Towards the end of the first day, they reached Edessa. The white-walled city was still holding out. The ragged line of captives was halted within arrow shot, their abjectness displayed to the defenders. Near Ballista, a tribune had wept at the tantalizing closeness of safety.
Valerian had been escorted up to the eastern gate. Under duress, the elderly emperor had called for the governor. When he appeared, Valerian commanded him to surrender the city. High on the battlements, Aurelius Dasius put his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. Having performed proskynesis, the governor snapped a military salute and wordlessly turned away.
The second day, they had been marched down to Carrhae. Across the flat plain, the city rose like a platform in the distance. Word ran down the column that Carrhae had opened its gates to the Persians.
A few miles short of the city, they were brought to a halt by the temple of Nikal, the bride of Sin. The sanctuary of the moon goddess and her powerful consort was a hive of peaceful activity. Under watchful Persian eyes, local priests scurried around the banks of the sacred lake. Soon a great fire was lit and a holocaust committed. It had been hard to choose which was the more tormenting, the smell of whole animals roasting or the sight of the unattainable clear waters of the lake.
A Sassanid noble had ridden up to the bedraggled Roman officers. Laughing, he had called out in Greek, 'See, we treat you, our honoured guests, like the gods. They too dine on the smoke of sacrifice.'
The ordinary milites had been left outside the city walls. The officers were marched under an ornate gateway, through streets where the citizens were encouraged to jeer and throw things, then manhandled into the cramped, airless cell.
'Disciplina…' In the gloom, the Praetorian Prefect's mutterings ran on. Ballista's legs were seized with cramp. Apologizing to Aurelian, the young Italian prefect wedged in front of him, Ballista painfully flexed them. He was weary to the bone. He wanted to shut his eyes, but he knew that when he opened them again the airless press of bodies and his inability to move would cause a wave of panic that might engulf him. On the march he had been glad enough not to be one of the rank and file, but now he would have given a lot to be with them. At least they had the night air on their faces and the delicious luxury of just a little unrestricted movement.
There was the screech of a drawn bolt, and the door swung open. Two easterners, long swords in hand, scanned the crush.
'Which one of you is Ballista?'
Unwillingly, Ballista raised his hand. This was not a good turn of events. The Roman general who had slaughtered so many easterners at Arete, had defeated a Sassanid army at Circesium and had then in their eyes committed the terrible sacrilege of burning their bodies could expect only harsh hospitality from the King of Kings.
'You come with us.'
It took some time for Ballista to get out of the cell. First he had to get to his feet. This involved levering himself up by using the wall. Then the Roman officers had to clamber on top of one another, all dignitas dispelled, to clear a path.
As the door shut, Ballista heard Successianus. 'Disciplina, keep your disciplina,' the Praetorian Prefect repeated.
Fuck you and your Roman disciplina, Ballista thought. I was born a warrior of the Angles. We have our own ways of facing down fear. Allfather, Deep Hood, Death-blinder, Woden-born as I am, do not let me disgrace myself or my forefathers.
Two guards took Ballista's arms. Two more, weapons drawn, followed. Ballista felt the cuts on the soles of his feet open as he shuffled along. The chains fastened to his ankles threatened to trip him at every step. Movement made the manacles on his wrists and the weight of the chain that linked them hurt like all hell.
He was hustled along corridor after corridor through the palace cellars. At first he tried to memorize every turn. Then he realized he had forgotten the route they had taken in getting to the cell. After that, he concentrated on not giving way to his fear.
The guards opened the door to another cell. They pushed him inside, surprisingly gently. He did not fall full length, merely staggered. The door was shut. The bolts slammed.
Standing still, Ballista took stock. The cell smelled musty but clean. There were no windows, so it was completely dark. Squatting into position for an ungainly crawl, Ballista explored his new prison: about six paces by six, bare earth floor, rough stone walls, nothing movable, nothing that could be used as a weapon.
With a grunt of effort, Ballista settled himself against a wall. He tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, easing the metal away from the abrasions and sores on his wrists and ankles. Now he was alone he missed the companionship of the other officers. At least they had all been in it together.
