King of Kings wor-2

by Harry Sidebottom

  A shout brought Ballista back to his surroundings. The Dalmatian on point duty was holding his cloak in one hand above his head. The trooper pointed to the hills in the east. Ballista scanned the bare, undulating skyline. A few stunted wild olive trees, twisted by the wind. And there among them men on horses. Six or seven. Then more and more. Fifty, a hundred, more.

  Ballista ordered the caravan to halt. Automatically, the Dalmatian cavalry took up their positions around the column. Ballista took his helmet from the horn of his saddle. Inconsequentially, he noticed the marks of the repairs from the ambush at the Horns of Ammon. He settled the thing on his head.

  Beside him, the northerner heard the rasp of steel as Quietus drew his sword.

  'Put that away.'

  Quietus bridled. 'Why should I take orders from you?' The young man's lip was trembling, his eyes wide with fear. For a split second Ballista wondered if his opportunity had come. Aurelian was the only witness of rank. Should he cut Quietus down now? But the moment passed. One day Ballista would kill him. Not today.

  'Put it away.' Sulkily, his hands fumbling, Quietus sheathed his sword. Ballista raised his voice. 'No one touch a weapon. Those with bows, make sure they are unstrung. Do as I do.'

  Ballista watched the Sassanid cavalry descend the hillside. Dark shapes against the yellow-grey dust they raised. There were at least two hundred of them. As they reached the level ground their line split, fanning out to surround the Roman column. Allfather, Hooded One, Grey Beard, watch over me now. Ballista forced himself to be calm. When the easterners were about two hundred paces away, Ballista pulled the bow from the quiver hanging from his saddle. He held it high above his head. From the shape of the composite bow, it was obviously unstrung.

  The Sassanids came on fast, horsemen jinking round thickets of brushwood, streamers flying out behind them, loose eastern clothing snapping. They broke into high, ululating cries. The bows in their hands were strung, arrows notched. With a thunder of hooves, they crossed the front and rear of the Roman column, galloping round to encircle it. Quietus was whimpering. Behind him, Ballista could hear Demetrius praying.

  A stone's throw away, they reined in, horses breathing hard, tossing their heads. Hostile, dark eyes stared from behind drawn bows. After the pounding hooves and the wailing, the quiet was ominous. Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista saw Quietus' hand moving to the hilt of his sword. Aurelian leaned across and stopped him. Their every move was tracked by Persian arrowheads. The tension was nearly unbearable.

  A Persian detached himself from the line. His face, framed by long, black hair, was a picture of disdain. 'We have been expecting you, waiting for this invasion of the territory of the divine, powerful Shapur King of Kings.'

  Ballista moved Pale Horse out of the line. 'We are not invaders. We are ambassadors from the pious Valerian, King of the Romans, to his brother, the virtuous, peace-loving Shapur King of Kings. We bring gifts and a letter of peace.'

  If the Sassanid was surprised that Ballista spoke in Persian, he gave no sign of it. His handsome face sneered. 'Shapur does not have a non-Aryan brother. He has non-Aryan slaves. The only King of the Romans he knows is the one who by his mercy sits on a lower throne at his own court, the one called Mariades.'

  Ballista sensed a stir in the Romans behind him as, among the foreign words, they recognized the name of Mariades, the fugitive brigand from Syria set up by Shapur as a pretender to the throne of the Caesars. Ballista ignored it. 'The benefactor of mankind, the peace-loving Shapur King of Kings, beloved of Ahuramazda, would not smile on a man who harmed ambassadors.'

  A look of suspicion appeared on the Persian's face. He brought his horse closer. He studied Ballista. 'The word that was given to me was true. I know you. I am Vardan, son of Nashbad.'

  A distant memory struggled to surface in Ballista's mind. He did not move.

  With no warning, the Persian drew his sword and thrust the long blade within inches of the northerner's face. The memory came back. A dark night in the south ravine below the walls of Arete. Vardan's sword at his throat, as it was now. The Persian smiled. 'I see you remember. You tricked me once. I said then that I would seek you out, that there would be a reckoning.'

