Ballista looked straight ahead across the chamber. The Count of the Sacred Largess, Macrianus, was impassive, but half-smiles seemed to play on the faces of his sons Macrianus the Younger and Quietus and, behind his carefully shaped beard, the young patrician Acilius Glabrio was openly exulting. It was all too easy for Ballista to imagine what thoughts were lighting up those smiles — Circesium is three days' march up the Euphrates from Arete. The Sassanids are before the walls of Circesium; they can set Mesopotamia ablaze, because a barbarian upstart like you could not even hold the well-fortified city of Arete. With this news your luck has run out. Today the imperial favour that you have inexplicably enjoyed will end.
There was nothing else for it: Ballista sat upright and set his face into immobility. He sensed a slight movement to his left. A hand touched his arm. The tough, close-cropped head of the young Danubian general Aurelian did not turn, but he patted Ballista's arm again, reassuringly. Ballista felt better to know that he was not without allies, was not totally alone in the consilium. And, across the room, did the long face of Cledonius momentarily betray a wink?
'Spartianus' report states that the Sassanids were not led by Shapur in person and did not appear to have siege equipment with them. He believes that it is not the main Persian field army but that, even so, it is a dangerous force of about ten thousand men.'
The praetorian prefect paused, choosing his words. 'All… ah… internal reports indicate that Spartianus is a reliable officer. In this case, his information is partly corroborated by another… external report that states that Shapur is journeying back south down the Euphrates to winter in his own territories.'
Internal reports, thought Ballista, a delicate way of referring to the activities of the frumentarii, the imperial secret police that swarmed around all men of office. One or two of them might be good men. They might even be necessary. But, in essence, they were an instrument of oppression, causing nothing but fear, inertia or trouble. By contrast, the spy in Shapur's camp who had provided the external report, even if a paid traitor to his own people, seemed positively heroic.
'The question before us is simple: what shall we do about this new menace? The emperor wishes his amici, his friends, to give him their advice. He commands you to speak freely.'
The opportunity to be the first to obey an imperial command, even one issued indirectly, such as this, was irresistible to an ambitious courtier. With a graceful speed that contained no hint of haste, Gaius Acilius Glabrio was on his feet. Ballista grudgingly admired both the young patrician's quick thinking and his supreme confidence. The northerner himself was still pondering the possible implications of the words of the praetorian prefect when Acilius Glabrio started talking.
'It is an outrage. A terrible outrage to the maiestas, majesty, of the Roman people. And it could not be more dangerous. Let no one mistake that. We all know what barbarians are like.' For the first time, Acilius Glabrio's eyes left the emperor and looked round the consilium. They lingered just that bit too long on Ballista before returning to Valerian.
'Superbia, overweening arrogance, is ever the mark of the barbarian — whether he is a slippery, decadent little easterner or a big, stupid northerner.' Again the eyes flicked to Ballista. 'If the superbia of a barbarian is not crushed when it first rears up, it will grow uncontrollably. Already the superbia of the Sassanid ruler grows after his triumph at Arete. Let it go unpunished again, and it will know no bounds. Will he be satisfied with Mesopotamia? With Syria, Egypt, Asia — Greece itself? Never. His irrationality allows no limit to his desires. Let Shapur flout the imperium, and every other barbarian will think that he can do the same, along the Danube and the Rhine, across the Black Sea and the Atlas Mountains. I see the Tiber flowing with blood. Our very homes, our wives, our children, the temples of our ancestral gods — all are at risk. We must act now, and act decisively.'
Carried aloft by his own rhetoric, the young nobleman glared around the room, every inch the stern patriot of the old Republic.
'What can avert this danger, kill this eastern reptile? Only old-fashioned Roman virtus. And where can we find such antique virtue? Here in this very room. After our noble emperor, who could exhibit old-style Roman virtus more clearly than…' Acilius Glabrio paused, motionless, for dramatic effect, then turned and thrust out his arm towards an elderly, rather portly senator.
