King of Kings

by Unknown

  Valerian laboriously stood up. The consilium was over.

  The night had not improved. The rain still fell. Thunder rolled around the hills across the river to the north. That was good: few men would venture out on such a night.

  Deep in the dark of the overhang of a tent, Ballista and Maximus waited for the watch to pass. Then, faces blackened, dark clad, they slipped like ghosts on the Lemuria, the festival of the dead, from one tent to another.

  Things became more dangerous as they drew nearer to the imperial pavilion. The tents of the courtiers had guards in front of them.

  A dog sensed their approach. Hackles up, it came closer. It barked once. Maximus produced some of the air-dried beef he always seemed to have on him. He tossed a piece to the dog, who sniffed it with profound suspicion, then ate it. It came closer. The Hibernian fed it again. He fussed its ears. He threw another piece of meat out into the rain. The dog trotted after it. The two men moved on.

  In the lee of the emperor’s quarters, they came to the right tent. There was a praetorian sheltering under the entrance. Hands and knees in the mud, they slipped under the guy ropes and worked their way around to the back.

  They waited, listening. Nothing could be heard but the falling rain, the distant thunder. Ballista unsheathed a knife. About two feet up, he pushed it through the taut side of the tent. He stopped to listen. Nothing. He slit the material down to the ground. Then, holding where he had cut, he made another slit parallel to the ground. He pulled back the flap. He put his head through into the darkness and listened. Nothing but the rain on the canvas – then, below that, the sound of a man snoring.

  Gripping the blade in his teeth, Ballista wriggled into the tent. From outside, Maximus pulled the flap shut. Ballista waited, stilling his breathing. A little light shone through the inner wall from a lamp in the outer chamber. Gradually, Ballista began to make out his surroundings: a campaign chest, a folding chair, a stand for armour and, in the centre of the room, a bed.

  Slowly, slowly, feeling with a hand for anything on the floor, he crept across to the bed. The man in it stirred in his sleep. Ballista stood motionless. The rain beat down on the roof. The man coughed, then began to snore again.

  Ballista rose up. There was the white blur of a face against the pillow. Ballista put one hand over the man’s mouth. With the other he brought up the knife. As the man woke, big eyes wide with fright, Ballista showed him the knife. Automatically, the man tried to lurch upwards. Ballista pushed him down, then put the point of the knife to his throat.

  ‘Shout for the guard and you die.’

  The man lay still. Ballista could feel the other’s’s heart beating. ‘I just need to talk. I am going to take my hand away. Do not shout or I will kill you.’

  The man nodded slightly. Ballista uncovered his mouth.

  Cledonius sucked in air. ‘What the fuck are you doing? Creeping in here like a fucking ghost. I nearly died of fright.’ There was an edge of panic in the hissing, whispered voice of the ab Admissionibus.

  ‘Quietly, amicus.’ Ballista smiled. ‘You seemed reluctant to talk to me earlier.’ If anything, the asymmetrical face on the pillow looked more frightened. Ballista conspicuously did not sheathe the knife.

  ‘Macrianus is leading the army into a trap. He intends to depose Valerian and replace him on the throne with his own sons.’ Ballista talked low and fast. ‘You have the right of admission to the emperor. You must talk to him, warn him.’

  Cledonius rubbed a hand over his jaw. ‘The gods know you may well be right, but there is no proof. Anyway, even if there were, it would do no good. Valerian relies on Macrianus in everything. And now it is far too dangerous. Macrianus has completely won over Censorinus. If any of the few loyal men left near the emperor – me, Successianus, the young Italian Aurelian, who commands the Equites Singulares – if any of us try to warn the emperor, Censorinus will unleash the frumentarii on us and we will be killed on a trumped-up charge of maiestas.’

  Ballista put the knife away. He leaned forward. ‘Let me talk to the emperor. All you need do is get me in to see him on my own. I have served him for a long time. Seven years ago I fought for him at Spoletium when he crushed the rebel Aemilianus and took the throne. Valerian trusted me once. Maybe he will listen now.’

  Cledonius smiled sadly. ‘It would do no good. You would be killed, then the rest of the loyal men. We would all die for nothing.’

  ‘Then what can we do?’

