the borders?’

  Cledonius’ long face split into a huge grin. ‘No. I just thought that, in your condition, the horses would make it easier to get across town to see your wife. You did know that she was here in Antioch?’

  II

  ‘And that is the Donkey-drowner.’ Cledonius’ words only registered on the surface of Ballista’s thoughts. In truth, nothing had penetrated deeper since the ab Admissionibus had said that the northerner’s wife was in the city.