King of Kings

by Unknown

  Placing his feet quietly, carefully keeping the blade away from the stonework, Turpio went up the stairs. At the top he stopped again. Still nothing. Immobile, he probed the night with all his senses. He half thought he caught an unusual smell, but it was too faint. He could not tell. He waited, fully alert.

  There! An extra chink of light. One of the doors was a tiny bit ajar – the door to Ballista’s quarters. Without thought or hesitation, Turpio glided along the veranda. At the window, he ducked down and peered between the slats of the shutter. The outer room appeared to be empty.

  Straightening up quickly, Turpio moved to the door. Sword ready, he pushed it open. The outer room was empty. There was a strong smell of waxed canvas. The door to the bedroom was half open. In three steps, Turpio was there. He kicked it open and dropped into a fighting crouch.

  The big man in the hooded cloak dominated the small room. He was standing over the still figure on the bed. The blade in his hand shone in the lamplight.

  Yelling incoherently, Turpio lunged. The hooded man whirled around. Sparks flew as he drove Turpio’s blade wide. Instinctively, Turpio ducked, and the riposte whistled just over his head.

  The combatants drew back for a second. Turpio could not see the man’s face under the high hood. On the bed, still Ballista did not move.

  The hooded man feinted low then thrust high. Jerking his head out of the way, Turpio neatly stepped forwards and to the right. Holding the hilt with two hands, he rammed the point of his sword at his opponent’s stomach. The man’s own momentum did the rest. Impaled on the steel, face to face with Turpio, the man shook and gasped out his life. The room was filled with the slaughter-house smell of violent death.

  Bracing his right hand against the dead man’s chest, Turpio used his left to withdraw his blade. It came free with a horrible sucking sound and a rush of blood. The body crumpled, and Turpio pushed it away. As the corpse hit the floor, its hood fell back, revealing a swarthy face.

  Turpio looked at his friend. Ballista was alive. Unmoving, the northerner stared wide-eyed at the corpse.

  ‘You all right?’

  Ballista swallowed. He tried to speak. No sound came out.

  ‘He tried to kill you, but it is all right now. He is dead.’

  Still Ballista could not speak. Eventually he nodded.

  Uncertain in the face of his friend’s fear, Turpio looked away. His sword was dripping blood on the rug. He bent down, flicked back the dead man’s cloak, found an unsoiled piece of tunic and cleaned his blade.

  Ballista pulled back the covers and swung his legs off the bed. He sat staring at the corpse. The northerner was naked. The hair on his chest and legs was so damp he could have come from the baths. After a time, he spoke softly. ‘I thought it was someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  Ballista continued to look at the dead man. When at last he spoke it was in a monotone. ‘A long time ago, at the siege of Aquileia, I killed Maximinus Thrax. I had little choice. If I had not killed the emperor, either I would have been executed by him or murdered by the conspirators. But I had taken the sacramentum, the military oath that I would protect him. In Germania, when you swear an oath to a warleader, if he falls, you do not leave the field. And I killed him. Stabbed him in the throat with a stylus.’

  For a time Ballista relapsed into silence. Turpio said nothing, waiting.

  ‘They cut his head off, sent it to Rome. They mutilated his body,’ Ballista continued. ‘They denied him burial, condemned his daemon to walk the earth for ever. At times, at night, the daemon comes to me. It speaks. It always says the same thing – ‘I will see you again at Aquileia’ – sometimes it laughs.’

  Ballista looked up and grinned shakily. He was regaining his self-control. ‘In death, as in life, the emperor Maximinus Thrax favours a big, hooded cloak.’

  Turpio smiled.

  ‘Only Julia, Calgacus and Maximus know,’ Ballista said. ‘I would like to keep it a secret.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ballista stood up, walked over and embraced his friend. He leaned back, looked into Turpio’s eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  XXIX

  It was a moonless night. At least that was part of the plan. The hinges of the Gate of Hours had been oiled. Quite pointless, thought Ballista. It was not possible to assemble an army that still numbered over fifteen thousand men in a besieged city and the attackers not be aware. Anyway, as even the lowest water-seller in the agora had known for several days when the field army would march, it was impossible the Sassanids had not been forewarned.