Ballista was tired. His fatigue was a mine that each of the last two days had dug deeper, the tunnel burrowing away from the light, the air even harder to breathe. He thought of Julia, his wife, of Isangrim and Dernhelm, his two beautiful sons. He imagined their pain when news reached Antioch of the disaster. If he died, would they ever hear of it? Or would he just be gone, his end an empty space their minds would fill with terrible tortures and pain?
Shutting his eyes, Ballista promised himself that if there were a chance — no matter what it took, no matter at what cost to himself — he would get back to them.
The door crashed open and Ballista was temporarily blinded by the light. Two easterners entered and put lamps on the floor. Someone laughed outside. The door shut. Ballista peered up at the two men. The younger, he half recognized. The man was dressed in the garb of a Persian nobleman, his face made up, kohl around his eyes. He exuded a smug air of self-controlled menace. The older wore more outlandish clothes, a jacket with empty, hanging sleeves and a fur cloak, and had strange braids in his hair. Ballista did not know him. The stranger stepped over to Ballista and kicked him. The blow landed on his arms. The man shouted something in a language Ballista had never heard and kicked out again.
'On your feet,' the Sassanid by the door said, in Persian.
Ballista stayed where he was. He peered out from behind his raised arms, trying to look confused, helpless. 'Latin, I only speak Latin.'
The Sassanid moved from the door. He leant down, bringing his face close. He did look very familiar. Smiling unpleasantly, he spoke. 'We have met before. The first time, at Arete, your excellent command of my language tricked me into letting you escape. I vowed there would be a reckoning. The second time, not long ago, your status as an ambassador robbed me of my revenge.'
Ballista remembered now: he was Vardan, son of Nashbad, a captain in the service of the Lord Suren. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you. And Woden knew, Ballista had made enough of them.
As Ballista got up, Vardan grabbed him from behind, pinioning his elbows to his sides. The manacles dug into Ballista's wrists, the chain between them drew tight across his stomach.
'Be assured, northerner, nothing can save you tonight,' Vardan hissed, his breath hot in Ballista's ear. 'We have the whole night. My revenge and pleasure will be sweet as they come together.' Vardan laughed. 'But first…'
The other man spat in Ballista's face. He began to shout furiously, the unintelligibility of the words to the northerner making them more frightening. The man spat again. His breath was heavy with spicy food and strong wine. This man was full of hatred, but Ballista had no idea why.
The man stepped back and removed one of his slippers. Screaming what was abuse in any language, he beat Ballista around the head with it. Even though the slipper was light, it hurt. The frenzied attack went on until Vardan said something in the incomprehensible language.
Vardan again whispered in Ballista's ear. 'This is Hamazasp, King of Georgian Iberia. You killed his son at Arete.'
Vardan spoke again. The language must be Georgian. Hamazasp laughed. He began to unbuckle his belt. 'Do not worry, barbarian, you will not have to live with the shame for long.' He smirked. 'Afterwards, we will kill you.'
Ballista threw himself backwards, smashing Vardan into the wall. The Persian wheezed
as the impact forced the air out of his lungs. Ballista stamped his left heel down on Vardan's foot, making him howl.
Hamazasp was bent forward, fumbling his trousers up. Ballista lunged and hooked the chain of his manacles over the Georgian's head. Pulling him close, Ballista drove his right knee up into his crotch.
As Hamazasp doubled up, Ballista freed the chain and spun round, swinging it with him. The hard metal links snapped into Vardan's face. There was a scream, blood sprayed and the Persian staggered sideways.
The door was thrown open. Ballista rushed at the guards. The chains around his ankles tangled in his feet. He crashed forward on all fours. Scrambling, he tried to rise. A savage kick caught him under the chin. His head snapped backwards. There was a blinding flash of light, a roaring sound in his ears.
Something animal makes the body defend itself, even when the mind is dazed. Ballista found he was curled up on the floor, arms trying to shield his head. The kicks were hard, shrewdly aimed. One after another they came, in his kidneys, stomach, mouth, ears. Ballista felt blood pouring from his nose. His mouth was full of shattered tooth fragments. Relentlessly, the beating continued.
'Enough.' Vardan's voice seemed to come from miles away. The kicking stopped.
