Gallienus felt sorry for Ballista, but politics was politics. Anyway, Ballista's sons had returned, as if from the dead. Saloninus was not coming back. Poor, poor lost Saloninus. Conservator Pietatis — one of the coin types those in charge of the mint had shown him. What a cruel irony. Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus, emperor of Rome, the preserver of piety — unable to avenge his murdered son, unable to rescue his elderly father.
They were nearing the biggest house in Cularo. It had been voluntarily offered as imperial accommodation. No matter how enforced the offer, the owner would have some explaining to do this winter, after the comitatus had left and men retook the town in the name of Postumus.
The sharp wind fretted at the wreaths of bay and oak leaves which marked the emperor's residence. As ever, there was a crowd waiting outside. Among them, Gallienus recognized the bearded figure of Plotinus the Platonist philosopher. The emperor told Voconius Zeno, his recently appointed a Studiis, to detain the lover of wisdom. In normal times, Gallienus liked Plotinus's company well enough; in Rome, he and his wife Salonina had enjoyed his conversation. But these were not normal times. This afternoon, Gallienus required other consolations, not those of philosophy.
PART FIVE
Capax Imperii (The East, Winter AD260-Summer AD261)
'The ways of the gods are slow, but in the end their power is shown.'
Euripides, Ion, 1615
Up on the dais in the palace in Antioch, the chief men of the imperial entourage were in place. The two youthful emperors, Macrianus the Younger and Quietus, were enthroned. To their left, their father, Macrianus the Lame, sat on a curule chair nearly as high and nearly as elaborate as the thrones. There were no other chairs. Beyond the father was the spymaster Censorinus, backed by the imperial secretaries. To the right of the emperors stood Maeonius Astyanax, the senior Praetorian Prefect; Ragonius Clarus, the Prefect of Cavalry; and, on the end, as the other Praetorian Prefect, Ballista.
A gust of rain rattled against the windows of the great apse. Outside, it was a cold and grey midwinter morning in Antioch. I am getting soft, thought Ballista: back home in Germania this could pass for mild spring weather. Where Calgacus comes from, this is probably a balmy summer's day.
The ab Admissionibus drew back the hangings at the far end of the big room. Blinking a little in the many lights, the governors who supported the Macriani entered: Piso of Syria Coele, Cornicula of Syria Phoenice, Pomponius Bassus of Cappadocia, Achaeus of Palestine, Virius Lupus of Arabia, Mussius Aemilianus of Egypt, Theodorus of Cyprus and Trebellianus of Cilicia. With them was Sampsigeramus, the client king of Emesa.
Nine powerful men, but it was interesting who was not there: no governors west of Cilicia — above all, not Maximillianus of Asia; and from the east, no Aurelius Dasius of Osrhoene nor, most crucial of all, Odenathus Lord of Palmyra. Certainly all except the Lion of the Sun had sent excuses: illness, bandits or barbarian raiders. It could mean a great deal, or nothing. Politics in the imperium, when the stakes were as high as this, never admitted an easy reading.
The next wave of the consilium was ushered in — some forty senators, headed by the ex-consul Fabius Labeo, the nobilis Astyrius and a relative of the Macriani called Cornelius Macer. It was impressive. Admittedly, long ago, more had fled east to join Mark Antony in his doomed campaign against Octavian. Yet the imperium was now divided three ways between Gallienus, Postumus and the sons of Macrianus. To assemble so far from Rome about one in twelve of all senators was impressive.
The final group was shown in — a huge throng of equestrians, almost all junior military officers: prefects, tribunes and the like. Among them, the bright-red hair of tall Rutilus stood out. Ballista also caught sight of the pointy face of Castricius. The latter winked. He had come a long way since being a slave in the mines.
At a sign from the ab Admissionibus, the members of the consilium performed proskynesis. As he got up, Ballista saw that Macrianus the Elder had merely leant a little forward and blown a kiss. The lesser form of adoration could be put down to his age and incapacity, but it could be interpreted as something very different.
When the comites were back on their feet, the senators looked around, trying not to give evidence of their surprise and displeasure at the lack of seats. Ballista could see what the regime was attempting: trying to mark the emperors out yet more from their most powerful subjects, to enhance even further their dignity. But it was a potentially dangerous ploy. All too easily it could smack of arrogance, or even oriental despotism. A real emperor could sit cross-legged on the ground eating porridge with his legionaries and not lose dignitas.