  Ballista fought down his fear. The blade at his throat did not waver. Vardan spoke. 'Tell your men to throw down their weapons.' Ballista gave the order, and Persians sprang forward to gather them up.

  With a fluid movement, Vardan's blade sliced through the air. He sheathed it.

  'If Shapur does not recognize your status as an ambassador, I will ask him to hand you over to me. The ungodly man who defiled the sacred fire of Ahuramazda after Circesium will not die quickly.' Vardan laughed with anticipation. 'We will camp here tonight. Tomorrow, I will take you to the King of Kings.'

  Wherever you go, thought Ballista, old enemies will find you.

  XXVI

  The next day, Ballista and the others were marched down to the Sassanid camp on the plains before the walls of Edessa. As Vardan the night before had ordered the garlanded ox killed and eaten, he had been able to force a fast pace. It was a little after midday when they reached the crest of the last hill. The siege had been spread out below them like a scene in the theatre. Off to their right was the white-walled city of Edessa, nestled against the western hills. In front of them and to their left were the besiegers. Troops of cavalry wheeled across the plain. The camp itself stretched away into the distance. A cloud of blue smoke from innumerable fires of dried dung hung over it. The pungent smell carried all the way to the northern hills. There was an enormous, roughly circular palisade, but the camp had outgrown it. Thousands of tents and hundreds of horse lines were laid out in no discernible order, except at the very heart of the camp, where a series of huge purple pavilions marked the temporary home of the King of Kings.

  Any idea that they were being hurried into the presence of Shapur had been quickly dispelled when the Roman party had ridden into the encampment. Vardan had brusquely ordered them to pitch their tents at the eastern extremity of the camp, between the elephant lines and one of the main latrines. Sassanid guards were posted. The Roman envoys were told to await the royal summons. There they had remained for fourteen days. The smell was appalling. The food provided was barley bread, chickpeas, lentils and raisins — the food of the local poor. The wine brought in was thin and sour. Every night, they were kept awake by the singing of the guards. And, if final proof had been needed of the deliberate contempt that was being displayed, it came when the guards mockingly recounted how envoys from Velenus, the king of an obscure people called the Cardusii, who lived far away by the shores of the Caspian Sea, had just been most hospitably received by Shapur as soon as they arrived.

  Aurelian had paced about, fuming at the disrespect being exhibited to the maiestas of the Roman people. Quietus took it all with surprising equanimity. Ballista, as nothing could be done, had settled down to wait. He was rereading the Anabasis of Xenophon, the classic text about fighting easterners, when out of the blue the summons finally came. Aurelian was all for making Shapur wait, paying him back in kind. Both Ballista and Quietus thought it unwise.

  After hurriedly changing into their best uniforms and getting the diplomatic gifts together, they were led out of camp towards a place on the bank of the Scirtos river where parasols shaded a high, elaborate throne, from which the King of Kings could survey the siege.

  As he trudged across the plain, Ballista studied the scene. Edessa was in a good state of defence. The orchards and inns outside the city had been torn down to deny cover to the attackers. A dry wadi fronted well-built double walls. To the south was a high citadel topped with the columns of a temple or palace. Rush mats to deaden the impact of missiles hung from the walls. The gates had been blocked with large stones. Where the Scirtos river emerged from the town, the watergates were protected by solid-looking metalwork.

  Ballista knew there were ample springs of fresh water within the walls. But the attackers had to depend on the river, and that
ran through the town. If he had been in charge, he would have found a way to poison the water before it flowed out to the camp of the enemy on the plain. Again, he would not have sealed the gates, making it impossible to sally out. He thought the situation demonstrated a lack of initiative on the part of the defenders. But, looking outside the walls, he saw no artillery and no evidence of a siege mound or mines. The attackers appeared to be no more active than the besieged. The whole affair had more the feel of a blockade than a closely pressed siege.

  'Who comes before the divine, virtuous, powerful Shapur, King of Aryans and non-Aryans, King of Kings?' At the herald's question the Romans performed proskynesis, full length in the dust and, possibly carefully placed, horse droppings.