Ballista lay, muscles twitching, stabs of pain flickering through him. Several men seized him. He was rolled face down. His limbs were stretched out. Hands hauled up his tunic, gripped the waist of his trousers.
'Stop!' A voice new to the room, Persian but distantly familiar.
'This is nothing to do with you priests, Hormizd.'
'The great god Mazda has willed that everything is the concern of his mobads.' The voice was controlled but tight with emotion. 'I am sure that neither you, Vardan, nor the King of Georgia would be so unrighteous as to deny that the caste of warriors must abase itself before that of priests.'
There was a charged silence that seemed to indicate unwilling acquiescence.
'Even should you have been led so far astray by Ahriman the Evil One, it would be unwise for a vassal king or an officer in the service of the Lord Suren to ignore the will of the Mazda-worshipping King of Kings.' The voice was growing in command, becoming mellifluous. 'Shapur himself, may his name be praised, has commanded the prisoner called Ballista be brought before him at the first audience of the day, as soon as the pious King of Aryans and non-Aryans has performed the rites that greet the dawn. Now my servants will take charge of the prisoner. You may go.'
Ballista heard the men leave the room, their footfalls and mutterings dwindling down the corridor. Spitting out tiny bits of tooth, painfully, he turned over. A young man with an earnest face and a big beard was bending over him. Ballista ran his tongue over his split lips. Croakily, he spoke.
'Greetings, Bagoas. It has been a long time.' Ballista lay in the warm waters of the tepidarium. It had been agony getting in — the grazes had stung even sharper than the cuts — but now the water was supremely soothing. It was scented with carnations and cloves. Relishing the seclusion of the small private bath, Ballista checked his physical condition. His wrists, ankles and the soles of his feet were badly cut from the march. The rest of his body was covered in bruises and abrasions. He squinted into a small, highly polished metal mirror, which kept steaming up. His right eye was blackened, the left almost closed. His front teeth were broken; some at the back ached abominably. But apart from a stabbing pain in his left side when he moved — probably a cracked rib or two — he did not seem to have any broken bones. He was battered and exhausted yet, if a chance came, he could still run or fight.
A door opened and the young priest entered.
'Thank you, Bagoas… sorry — Hormizd.' The Persian youth smiled slightly in acknowledgement of the correction. 'You know,' Ballista continued, 'when you first joined my familia in Delos, I thought you were lying when you said that was your original name.'
'The idea had crossed my mind. I had no wish for anyone to know from what family I came before I was captured. Now the time of my servitude is something not spoken of at court. The divine King of Kings has declared that it should be as if it never occurred. It is as unmentionable as those traitors condemned to the Castle of Oblivion.'
'Why did you save me?'
'Such things are an abomination. When I was… with you, your men Maximus and Calgacus saved me from the same fate.'
'Thank you. But you had already repaid the debt. Maximus told me that you sent our pursuers on the wrong path after the fall of Arete.'
Hormizd smiled, his even teeth very white behind his black beard. 'One who seeks to be a virtuous man does not wait to incur a debt before doing good.'
'I am sure. But now I am in your debt. Although it is hard to imagine how I could be in a position to repay you.'
'One can never tell what great Mazda holds in store for a man,' Hormizd said seriously. 'Now, let me wash your hair. Talk is more free without servants.'
The young Persian knelt by the bath. His fingers worked carefully around the cuts on Ballista's scalp as he cleaned the northerner's long hair.
'Tell me,' said Ballista after a while, 'why does Vardan hate me?'
'For the loss of his jewelled hair-clip.'
'What?'
'The King of Kings gave it to him. After you tricked Vardan into letting you go outside Arete, it was taken back. I imagine that every time someone dresses Vardan's hair, the hurt rankles.'
Ballista laughed. 'The old Greek Herodotus was right: everywhere, custom is king.'
'Come, let me help you out of the bath. I will call my servants to dry you. There is time for a few hours' sleep before you are taken to the King of Kings.'