  Ballista stood, holding Pale Horse’s bridle, at the edge of the imperial entourage. Turpio was beside him. There no longer was a baggage train for them to command. Orders had been issued that a new one was not to be created. Obviously, an exception was made for the impedimenta necessary to maintain the maiestas of a Roman emperor. The imperial possessions, on the backs of fifty or so packhorses, would travel in the notional safety between the praetorians and the horse guards. Ballista and Turpio, with the dozen of their Dalmatian troopers who had survived, would join the Equites Singulares.

  Ballista looked to where the aged emperor sat on a quiet but magnificent grey horse. Valerian was taking last-moment instructions from the creatures of Macrianus. They leaned forward, speaking earnestly: Quietus, Maeonius Astyanax, Pomponius Bassus and Censorinus. Even the Arab Anamu, exotic in baggy blue trousers sewn with yellow four-petal flowers, was joining in. The tail wagging the dog, Ballista thought in his native tongue. The loyal men, the Praetorian Prefect Successianus, the ab Admissionibus Cledonius, waited at an appreciable distance.

  The order came down the line; no trumpets were sounded: prepare to march. Torches were extinguished. The cavalry who were to march in the van mounted up. Pomponius Bassus and Maeonius Astyanax took station at their head. They were joined by Anamu, and half a dozen other supposedly loyal guides who would lead them all over the high country to the Euphrates, and safety in Samosata.

  The gates swung back with barely a murmur. Then, hooves ringing, horses snorting, equipment jingling, the cavalry moved out. The arch was wide enough for five mounted men abreast. Rank after rank, they passed. It took a long time for a thousand ranks to clear the gate.

  Finally, the backs of the last of the troopers disappeared through the gate. The first of the infantry marched out. Some had not reported to the standards, they had slipped away into the back alleys. It was little wonder that standing siege behind the well-founded walls of Edessa might seem preferable to a march of at least two days through unknown, hostile country. Even so, there were over ten thousand armed men on foot. The emperor, surrounded by the Equites Singulares, would take his place in the middle of them. The praetorians would be right behind the horse guards.

  The word came down. There was a gap in the infantry. Those who were not already mounted in the imperial entourage swung up into the saddle. The Equites Singulares set off, its commander, Aurelian, the Italian at the head; Valerian in the midst; Ballista and his familia, Turpio and the Dalmatians at the rear. Immediately behind came the packhorses, led by praetorians, then the main body of the guard. The rest of the infantry would follow.

  Outside the gate, it was lighter. A clear night; thousands of stars burning in the heavens. A chill wind was blowing from the south. Away to the south-east, a myriad campfires twinkling, the Sassanid camp lay spread out across the plain like a carpet. On the dark outline of the hills to the north was nothing; not a single watch fire – on this night of all nights. Only a fool, thought Ballista, could think they were not there. They know we are coming. They have put out the fires, maybe even withdrawn the pickets. They want us to march north. They are luring us out – out on to the high plateau, where their cavalry can kill us.

  Allfather, Grey Beard, Deep Hood, watch over me this night. Let me see daylight again. Let me see Julia, my beloved sons Isangrim and Dernhelm again. In the dark, Ballista ran through his pre-battle ritual: pull dagger on right hip half out of sheath, snap
it back, pull sword on left a couple of inches free, snap it back, touch the healing stone tied to the scabbard. Maximus, Calgacus and Demetrius rode behind him. He was as ready as he could be.

  They had not ridden more than two hundred paces when they were brought to a halt by the backs of the infantry in front. A night march always brings confusion. Inexplicably, the column stops. Units run into each other, become entangled. Then, equally inexplicably, the way ahead is clear. Units surge forward. Stragglers lose their standards. Gaps open in the column. Whole units go astray.

