'Not all members of the consilium are here yet. The ab Admissionibus is expected at any moment, Dominus. Perhaps you might speak to him.' The eunuch's smile was placating; his expression was like that of a dog which fears a beating and bares its teeth.
At Ballista's nod the eunuch quickly turned and waddled away.
Ballista looked at the heavens, then closed his eyes as his tiredness provoked a wave of nausea. 'For fuck's sake,' he said in the language of his native Germania.
Opening his eyes, Ballista again looked round the courtyard. The large, dusty square was crowded with men from all over the imperium of the Romans. There were men in Roman togas, Greeks in tunics and cloaks, Gauls and Celt-Iberians in trousers. Other groups clearly came from beyond the borders. There were Indians in turbans, Scythians in tall, pointed hats, Africans in colourful robes. Wherever the emperors went, the business of the empire followed them in the form of innumerable embassies. There were embassies from communities within the empire waiting to ask for benefits, both straightforwardly tangible — relief from taxation or from the billeting of troops — and more symbolic: honorific titles or the right to enlarge their town council. And there were embassies from further away, from the so-called 'friendly kings', wanting help against their neighbours or financial subsidies. They always wanted financial subsidies. Now the empire was reeling — attacked on all its frontiers, rebellions breaking out in province after province — those near enough to raid across the borders always got their subsidies.
'Excuse me.' Ballista was exhausted. He had not noticed the man approach.
'I heard you speak in our language.' The man was smiling the smile of someone who thinks that he has come across one of his own race a long way from home. His accent pointed to one of the southern German tribes, one down by the Danube or the Black Sea. It put Ballista on his guard.
'I am Videric, son of Fritigern, the King of the Borani. I am my father's ambassador to the Romans.'
There was a silence. Ballista pulled himself up to his not inconsiderable full height.
'I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the Warleader of the Angles. The Romans know me as Marcus Clodius Ballista.'
The look on Videric's face changed to something very different. Automatically, his hand went to his hip, where the hilt of his sword should rest. It was not there. Like Ballista's, like all other weapons, it had been taken by the praetorians on the front gate.
Two other Borani came up and flanked Videric. The three warriors glowered. They looked much alike: big powerful men, long fair hair to their shoulders, a surfeit of gold rings on their arms.
'You bastard,' Videric spat. Ballista stood his ground. 'You fucking bastard.'
Ballista looked at the three angry men. He had sent his own men, his bodyguard Maximus and the others, to the barracks. He was alone. Yet there was little immediate to worry about. The praetorians did not encourage those waiting in the hope of seeing the emperor to fight among themselves.
'Last year in the Aegean, two longboats of Borani warriors, and you only spared about a dozen to sell as slaves.' Videric's face was very pale.
'Men die in war. It happens.' Ballista kept his voice neutral.
'You shot them down when they could not resist.'
'They would not surrender.'
Videric stepped forward. One of the other Borani put a hand on his arm to restrain him. Videric gave Ballista a look of complete contempt. 'And that is why we Borani are here to collect our tribute from the Romans. While you…' Words failed him for a moment. Then he laughed, a harsh snort. 'While you wait like a slave for your orders. Maybe your Roman master will see you after he has handed his gold to us.'
'I live in hope,' Ballista replied.
'One day we will meet again where there are no Roman guardsmen to protect you. There is a bloodfeud between us.'
'As I said, I always live in hope.' Ballista turned his back on them and walked away to the centre of the great courtyard. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you.
A deep metallic boom rang out from the inner gate. Ballista turned. Around him all conversation died as almost everyone turned and gazed up at the gate. High up on the second storey was a gilded statue of a naked man. In his right hand the statue held a tall stake. Nine large golden spheres were suspended at the top of the stake; three more rested at the bottom. Despite his fatigue, Ballista found the mechanical water clock caught his attention. Obviously, one of the spheres slid down at the start of each of the twelve hours of daylight. It was the third hour. Conventionally, this was when the salutatio, the time for receiving visitors, ended and the courts began to sit. The autocratic powers of the emperors had long ago blurred such distinctions.
As the reverberations died away a low hum of talk returned. The water clock was new. It had not been there a year earlier. The engineer in Ballista made a mental note to find out how it worked. He looked away, scanning the courtyard. The great fortress-like walls with their embedded Corinthian columns dwarfed the crowd. The Borani were near the inner gate, still gawping up open-mouthed. Ballista moved away towards the outer gate.
A small group of peasants, thin men in much-patched tunics, shifted to one side as Ballista sat on the ground. The big northerner settled himself to wait. His elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, he shut his eyes. The sun was warm on his back. The peasants started talking softly in a language Ballista did not know. He thought it was Syriac.
His mind drifted. Once again he saw the flames engulf the city, the strong south wind pull long streamers of fire into the night sky, the eruption of sparks as a roof gave way. Once again he saw the city of Arete die. The city that he had been charged to defend.
Inexorably, Ballista's thoughts turned to the nightmare flight from Arete. The hellish, relentless pursuit through the desert. His sword slicing into Titus' guts. The trooper gasping out his life breath. The vicious fight at the Horns of Ammon. Then two days crossing the mountains. Hunched in the saddle, sharp, gnawing hunger driving out all other thoughts. Their staggering journey from one brackish watering hole to another.