'… Marcus Pomponius Bassus. A man whose ancestor, 769 years ago, sat in the very first meeting of the free Senate, the very day after the expulsion of Tarquinius Superbus, the last king of Rome. I say that, this very day, Pomponius Bassus should be ordered to gird on his armour, take up his sword and march with an army large enough for the task to eradicate this upstart eastern threat once and for all.'
Silence succeeded Acilius Glabrio's ringing words. If Pomponius Bassus was surprised by this turn of events, he gave no sign of it. He arranged his plump features into an expression of nobility called up for hard duty and in a voice quivering with emotion, real or assumed, he announced that, onerous as the task was, if called, he would not hang back.
End the eastern threat once and for all, my arse, thought Ballista. For over three hundred years, the Romans had fought first the Parthians and now the Sassanids, and they were no nearer ending the eastern threat once and for all than they had been after the first clash, when the Roman triumvir Crassus was killed at the disastrous battle of Carrhae.
The silence stretched. The gods alone might know what subtle calculations, what delicate balancing of favours given and received, rushed silently through the thoughts of the majority of the councillors. Ballista knew that there were depths here that he could not penetrate.
At last, Macrianus slowly rose to his feet, his lame leg impeding him. In a measured voice he supported giving the command to Pomponius Bassus. Following that, there was an almost undignified scramble to agree. In the arrogance of their youth and the reflected power of their father, Macrianus the Younger and Quietus made sure that their voices were heard next. After them came one Maeonius Astyanax, a middle-aged senator with a reputation for both intellectuality and slavishly following the house of Macrianus. Next, ponderously trying to impart an air of dignity, another descendant of the old republican nobility spoke, the polyonymous Gaius Calpurnius Piso Frugi. By now, Pomponius Bassus' attempts to assume an air of dutiful resignation to hard service had failed, and he gave off his more accustomed impression of unreflecting self-satisfaction.
Ballista felt a movement at his side. Aurelian rose to his feet. Not you too, thought Ballista. Surely you cannot think that old fool is up to the task?
Aurelian stood for a few moments. His tough-looking head, with its close-trimmed hair and beard, turned to take in the whole room.
'I hear what Gaius Acilius Glabrio says. I have nothing but the greatest respect for Pomponius Bassus. But he is the wrong man.' Aurelian spoke quietly, his flat vowels, typical of those from the Danube, emphasizing the lack of traditional rhetoric, or subtly pointing to a rhetoric of plain speaking. Involuntarily, the councillors leant forward. 'Pomponius Bassus is not as young as he was. It is many years since he commanded troops in the field. No, what this command needs is a man in the prime of life with a track record of recent military success. Tacitus here is fifty-five and straight from the army of the Danube. He should command.'
The blunt brevity of Aurelian caught all by surprise. Once he was sure that his fellow Danubian was not going to say anything else, Tacitus said that, if commanded, he would serve. Support came in slowly; the professional military men from the north of the imperium were far from universally popular with members of the elite from more traditional backgrounds. The first to offer it, however, was an elderly member of the great Italian nobility, one Fabius Labeo. Even Ballista could work out that Labeo was acting out of pique that Acilius Glabrio had proposed Pomponius Bassus rather than himself. Next was a younger senator, one Valens. Ballista had no idea why, but Valens always opposed Macrianus. Quietly, almost apologetically, the officer in command of the
imperial horse guards, the Equites Singulares Augusti, a young Italian tribune also named Aurelian, and universally known as 'the other Aurelian', added his voice. When it was obvious that no one else was going to offer their support, Ballista himself briefly announced that he thought Tacitus was the right man.
As he sat down, it occurred to Ballista that, so far, three of the great functionaries had not yet spoken. There had been not a word from Successianus the Praetorian Prefect, Cledonius the ab Admissionibus or Censorinus the Princeps Peregrinorum. As the northerner sought them out with his eyes, he thought he saw Successianus almost imperceptibly nod to Cledonius. Sure enough, in a moment the latter was rising to his feet.