  Gods below, thought Ballista, this has all the makings of a disaster. He thought about taking a drink, but decided against it. Who knew when he would get a chance to refill the water flasks that festooned Pale Horse’s saddle. Maximus passed over a piece of air-dried meat. Ballista chewed on that instead.

  The troopers in front moved off. Ballista and those around him followed. Off to the flanks, shadowy figures flitted here and there through the starlight. Ballista tensed, hand on hilt, peering into the dark. He relaxed. The shapes were moving away from the column – deserters sliding away into the illusory safety of the night. Fools. He wondered how many of them would be found the next morning, beheaded or staked out and disembowelled, in the path of the army.

  At night it is hard to judge distances. It is especially difficult to estimate how far you have travelled if you are in a column of armed men. All most see are the backs of the men in front. If you are at one edge of the column you can look out. But not many do. There are few landmarks in the dark. They are indistinct and soon drop behind. If you stare at them too long, they start to move, to become sinister – rocks and bushes change into enemy fighters. Better to keep one’s eyes on the reassuring back to your front. He is your comrade. He is leading you out of the fearful night to safety. Best not let him get too far ahead. Ballista had known whole armies fall apart as everyone rushed faster and faster into the darkness, terrified of being left behind.

  A burst of noise from behind. Voices raised in shock and anger. The clash of steel. It was coming from the praetorians leading the packhorses.

  Telling those with him to follow, Ballista pulled Pale Horse out of the line and cantered back down the column.

  As they came alongside, four or five men could just be seen running away. In moments they were lost in the darkness. One of the praetorians detailed to lead the packhorses was down. Several others were gathered around him. More than one were holding wounds. Ballista dismounted.

  ‘Bastard legionaries,’ a praetorian said. Obviously, the lure of the thinly guarded imperial treasures had been too much for the disciplina of some.

  Ballista examined the man on the ground. He was dying, a deep sword thrust in his chest. There was no time for compassion. The packhorses were holding up the rear of the column. The front had not halted. A gap was opening in the middle of the army. The northerner spoke to one of the man’s companions. ‘Do the right thing. Then get moving again.’ He remounted. He heard a blade drawn, a slicing sound, a death rattle.

  Riding back into position, it struck Ballista that he had just assumed command of their tiny detachment. Turpio had followed his orders without complaint. The quizzical-faced bastard was a good man. Did not stand on his dignitas like most Romans. Starlight glittered on that ridiculously ornate Persian bracelet he always wore. Now was not the moment, surrounded by others, but Ballista would apologize and thank Turpio later – as if over the last few days he had not thanked him enough both for saving his life and for then keeping quiet about Maximinus Thrax.

  Anamu was leading the army to the right of the first outcrop of the hills, to the north-east. The road to Samosata that Ballista had travelled before ran to the north-west. They were marching into country he did not know, country he suspected next to no one in the army would know. Off to his right, he noticed a large, solitary rock with an outline vaguely like a crouching lion.

  With more and more frequent halts, they marched on through the night. The trail rose, twisting this way and that, until they were up in the rolling highlands, the black shapes of mountains all around.

  ‘Prepare to receive cavalry!’ The shouts rolled back down the column. No trumpets, but enough noise to wake the dead.

  ‘Which direction?’ a dozen or more officers called out.

  ‘Right!’

  ‘Left!’

  The answers came back indiscriminately out of the dark.

  Ballista made the best disposition he could, Turpio and eight troopers facing left; Ballista himself, Maximus, Calgacus, Demetrius and the remaining four troopers facing right.

  Shouts continued to ring out: ‘Over there!’ ‘Enemy in sight!’ ‘Stand down!’ ‘No, hold your position!’

  Ballista heard the rattle of hooves. He drew his sword. Into his vision thundered a solitary horse. It was a white stallion, riderless, running free. It carried no saddle or bridle; no tack at all. It was indescribably beautiful. It galloped back down along the column the way they had come. In moments it was gone.

  There was a strange hush after it had passed. One or two men laughed nervously.

  ‘Resume line of march.’