'Shapur really wishes to see me?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'That is not for me to say.' It was dark, a warm Mesopotamian spring night. Ballista was taken out on to the top of the citadel of Carrhae. At the eastern end of the terrace, off to one side, stood two iron tripods. Cledonius was sitting on one of them. Ballista was led to the other. He sat down with relief. Even in delicate silk slippers, it hurt to walk. As Ballista waited, he watched the eastern sky slowly pale to an eggshell blue.
The King of Kings came out of the palace and stopped in front of the high golden throne. The entourage that flanked him arranged itself into two divisions. On his left were the priests, on his right the high nobility and his client kings. Among them, Ballista saw, was Valerian. The Roman emperor stood some way from Shapur. The King of Iberia, Hamazasp, was significantly nearer the throne.
The great orb of the sun broke the line of the distant hills. Gracefully, the King of Aryans and non-Aryans sank down until he was full length on the ground, prostrating himself before the newly risen deity. There was complete silence as, from the very tips of his fingers, he blew a kiss. Then he stood up.
A pure white stallion was led before Shapur. High-stepping, its neck arched, the beautiful Nisean went consentingly to its fate. The King of Kings rubbed its nose, whispered into its velvet ears the message it would take then, suddenly, struck the sharp blade deeply into the base of the stallion's neck. With the deftness of long practice, he swiftly pulled the knife out and stepped to one side. A stream of blood as thick as a man's arm spouted out.
The horse stood quite still as its life blood pumped away. Everyone watched. For what seemed a long time, nothing moved, except for the gushing blood and the spreading dark, cloudy pool. Then, without preamble, the horse collapsed.
When the horse was dead and the communion between Shapur and his god complete, all the members of the court, Valerian included, performed proskynesis.
Shapur settled himself on the throne. A scribe moused forward. Giving the impression of keeping low to the ground, he began to read from a book. Although the Persian king's hands toyed with a strung bow, his eyes were attentive. The sound did not carry, but Ballista knew the dibir was reading the words spoken by Shapur the night before when he had been drinking.
At length the scribe had finished and was dismissed
. Ballista and Cledonius were gestured forward. They got down on their bellies by the carcass of the horse, the smell of its blood strong in their nostrils.
'Rise.' The Sassanid king's jewels and crown glinted in the morning sun. His dark, kohl-lined eyes regarded them.
'But what is to be done? The will of heaven must be endured.' Shapur recited the Greek verse with but the slightest hint of an eastern accent. Recognition swam just below the surface of Ballista's thoughts.
'But how to ask what I want to know without causing you any pain, that is my dilemma. And yet I long to be satisfied.' Shapur raised his hands in mock-uncertainty.
Cledonius replied. 'No, ask your question; leave no desire unfulfilled. Your wishes are also what my own heart desires, Great King.' Only the title broke the metre.
Shapur smiled. He pointed his bow at Ballista. 'And does a barbarian from the quarter of the world not to be named by the pious know the works of the troglodyte of Salamis?'
'A man has to bear the senseless acts of his rulers.' As Ballista finished the quotation from Euripides, a terrible stillness spread across the terrace.
Shapur clapped his hands, threw his head back and laughed. Quickly, but more quietly, those around him joined in.
'The power of Euripides transcends all.' The courtiers fell abruptly silent as the king spoke. 'Last night, we diverted ourselves with his poetry. Everyone finds what he wishes in it. Truly, there are as many interpretations as readers.' The long line of heads nodded to acknowledge the profundity of the monarch's words.
'Now to affairs of empire.' Shapur still spoke in Greek, but his tone became brisk. 'It was the will of heaven for me to capture in war, to seize with this, my right hand, the emperor of the Romans. Now my prisoner Valerian begs for me to reinstate him on his throne. It is his heart's desire to become my vassal. He wishes to arrange his ransom.'
Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista looked at Valerian. The heavy old face was immobile.
'Valerian assures me that no one has more influence with the crippled servant he left in charge of those troops fortunate enough to have remained in Samosata than the two of you.' Shapur paused. 'As a messenger to Macrianus the Lame, the name of Cledonius was received with pleasure by my ears and those of my court. Who could be more fitting for the task than the faithful doorkeeper, the man who once said come and men came, who said go and they went.' A polite titter at the king's playful words ran through his entourage.
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