'Dominus, imperial amici, we have been offered much good advice, all of it freely spoken in the highest tradition of the Res Publica of the Romans. Yet I think that the previous speakers have not explored absolutely all aspects of this case. Possibly there is more that we can draw out.' Cledonius' voice was sonorous, his tone one of helpful reasonableness.
'Both Pomponius Bassus and Tacitus are great men. It would be unfitting to send either into the field without an army large enough to suit their dignitas. Yet there may be reasons to suggest that such a course of action would not be a good thing. First, this is only a minor detachment of the Persian army, less than ten thousand men, and it is not led by the Sassanid king himself. Second, to equip a force befitting the dignitas of either of the proposed generals, it would be necessary to strip the imperial field army here in Antioch. No one would be so rash as to suggest that the dignitas of a subject, no matter how great, should outweigh that of the emperor himself.' Cledonius' face remained blank as he allowed a time for his audience to reflect.
'This incursion must indeed be dealt with, speedily and effectively, but by a small, highly mobile force led by a younger man. There is a man here with very recent experience of fighting the eastern foe. A man burning with a desire for revenge. A small force must be sent to the Euphrates, led by Marcus Clodius Ballista.'
As if on cue, first Successianus then Censorinus spoke in favour of this idea. The two previous candidates, Pomponius Bassus and Tacitus, wasted no time in affirming their loyalty to the emperor by renouncing any interest in the command and most wholeheartedly backing Ballista — now it was mentioned, he was far and away the obvious man for the post. With varying degrees of reluctance — a great deal in some cases — all the remaining members of the consilium fell into line.
The emperor Valerian inclined his head — his amici had spoken well. Marcus Clodius Ballista, the Dux Ripae, would keep his title and, with a force to be determined later, would set off as soon as possible to fight the Sassanids on the Euphrates.
As he rose to his feet and accepted the command, Ballista realized that, for all the years he had spent in the Roman empire, he could still be completely at sea in the ways of the imperial court. Hopefully, Julia would be able to explain the political manouverings to him. But he had what he wanted: he had an army, a chance to redeem his reputation. And yes, he wanted revenge — revenge on the Sassanids who had tortured and killed so many at Arete and, one day, revenge on the man who had ordered it: on Shapur, the King of Kings. Antioch was a big and confusing city. If you turned off the main street by the Pantheon into the street known as the Jawbone, the one where so many Christians were to be seen, and followed it down through, first, the potters' quarter then that of the tanners, eventually you would reach the Orontes. If you then turned left at the waterfront and, keeping the jetties and godowns on your right, walked south down Mariners' Street, after about a quarter of an hour you would come to the public baths named after a local woman called Livia. Just beyond the baths was the bar with the improbable name of Circe's Island.
The reputation of the bar for food and drink was not that good, but for girls it was excellent. It was a favourite haunt of Maximus. On the evening of 1 November, the kalends, he was sitting with another man out on the rickety terrace which overhung the water. The other man was older and strikingly ugly: he had a great dome of a skull and a weak chin with, between them, a thin, sour, shrewish mouth. The man's shoulders were shaking, and he was making an unpleasant grating sound. Calgacus, the body servant, or valet, of Ballista, was laughing. He asked, 'And are you being watched now?'
There was a pause. Maximus clearly mastered an urge to look round at the other few customers on the terrace before muttering, no, he probably wasn't.
'I have seen it before with men such as you,' the old Caledonian continued remorselessly. 'Cock of the walk for years, scared of nothing. Then one day it all goes. Scared of their shadows for the rest of their lives.'
'I wish I had never mentioned it,' said Maximus. 'The gods alone know how Ballista has put up with a miserable old Caledonian bastard like you for all these years.'
'Wiped his arse when he was the age his son is now, paid off the fathers of the girls he fucked back in Germania and fed and clothed the little bastard ever since we came into the imperium. Always made myself useful — unlike a bodyguard who thinks he is being stalked. It always follows the same course when it strikes men like you: first, they think about it now and then; after a time, it comes to dominate their thoughts, preys on their mind without cease, gives them no rest — and that is when it begins to affect everything, strips all their pleasures away. It is hard to get it up when you are always thinking that someone is creeping up behind you with a bloody great sword.' The nasty grating sound issued again from Calgacus as he poured himself more wine.