Ballista's thoughts moved on. Down from the mountains at last. The first Roman-held village. Clean water, food, a bath, the news that the emperor Valerian had set up his court in Antioch. Then on down a broad Roman highway to the caravan city of Palmyra. And there he had left Bathshiba. Left her and Haddudad. It had been a hurried, tense parting for the three of them, with much left unsaid. There had been little time to say anything, and Ballista had lacked the words. He had not known what he wanted to say.
The rest of the journey had been physically easy. Good Roman roads all the way. West from Palmyra to the next great caravan city of Emesa. Then north up the lush valley of the Orontes River. Ballista again felt the motion of the horse under him as they plodded through the water-meadows towards Antioch, towards the imperial court and the report that he must give today. The city fell. The Sassanid Persians took it. I failed. Click, drag, step. Click, drag, step.
The sounds jerked Ballista awake.
From under the arch of the outer gate came Macrianus. Click went his walking stick, his lame foot dragged, and his sound one took a step. Click, drag, step. The crowds parted as he moved into the courtyard. He was followed at a couple of paces by two other men in togas. In all bar one respect they were younger images of himself; the same long, straight nose, the receding chin, the pouches under the eyes. But the sons of Macrianus walked easily. There was a lithe, confident swagger in their step. Ballista had never seen the sons before, but he had met Macrianus once or twice.
Marcus Fulvius Macrianus may have been old and lame, and his low birth was widely known, but he was not to be taken lightly. As Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, Count of the Sacred Largess, as well as being in charge of clothing the court, the army and the civil service — the imperial dye works answered to him — he controlled all the money taxes in the imperium, the gold and silver mines, the mints that produced the coinage and, most potent of all, he paid both the regular cash salari
es of soldiers and officials and the not infrequent donatives to the military. As Praefectus Annonae, Prefect of the Grain Supply, he fed the city of Rome and the imperial court. He had agents and depots in every province of the imperium. More to the point, he had the ear of the emperors.
Macrianus had risen high. Now he shone in the sunlight, his toga gleaming white, the golden head of Alexander the Great which topped his walking stick flashing. Click, drag, step. Neither he nor his sons looked right or left as they made their way towards the inner gate and the imperial consilium.
Ballista hauled himself stiffly to his feet.
'Ave, Comes. Ave, Marcus Fulvius Macrianus.'
Click, drag, step. The lame man paid no attention.
'Macrianus.' Ballista stepped forward.
'Out of the way, you filthy barbarian. How dare you address the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae.' The contempt in the son's tone was not feigned.
Ballista ignored him. 'Macrianus, I need to talk to you.'
'Speak when you are spoken to, you piece of barbarian shit.' The youth was closing on Ballista.
'Macrianus, it is me.'
The lame man did not break his slow progress, but he looked at the long-haired, dirty barbarian who was speaking to him. There was no immediate recognition on his face.
'Macrianus, it is me, Ballista, the Dux Ripae. I have news of the Sassanids…' The blow to the left side of his head cut off Ballista's words. He staggered a few steps to his right.
'Let this be a lesson to you.' The youth waded forward, ready to punch again. Ballista crouched, one hand to his temple. He turned slowly, as if dazed, to face his attacker.
When the youth came close enough Ballista lashed out a straight right, hard and fast to the crotch. The youth doubled up, both hands clasping his balls. He tottered three steps backwards. The toga was a ceremonial costume, its very impracticality its point. Romans wore it on special formal days when they were neither doing physical work nor fighting. Now the youth's toga caught round his legs. He sat down hard.
Ballista straightened up and turned to Macrianus.
'Macrianus, it is me, Marcus Clodius Ballista, the Dux Ripae. You must take me with you into the consilium.'
Macrianus had stopped. He stared into Ballista's eyes. Something more than recognition, some guarded calculation, as if he had never expected to see Ballista again, played across his face.
'It is vital that I talk to the emperor.' Ballista heard men running, hobnailed boots pounding, others scrabbling out of the way. He kept his eyes on those of Macrianus. A small smile began to spread across the face of the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum.
Ballista was knocked sideways and crashed violently to the ground as the praetorian tackled him. The guardsman rolled off Ballista and got to his feet. Another praetorian arrived. He punched the butt of his spear into Ballista's back. Despite the sickening surge of pain, the northerner tried to get to his feet.
A blow to the head stopped Ballista. Another to the stomach dropped him to his knees. He covered his head as a flurry of spear butts rained down on his arms and shoulders.
'That's it. Beat the barbarian pig. He threatened the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum and attacked my brother Quietus. Beat him senseless, then throw the dog out into the street,' the other young man was shouting.
Ballista was curled up into a ball, the paving slabs gritty under his cheek as he tried to cover himself. After a short time the beating stopped. Ballista heard Macrianus' voice.
'My son, Macrianus the Younger, is right. Now throw him out into the street.'
Strong hands grabbed the northerner and began to drag him to the outer gate. Ballista twisted his head, and got a blow round the ear for his pains. But he saw Macrianus and his two sons resuming their rudely interrupted progress to the imperial consilium.
'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.
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