  Cledonius grimaced. ‘Do our duty. Watch and wait. Pray to the gods for salvation. Hope Macrianus makes a mistake.’

  ‘Allfather, this is not right,’ Ballista said vehemently. ‘We are being led like lambs to the slaughter. There must be something we can do.’

  ‘Watch and wait.’

  ‘Doing nothing goes against the grain. But if there is nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing else.’

  Ballista walked back the way he had come. ‘I am sorry I woke you like that.’

  ‘I would rather this than you spoke to me in public.’

  Ballista slipped out into the wet night.

  XXVII

  By midday, it was as if the equinoctial storm had never happened. The south wind had pushed away the clouds, leaving a perfect blue sky. Every puddle had been swallowed by the parched, yellow-grey soil. With the sun and wind, soon the high plain before them would be as dry and dusty as before.

  Ballista and Turpio sat side by side on the ground, watching the last of the baggage train emerge from the marching camp. It had been a hectic day so far. At dawn, Valerian had ordered the army to march light: all except essential baggage was to be left in camp to be taken back over the remaining bridges and be left safely in Samosata with the forces still there under the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, Macrianus. All morning, Ballista and Turpio had worked, deciding what was to go and what stay, their deliberations continually interrupted by messengers from officers demanding that their own possessions must travel with the field army.

  ‘This is madness,’ said Ballista. Turpio, toying with his Persian bracelet, gave an eloquent shrug, as if to say, What else can one expect in this world? ‘Not to march in a hollow square’ – Ballista shook his head – ‘it invites disaster.’ Convinced by Anamu and Quietus that the way to Edessa was unsuitable for the Sassanid cavalry, who anyway were on the verge of retreat, Valerian had commanded the army to advance in column. At the head rode half the cavalry, under Pomponius Bassus. The infantry came next, under Valerian himself, with Quietus close to his side. They were followed by the other half of the cavalry, under Maeonius Astyanax. The baggage brought up the rear.

  ‘Time to go,’ Turpio said. Ballista, whose clandestine nocturnal visit to Cledonius had left him no time to sleep, climbed wearily into the saddle. His familia – Maximus, Calgacus and Demetrius – fell in behind. They cantered down to take up again the frustrating task of trying to keep the non-combatants in order.

  Valerian, no doubt urged on by Quietus, from the outset pushed the army hard. Soon the baggage train was moving down a road flanked by stragglers from the fighting units. From the rear, the way back to the north was seen to be already dotted with deserters from the standards heading back to the Euphrates. Worryingly, no orders had been given to post guards to stop them.

  After about two hours’ hard marching, word was passed down for the army to halt, for an overdue meal. In keeping with the feverish sense of urgency emanating from the emperor’s staff, the men were ordered not to leave their posts but to eat and drink standing by the banks of a small, nameless stream. Even so, the command to move on came before most had finished.

  Another hour en route, and horsemen galloped back down the column. They had cloaks bunched in their fists and were waving them above their heads. Enemy in sight! Enemy in sight!

  Ballista’s heart sank. They had barely set off, and the easterners were on them already. For some reason, he found himself thinking about the deaths of emperors: about Gordian III, mortally wounded by the Sassanids at the
battle of Meshike; about Decius, cut down by the Goths in the marshes at Abrittus. In both cases, there were stories of a Roman betrayer. They were untrue. Ballista was certain it was untrue in the case of the latter. He had been at the side of the general Gallus, the supposed traitor, throughout the battle. But the idea of betraying a Roman emperor to the barbarians was in the minds of many men.

  Trumpets blared. Executing its pre-planned manoeuvre, the Roman army, one unit after another, turned and marched to the right. When they were strung out in line across the plain, they halted. Then, as one, each unit turned to the left. To be fair, the manoeuvre was carried out reasonably smartly. In under half an hour, the Romans had moved from order of march to line of battle. Now, the cavalry of Pomponius Bassus formed the right wing; the infantry, with the emperor, the centre; the cavalry of Maeonius Astyanax formed the left wing. In theory, forty thousand armed men, ten thousand of them mounted, faced the enemy. Yet, even before the plague, many of the units had been vastly under strength. In reality, not many over twenty thousand soldiers of Rome waited for the onslaught.