'I hope that Demetrius gets here all right. You know how easily he gets lost, and it is late,' said Maximus.
'Of course he'll get here all right. This is Antioch, the city that never sleeps — its streets are safer and better lit at night than at day. There is a civic police force armed with bloody great clubs, and the key job of its eighteen elected officers, the ones they call the Epimeletai ton Phylon, the Superintendants of the Tribes, is to knock up any shopkeeper who dares to let the lights outside his shop go out.'
'I thought the main job of the epimeletai was investigating unexplained corpses?'
'Well, that too. But, as I was saying, you are doomed to a life of misery. After a time, the irrational fear never stops preying on your mind. A hot little tart is spread on the bed in front of you, but what can you do? Nothing. Your sword sleeps in your hand. All the time, you are looking over your shoulder.'
Maximus was spared any more by the arrival of Demetrius. As he walked across the terrace, the secretary called to a serving girl to bring them more wine. The Greek youth was growing up, thought Maximus. Possibly the suffering and fear of the siege and flight from Arete had begun to make a man of him.
Demetrius pulled a brazier nearer to the table. A chill wind was getting up; it carried the smell of the first winter rains. 'Good news and bad news,' he said as he sat down. 'The good first: we all have tomorrow off. The dominus is going hunting in the mountains towards Daphne with Aurelian. He says that, if he took his secretary, it would look as if he were not devoting himself to the pleasures on offer; if he took his manservant, that he did not trust his host's cook; and his bodyguard, that he did not trust his host himself.'
'Which Aurelian?' Calgacus croaked.
'The Danubian one,' Demetrius continued. 'The Aurelian to whom a strange thing just happened as everyone left the palace. In his haste he mounted the wrong horse. Not his own, but the emperor's. He dismounted quickly enough when it was pointed out to him, but a few people noticed.'
'Something he should keep very quiet about, and something that others should not discuss in public,' Calgacus interrupted. 'So what is the bad news?'
'Aurelian has been appointed a deputy to the Dux Ripae.'
'Nothing much wrong with that,' said Maximus. 'Sure young manu-ad-ferrum, hand-to-steel, has a quick temper, likes a drink and is a savage one for the discipline. The troops fear him more than love him, but he is a good fighter. They say he killed forty-eight Sarmatians with his own blade in a single day.' Maximus began
to sing a marching song: Thousand, thousand, thousand we've beheaded now. One man, a thousand we've beheaded now. A thousand drinks, a thousand killed. So much wine no one has as the blood that he has spilt. Maximus had been drinking for some time, but the staff and clientele at Circe's Island were used to boisterous behaviour.
A boat loomed out of the darkness and bumped up against the ramshackle tenement next door. Seemingly from nowhere, dozens of women and children appeared and, with much calling back and forth, set about unloading its cargo of fish.
'The Dux has been given two deputies. The other one is the bad news.' Demetrius paused. 'It is Gaius Acilius Glabrio.'
'The brother of that smug little shit at Arete? The one who has publicly sworn revenge on Ballista for his brother's death? That's insane. What is that old fool of an emperor playing at?' Maximus' flow of words was cut off by Calgacus placing his hand on his arm.
'It is not for us to debate the ways of our masters,' the old Caledonian said sanctimoniously. 'Now, Demetrius, I was just discussing Maximus' little problem. It seems he has been having trouble getting it up.'
'That is it!' Maximus rose to his feet. 'You, over here.' He took the wine jug from the serving girl and put it on the table. 'Do you want to come and watch?'
'Gods below, not in this life,' exclaimed Calgacus. 'I can think of nothing worse than watching your hairy arse going up and down like a harpist's elbow.' The assassin watched Maximus steer the girl to the stairs. It had been a bad moment when the Hibernian said he thought he was being watched. But he was only a barbarian — earlier, he had looked right at the assassin with no glimmer of recognition. Now the assassin knew for certain a time when the bodyguard would be away from the target. Now, he could strike.
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