Laboriously, Macrianus the Elder hauled himself to his feet. Leaning on his walking stick, he pulled a fold of his toga over his head. In a firm voice, he prayed for all the immortal gods, all the natural gods of Rome, to guide their deliberations, hold their hands over the emperors and their consilium. The flame burned blue-green as he sprinkled a pinch of incense over the sacred fire.
Regaining his seat, Macrianus indicated that Maeonius Astyanax should hold the floor. The senior Praetorian Prefect cleared his throat. The air was thick with incense and perfume, although it did not quite cover the bitter reek of burning which still lingered from the Persian sack.
'Most noble emperors, members of the consilium, I bring good news.' Astyanax paused. The lights made deep shadows in the lines on his forehead and under his fleshy mouth. His face was inscrutable.
'Only a short time now stands between the degenerate tyrant Gallienus and his death. He fritters away what little is left with prostitutes and pimps, barbarians and buffoons — dressed as a girl, submitting as a girl, mocking the dignitas of the throne and the maiestas of the Roman people.'
Ballista knew that Astyanax, revelling in his orotundity, could keep this up for hours. Some of the usual phrases of invective floated through his thoughts — 'more unnatural than Nero', 'crueller than Domitian', 'more perverse than Heliogabalus'; 'incest and magic'; 'the profligate', 'the coward', 'the enemy of men and gods'. Rain beat on the windows.
'Now the forces of righteous retribution are ready to march.' Astyanax's words brought Ballista's attention back. 'The minor troubles of a few days ago are a thing of the past. It was nothing more than the almost commendable over-eagerness of a handful of troops from the west to free their contubernales and families from the perverted lusts of the tyrant.'
Which, Ballista thought, was a good way of describing a serious mutiny — one only defused by a large donative of cash to the mutineers and a complete capitulation to their demands: yes, the western troops could begin their march home as soon as it was spring, some even sooner.
'Here in the east all is secure. The cities of Carrhae and Nisibis, recovered from the Sassanids by Odenathus, have been handed over to the governor of Osrhoene. Setting them in order, of course, accounts for the absence of Aurelius Dasius from this gathering today.'
It might, thought Ballista.
'I have received a letter from Odenathus himself.' Astyanax produced a piece of papyrus from his scabbard. It neatly reminded his listeners that he, with Ragonius Clarus and Ballista, was one of the three men allowed to go armed in the presence of the emperors.
'The Lord of Palmyra will take the war to the Persians. He has the Sassanids on the defensive. The Lion of the Sun intends no less than to sack Shapur's capital of Ctesiphon. He expresses his complete confidence that the gods will settle the rule of Rome on those they favour.'
Astyanax flourished the letter before returning it to his scabbard. Ballista saw no more than that there was writing on it. He would not have been surprised had it been blank.
'In view of Odenathus's signal loyalty to Rome, our noble emperors have sent him magnificent presents from among the property justly confiscated from the atheist Christians.'
A large bribe, thought Ballista, tortured out of the adherents of a supposedly peace-loving sect in response to a wonderfully ambiguous message. The northerner made sure his face was immobile.
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With a grandiloquent gesture, Astyanax turned to the emperors. 'Domini, the east is secure. Give the word and we will follow you to Rome to free the imperium from the cruel tyranny of Gallienus. Just give the word.'
In the murmur of approval, Ballista saw Macrianus nod to one of his sons.
Macrianus the Younger held up his sceptre for silence. 'We thank the Vir Ementissimus Maeonius Astyanax. We hear the wishes of our comites. We hear the prayers of those oppressed in Europe and Africa. In the spring, as soon as the campaigning season opens, we will march to the west.'
Now he had all their attention.
'I myself, accompanied by my father, the Prefect of Cavalry Ragonius Clarus and the Princeps Peregrinorum Calpurnius Censorinus, will lead a force of thirty thousand picked men. Those who will serve as legates we will announce later.'
There was an intensity of gaze among the members of the consilium. Whatever they really thought of the young emperors, all the comites knew that it was on expeditions like this that serious advancement could be secured, a glittering career made.