  Following orders, Ballista and Turpio brought the baggage train close up behind the infantry but kept it in line, strung out along the road. When it was in place, they took themselves and a few followers off to the left, to a low eminence from which they could see over the serried ranks of the infantry.

  Across the high, rolling plain was the enemy. There looked to be roughly five to six thousand of them. Unusually for Sassanid cavalry, there were no bright colours on view. Instead, the cavalry had a drab, ochre appearance. They milled about, circling their horses just out of bowshot.

  A huge kettledrum thundered. A high cry like that of cranes on the wing drifted down the south wind. The Sassanids came on.

  Roman trumpets sounded. Officers bawled orders. At about a hundred and fifty paces, the Roman light troops shot. Arrows and slingshots whooshed away. Some of the enemy went down. Moments later, the easterners released. Arrows rattled off Roman shields and armour. Some struck home. Men and horses screamed.

  Then the Sassanids were turning, spurring away. They rode hard, not even shooting back over their horses’ quarters.

  A sharp trumpet call rang from the centre of the Roman line. It was picked up and repeated by bucinator after bucinator up and down the army.

  ‘Fucking Hades,’ muttered Ballista.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Turpio. ‘Not exactly what one would have hoped for.’

  As the musicians continued to sound the general advance, the whole Roman line surged forward. Within moments, the cavalry wings were pulling away from the infantry.

  Ballista looked at Turpio. Before the question was asked, Turpio gave the answer: ‘Yes, go and try to make him see sense.’ The northerner spurred away, with Maximus, Calgacus and Demetrius following. Watching them, Turpio spoke out loud, although to himself rather than to the handful of Dalmatian troopers around him. ‘Not that it will do any good. The old fool will not listen. The eye of Cronus is on us. Some god wills our destruction.’

  At a flat gallop, Ballista raced after the charging army. He set his course for the huge imperial purple standard that was snapping in the wind above a cluster of lesser standards towards the rear of the infantry. He let Pale Horse pick his own way through the dead and wounded, the clumps of partially trampled undergrowth. On the wings, the cavalry were rapidly disappearing out of sight. In the centre, wide gaps were opening between the infantry units. The men were no longer in neat files but in loose clumps around their standards. Without a blow struck hand to hand, the army was fast disintegrating as an organized fighting force.

  Four Equites Singulares blocked the way. Furious, Ballista reined in. The commander of the imperial horse guards, the young Italian Aurelian, rode up. ‘I have orders not to let you approach his imperial majesty.’

  Mastering his anger, Ballista spoke urgently. ‘You are a good and competent soldier, Aurelian. You can see what is happening. Someone has to try and reason with him.’

  The young tribune hesitated.

  ‘If he does not countermand this order, we are all dead.’

  Still the Italian wavered between disciplina and his own judgement.

  ‘Remember the fate of the men with Crassus at Carrhae.’ Ballista laughed bitterly. ‘Valerian at Edessa – it will be the same.’

  Reluctantly, the young officer waved his men aside.

  Ballista clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Do not worry. Most likely we will all dine in Hades tomorrow.’ Or, he thought as he kicked on, with luck I will dine in Valhalla; an infinitely better place, by all accounts.

  For once, the emperor Valerian turned to Ballista with a broad smile. ‘They are running. The reptiles are running.’ He laughed; a senile laugh. ‘We will chase the goat-eyed cowards to Babylon, to Ctesiphon… ha, ha… to Hyrcania, to Bactria.’

  ‘Dominus, that is not their main force. They are a few light cavalry luring us into a trap. Their main army, the terrible, mailed clibanarii, are hidden over one of these rises, waiting.’

  The emperor was not listening. ‘… to the Indies, the Seres, the outer Ocean.’

  Ballista leaned over and grabbed the bridle of the emperor’s horse. ‘Caesar, pay attention to me.’ The surrounding Equites Singulares put their hands to their sword hilts. Ballista ignored them. ‘Caesar, look about you. This premature charge is destroying your army.’

  ‘Premature charge? What would you know of that?’ Quietus pushed his horse up on the other side of the emperor. ‘Dominus, do not listen to this timid barbarian. If Gaius Acilius Glabrio had not ignored his orders and charged at Circesium, there would have been no victory.’