  Ballista stood. He spoke in Persian. 'We are envoys from the virtuous, peace-loving Valerian, emperor of the Romans. This is Lucius Domitius Aurelian and Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus. I am Marcus Clodius Ballista.'

  As the silence lengthened, Ballista looked at the tableau in front of him. He had seen Shapur many times at Arete, but never this close. The Sassanid king was a tall, powerfully built man in vigorous middle age. He had a full, black beard and wore the dress of a horseman: short, purple tunic and white trousers. On his head was a high golden crown. Huge pearls hung from his ears. His eyes were lined with kohl. Across his lap lay a strung bow.

  The King of Kings was flanked on one side by the great men of his empire. Tall, armed men, bright, embroidered surcoats over gleaming armour, each had a long, straight cavalry sword at his left hip. The men on the other side were equally gorgeously costumed but unarmed. These were the magi, the priests of Mazda. High above them all floated the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the battle standard of the house of Sasan. A line of ten terrifyingly big elephants, carrying turrets full of armed men, formed the backdrop.

  Suddenly, first one then another, Ballista recognized two of the men flanking Shapur. Among the warriors, dressed in Persian fashion, was a man with a long face with eyes that were too wide, and which matched the turned-down corners of his mouth. Ballista had last seen that distinctive face at the Horns of Ammon. It was no great surprise that Anamu, sometime leading man of the city of Arete and consummate survivor, had risen high in the service of the Sassanid king.

  The other man was a total surprise. Ballista looked carefully: the tall, thin figure; the bushy beard and hair; the dark eyes that regarded him with no evident recognition. No, he was not mistaken. There, among the high priests of the Sassanid empire, stood the Persian boy who had once gone by the name of Bagoas and had once been the slave of Ballista, bought in the marketplace of Delos. At times, the northerner thought, it is a very small world — small, complicated and dangerous.

  Another group of envoys was ushered forward. They were clad in eastern costume. They stopped next to the Romans and performed proskynesis. Again, the herald demanded identification.

  'I am Verodes. I am the envoy of Odenathus, Lord of Tadmor, King of Palmyra.'

  Shapur plucked the string of his bow. He had an air of supreme indifference. He looked at the Romans, then turned to the newcomer. 'What does Odenathus want?'

  The envoy from Palmyra smiled a courtly smile. 'My Lord wants for nothing except to be admitted into the warmth of the friendship of the King of Kings. He brings gifts suitable to your majesty.' Verodes clapped his hands, and servants came forward. First, bales of silk were spread then piles of spices heaped. Finally, a magnificent white stallion was led forth. The mingled scent of spices and horse filled the air.

  With no emotion, Shapur took an arrow from the quiver that hung from his throne. No one moved. Shapur notched it, drew and aimed straight at the chest of the envoy from Palmyra. As he released, he altered the angle of the arrow. The bright feathers on its shaft quivered in the neck of the horse. The stallion threw up its head. It started to rear. Its legs gave way, and it collapsed. Its muscles trembled for some moments, and it was still. The dark blood pooled out.

  Shapur pointed with the bow at the other gifts. 'Throw these baubles in the river.' Men rushed to do his biding. 'Tell Odenaethus that if he wishes the King of Kings to smile on him, to send no more slaves with trinkets suitable to win the favours of a whore but to come with his hands in chains, throw himself at our feet, let him prostrate himself and beg for our mercy. Now go!'

  With all the dignity they could muster, Verodes and the other Palmyrenes hurriedly performed proskynesis and left.

  Ballista could feel the anger radiating off Aurelian. The northerner himself was not angry — if anything, he felt a grudging admiration at the way it had been stage-managed. The Roman ambassadors had been kept waiting to witness one of Rome's chief allies in the east trying to change sides. In a superb display of power, Shapur had rejected the offer. He had neatly undermined all trust between Odenathus and the Romans and at the same time demonstrated the supreme confidence he felt in his own power.

  Shapur pointed the bow at Ballista. 'And you?' He spoke now in Greek. 'What does your kyrios want?'