'In advance of the main expedition, Gaius Calpurnius Piso Frugi, the governor of Syria Coele, will lead fifteen thousand men to secure first a crossing into Europe at Byzantium, then the provinces of Thrace and Achaea. Again, those who will serve as legates will be announced later.'
Macrianus the Younger looked up at the thick cedar beams supporting the high roof. 'We bow to the will of the immortal gods, put our lives in their hands. They will not fail to support us. The tyrant Gallienus has rescinded the persecution of the Christians. The natural, powerful gods of Rome will not suffer those who deny them to go unpunished. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, all the gods, they will hold their hands over us.'
The young Augustus relapsed into the immobility and distant stare the Romans thought fitting in an emperor. Ballista wondered how much of it was well-schooled play-acting. Was he just mouthing the words, or did the younger Macrianus share his father's terrible certainty about the divine?
Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista saw a movement. It was the walking stick of Macrianus the Elder. Its silver top, with its bust of Alexander the Great, nudged towards Quietus.
As the young emperor prepared to speak, Ballista studied him. Quietus had the features of his family. Since his accession, Macrianus the Younger had acquired a simulacrum of maturity, but Quietus had not. The pouchy eyes, receding chin, the long, straight nose… all still carried the look of a spoilt, petulant and vindictive youth.
'Comites — ' Quietus began in too high a register. He coughed, looked annoyed and started again. 'Comites, when our brother and father march, we will remain in Antioch, governing the east. The Praetorian Prefects, Maeonius Astyanax and Ballista, will advise us. As Piso Frugi heads the advance to the west, his province of Syria Coele will be governed by our most loyal subject Fabius Labeo.'
The boy paused for the elderly ex-consul to express his thanks.
'As we have heard from Maeonius Astyanax,' Quietus continued, 'in general, the east stands secure. But the duties of a ruler never end. The governor of Palestine, Achaeus, informs us that his province, always an unruly one, is suffering a plague of bandits. These evil-doers must be eradicated. To this end, we order our Praetorian Prefect Ballista, even in the depths of winter, to descend on them with fire and sword. He will take a thousand men, infantry and cavalry, and he will put an end to these brigands. He will rout them out — and their sons too, that they may not grow up to follow the example of their fathers. Not one will be left alive.' Quietus looked at Ballista. He seemed to be relishing in advance the suffering of innocents.
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,' Ballista intoned. Allfather, he hated this.
A half-smile played across Quietus's face. 'To put at rest the mind of the Vir Ementissimus, given the unfortunate events when he was last away, we are happy to extend our protection to his family. Ballista's wife and sons will reside with us, here in the palace.'
Ballista had no choice. As he expressed his thanks, he felt a deep foreboding. Allfather, let Julia and his boys be all right while he was away, let nothing bad happen to them.
Quietus could not prevent a high-pitched giggle.
One day, you little bastard, thought Ballista, maybe not soon, but one day. Ballista had marched his men down from Antioch to Caesarea Maritima in the province of Syria Palestina. It had been fine. On their left, the mountains of Lebanon, in the bright mornings their cedars often shrouded in fine mists. To their right, red sandhills and, beyond them, the sea, flashing violet, blue, black in the winter sun. They had passed through the famous cities of ancient Phoenicia: Tripolis, Berytus, Sidon and Tyre. They had negotiated the outcrop known as the Ladder of Tyre, where the road overhung precipices of naked white rock. Once they had rounded Mount Carmel, the coast road had been covered in a drift of millions of shells. White, brown, purple, they cracked and rattled under the horses' hooves and the boots of the men.
Throughout the journey, the noise of the sea was in their ears. The surf was magnificent, rolling in great billows, breaking then forming again. The weather had held fair, but it was obvious the shore was a cruel one. Ballista counted eight ships wrecked; some still almost intact, others little more than discoloured lines in the sand. Maximus, of course, counted fourteen. The new secretary Hippothous claimed to have seen no fewer than twenty.