  The aged emperor was startled out of his dream of eastern conquests. He glowered at Ballista. ‘Unhand my mount.’

  Quietus pointed ahead. ‘See, Dominus, our cavalry return victorious.’

  A large mass of horsemen was riding up from the south. Sunlight glittered on arms and armour. Even at a distance, they shone – yellow, red, lilac – gorgeous in the clear, spring light. Above their heads flew bright banners: wolves, serpents, stranger beasts and abstract designs.

  ‘Gods preserve us,’ said the emperor.

  The massed Sassanid clibanarii advanced like a wall of steel. On their flanks rode clouds of light horse, their numbers beyond reckoning.

  ‘What should we do?’ Valerian looked around beseechingly.

  ‘A truce, Dominus, we must ask Shapur for a truce,’ said Quietus. ‘I will go myself, arrange a safe conduct for you to talk to him.’

  ‘No,’ shouted Ballista. ‘They will not listen now. They will ride him down, then the rest of us. Sound the recall now. Form square. It may not be too late.’

  The Praetorian Prefect, Successianus, spoke up. ‘Ballista is right, Dominus. Quickly, give the order to form square, prepare to repel cavalry.’

  Emboldened, first Cledonius, then Aurelian of the Equites Singulares added their voices.

  With an unreadable expression, Valerian looked first at Quietus then at Ballista. Eventually, the emperor’s heavy, old face nodded. ‘Successianus, make it so.’

  The Praetorian Prefect rapped out the necessary orders. Trumpets sounded, standards waved, junior officers roared themselves hoarse.

  Across the plain, the Roman infantry units stopped moving. Soldiers ran back to the standards. Centurions shoved men into place.

  The Sassanids swept on, narrowing the distance. The ground shook under the beat of their hooves. Five hundred paces. Four hundred.

  Slowly, slowly, the Roman infantry wheeled and marched into position. Successianus had the praetorians face about the way they had come. The front and back of the square were in line. At an agonizing pace, the flank units marched back to form the sides of the square. An unbroken line is everything when facing a cavalry charge.

  The clibanarii were closing. Sunlight flashed off spear points. Three hundred paces. Two hundred.

  The Roman light infantry was running in no order, flocking together into th
e potential safety of the centre of the sluggishly forming square. The legionaries on the flanks were coming together, shuffling this way and that, closing the gaps between units, locking shields together.

  The square was made.

  Sassanid light horse swooped along each flank. Arrows arced down, finding ready targets among the close-packed Romans.

  Cledonius spoke to the emperor. ‘Dominus, you should dismount. Let a squad of praetorians form a testudo around you.’

  Valerian looked coldly at his ab Admissionibus. ‘You give me bad advice, amicus. Would you have me believe that an emperor should hide while his men die for him?’ For a moment, the silver-haired man looked like his old self. ‘Together we will endure the storm.’

  The Persian clibanarii had pulled up some fifty paces short. Those with bows, evidently a high proportion, were using them with a will. More – far more – arrows were tearing in from the flanks. At the rear, the Sassanid light horse were closing in on the baggage train, surrounding the Roman force, severing the way home. A confused roar of men and animals in extremis swelled.

  Allfather, thought Ballista, the baggage train – Turpio! With mounting apprehension, the northerner scanned the chaos along the road. Where was he? Where was the bastard? There! A wedge of light-blue tunics. Some of the Dalmatian cavalry. At their head, a gold bracelet flashed as its owner wielded his sword. Left and right it flickered, as Turpio desperately tried to cut a way through to the infantry square. The cavalry was moving. But slowly, so very slowly.

  An eddy of dark-haired easterners blocked the way. The momentum of the light-blue tunics decelerated even further. They came to a standstill. Sassanid horse swarmed around them. A Persian grabbed the arm with the bracelet. Turpio was being hauled from the saddle. It was all over.

  There was the quick strike of a Dalmatian blade. The Persian fell. Turpio pulled himself upright. The golden bracelet rose and fell, rose and fell. The Romans were moving, initially barely, then gathering pace. They burst through the last enemy. They were clear, galloping flat out. In parade-ground fashion, the praetorians opened ranks. The Dalmatians thundered in. The praetorians closed the lane.