  'He wants a truce, Kyrios.'

  Shapur smiled. 'Does he? Even as we speak, Mazda strikes down the ungodly. Plague rages through the Roman army in Samosata. Why should we grant a truce?'

  'My lord, the fortune of war is unknowable. Many have found war against the emperors of the Romans a terrible thing.'

  Shapur laughed. 'The house of Sasan has always found it a thing of unalloyed joy, a bringer of exquisite pleasure.' He gestured, and a short, fat man dressed in an approximation of the martial costume of a Roman emperor scurried forth. Shapur clicked his fingers and Mariades, his tame pretender to the throne of the Caesars, dropped on all fours. Shapur swung his boots on to the back of his living footstool.

  'I take it you bring tribute? The usual gold and silver plate finely embossed with lying images of easterners grovelling at the feet of Romans?'

  Aurelian drew in breath. Ballista put a hand on his arm to stop him saying anything. As Ballista indicated for the gifts to be presented, it occurred to him again that his friend 'hand-to-steel' was far from an ideal ambassador.

  'Delightful,' Shapur said as he casually inspected the cunningly wrought precious metals. 'I always admire the way Roman diplomacy is blind to irony.' He kicked Mariades none too gently, and he scrambled away. 'I will accept this tribute.'

  Before Ballista could stop him, Aurelian snapped angrily. 'Gifts! Rome pays tribute to no one!'

  In the terrible silence that followed, Shapur thrummed the string of his bow. Then he smiled. 'I have been told about you. You are the great killer of Sarmatians and Franks. I admire spirit in an opponent. To you, I will give suitable gifts.' At his gesture, a servant handed Aurelian a sacrificial saucer engraved with an image of the sun god. 'I thought you might find it suitable,' said Shapur. 'And, possibly, also this.' There was a loud trumpeting. The ground shook. An enormous elephant swayed into view. 'He is called Peroz, Victory. I give him to you. His mahout as well.'

  As Aurelian stared, open-mouthed, Shapur turned to Quietus. 'To each his deserts. For you, this sack of gold.' Quietus started to stammer what might have been thanks. Shapur cut him off.

  The Sassanid gestured at Ballista with the bow. 'But to you, the ungodly defiler of fire at Circesium, I give nothing. You are an envoy. But if we meet again when you are not protected by that status, it will not be good for you.'

  Shapur rose. Everyone hurried to prostrate themselves. 'Tell Valerian there will be no truce. I long to test the strength of my arm against his. There will be only war. You will return to Samosata tomorrow.' The torches along the via principalis, the main thoroughfare, of the first Roman marching camp south of the Euphrates guttered and flared in the remains of the storm. The south wind threw gusts of rain into Ballista's face, tugged at his cloak. The foul weather matched his mood as he splashed through the puddles to the imperial headquarters.

  The plague had abated. The pious put it down to the sagacious immolation of fifty-three Christians. But if the gods had been pleased, they had given no other sign to
day as the expedition moved out. At dawn, during the ceremony of purification on the citadel of Samosata, the slimy, grey ropes of sacrificial intestines had slithered slowly and irretrievably out of the hands of the emperor. Valerian had done what he could to dissipate the omen: 'This is what comes of being old, but I can hold my sword tightly enough.' His words had elicited a half-hearted cheer. As the emperor went to leave, a servant had draped a black cloak around his shoulders. It had been some moments before Valerian had realized and called for the correct, purple one.

  As the last of the army crossed the river, the storm hit: thunder, lightning, driving rain. A savage gust had torn free one of the rafts of the pontoon bridge. 'Be of good cheer,' Valerian had shouted, 'None of us will come back this way again.' His words were received in silence as the rain beat down.

  Just before Ballista had left his tent, the first rations of the campaign had been delivered: lentils and salt — the food of mourning, offerings to the dead. Ballista suspected a malign hand. The Comes Sacrarum Largitionum was responsible for the imperial wardrobe; the Praefectus Annonae was in charge of provisions — but Macrianus could not be blamed for the trembling of the aged hands of the emperor or the fury of the elements.