Caesarea Maritima, the city built by King Herod, was a fine place. Ballista had been busy there: endless sessions with the governor Achaeus, his legates — including the stony-faced senator Astyrius — and other officers to plan operations to scour the land of bandits. It had soon become clear why Achaeus needed aid. Several districts were overrun: Samaria, Galilee, Judea itself. Detachments to the emperors' field armies had cut the governor's command to the bone. There were no more than two thousand men with the eagle of Legio X Fretensis at Aelia Capitolina, and just a thousand with that of Legio VI Ferrata at Caporcotani. The number of auxiliary units had been slashed. There were only two alae of cavalry and six cohorts of infantry: nominally four thousand men, but these likewise were under strength. They were spread thin throughout the province.
The troops of Ballista would act as a strike column in Galilee. It was a large area for their very limited force. The northerner had led down a vexillatio of five hundred drawn from Legio III Gallica commanded by an amiable centurion called Lerus, and a wing of Dalmatian cavalry of the same number under the big red-headed prefect Rutilus.
The mission was important. It was no fool's errand. Yet Ballista was unhappy to have left Julia and his sons behind in the palace. He prayed they would be all right. He did not trust Quietus.
His worries aside, the stay at Caesarea would have been pleasant — certainly the palace on the headland by the sea was more than comfortable, and Ballista usually enjoyed throwing himself into military planning — but for the personality of the governor. Not only was Achaeus a close amicus of Macrianus the Elder, he was also a bore and a bigot. A Praetorian Prefect Ballista may be, but the rules of society demanded that he frequently accept the governor's hospitality and, at least outwardly, give some small sign of enjoyment. And then he had to campaign with him. Ballista had reclined through meal after meal as Achaeus dilated on his favourite topic: the iniquities of the Jews he ruled.
'I tell you, they are far more pernicious even than the disgusting Christians. Those superstitious fools, when they are not shouting "I am a Christian and I want to die," they at least keep repeating, like the cawing of so many trained crows, "Thou shalt not kill; Thou shalt not kill." If the god of the Jews had mentioned the latter to them, the circumcised ones were not listening. Three massive uprisings under the emperors Nero, Trajan and Hadrian. Continuous trouble the rest of the time. A nightmare to govern, like living with a stepmother. The Jews hate mankind. As the saying goes, they would not show a non-Jew the way or give him a drink of water. More likely, they would cut his throat. They're always fighting. When they're not perse
cuting good citizens who worship the natural gods or attacking the Christians and the Samaritans, they turn on each other. Do you know, I asked the emperor Valerian why we did not deal with them once and for all? Do you know what he said? "They may be mad, but unlike the Christians, their madness is ancestral." Addled old fool, thank the gods he has gone. When I mentioned it to the father of the noble emperors set over us now, may the gods preserve them, I got far more sense. "One enemy at a time," Macrianus said. "The Christians first, then the Jews."'
Every evening, when the eating was done, when Ballista could have been enjoying his wine while listening to the roar of the surf on the harbour walls, the boom of more distant breakers, Achaeus told stories that only a child or a Greek geographer could believe: 'Everyone knows what they used to do before the divine Titus destroyed their temple. They would catch a Greek, hold him prisoner, fatten him up, then kill and eat him. They are probably still at it, up in the hills of Galilee under their so-called patriarchs.'
Red-faced, Achaeus would warm to his topic: 'Do you know why they will not eat pigs? No, I will tell you. Because they worship them! Do you know they will not eat hares either? Why? Because hares look like miniature donkeys, and they worship donkeys too!' On and on the calumnies rolled, by turns vile and ludicrous, drowning out the clean roar of the sea.
After fifteen days, Ballista had been glad to get away from the odious governor. But he wished the weather had not finally broken. It had been merely overcast when they set out from Caesarea three days earlier. The first night had been spent in the echoing near-emptiness of the legionary fortress of Legio VI at Caporcotani, the second in the town of Sepphoris. They had waited there a day. At dusk the force had divided and marched out as the rain began to fall. Their target was a village called Arbela which was overrun with bandits. It was to be a pincer attack at first light. The legionaries from III Gallica under Lerus were to march to the Sea of Tiberias and approach the village from the east. Ballista and Rutilus, with the Dalmatian troopers, were to come in from the west. Ballista suspected that Lerus and his men had drawn the better lot. It was as well the cavalrymen had left their mounts at Sepphoris: Ballista was glad Pale Horse was safe in a stable. The hill path was hard going for men on foot. And it was cold, very cold.
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