  From the head of the column, two riders spurred back towards where the imperial standard flew. Even at a little distance in the dark, Ballista recognized the baggy trousers of Anamu. The other was a Roman officer. Telling Turpio to keep the boys in line, Ballista edged forward up the side of the column.

  Drawing closer, Ballista recognized the officer as Camillus, the tribune commanding Legio VI Gallicana, the Danubian Aurelian’s old legion, transferred from Mogontiacum on the Rhine. Ballista had met him several times, and knew him for a sound man.

  ‘No, Dominus, I am afraid there is no doubt,’ Camillus was saying. ‘My legion marches at the head of the infantry. My eyes have not played a trick on me. When we stopped for that loose horse, they carried on. The cavalry have gone. All of them.’ Camillus added under his breath, ‘Again.’

  ‘What is to be done?’ Valerian asked plaintively.

  ‘No cause for alarm, Dominus,’ said Quietus. ‘See, Anamu is here.’

  The old emperor looked at the Arab like a lost child recognizing its parent.

  Anamu’s long face smiled. ‘They have some of my guides with them, Dominus. They know the route. When they realize we have lost touch, they will halt and wait for us. No cause for alarm in the Achaean camp before Troy. We have left the easterners far behind. There is not a Sassanid for miles.’

  ‘I would not be so sure,’ said Camillus. ‘I have heard men on horses shadowing our march.’

  ‘Wild talk which lowers morale,’ the Princeps Peregrinorum, Censorinus, interjected softly. ‘It cannot be allowed.’ Camillus fell silent. When the head of the frumentarii made a veiled threat, most men fell silent. The tribune of Legio VI Gallicana was no exception.

  Valerian seemed not to notice the interchange. ‘Then we just continue the march?’ It was more a question than a statement.

  ‘As ever, Dominus, you make the wisest decision.’ Anamu kissed his fingertips and bowed towards the emperor. ‘With your permission, Dominus, I will return to the head of the column.’ He turned to Camillus. ‘Perhaps the tribune will ride with me?’

  Camillus saluted Valerian, shot an unhappy look at Ballista, and turned his horse to follow.

  As inconspicuously as possible, Ballista moved back to his place in the column. As they moved forward again, he told Turpio what he had heard.

  ‘A loose horse. The cavalry vanish. But not Anamu. Quietus and Censorinus to hand,’ Turpio mused. ‘An odd accident.’

  ‘No accident at all?’ asked Ballista.

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Still,’ said Ballista, ‘it was a beautiful horse.’

  ‘Very,’ said Turpio.

  They rode on through the night, over the dark, rolling hills. They halted, set off, halted again. They skirted the black, folded mountains, turning west then east. Sometimes they doubled back on themselves. Once, off to the left,
Ballista saw a solitary rock with the profile of a crouching lion. He checked the stars to make sure they were not back near where they had started, marching south. No, at that point they were heading north.

  Tired, lulled by the rhythmic creak of leather and the hypnotic tread of Pale Horse, Ballista’s thoughts wandered. A man had tried to kill him. A few days earlier, Quietus had said the northerner’s usefulness was at an end. If there had been any doubts in Ballista’s mind, the behaviour of Censorinus had dispelled them. Two years ago, in Antioch, the head of the frumentarii had worked hard to try to discover who the northerner’s would-be killers were. This time, he had not even gone through the motions. Two years ago, Censorinus had not been a close amicus of Macrianus the Lame.

  With a jolt, Ballista wondered if Macrianus might be right. The army was stumbling to disaster. Had the gods deserted them because they had not eradicated the atheist Christians? Had Ballista contributed to the divine displeasure by freeing the Christians from the prison by the state agora in Ephesus?

  But, on the other hand, was it just possible the Christians were right? Only one previous emperor had ordered an empire-wide persecution. Soon after, Decius had been cut down by the Goths. Valerian had commanded the second, and now he looked likely to share a similar fate at the hands of the Persians. Was there one all-powerful, vengeful god who was not to be mocked?

  It was inherently unlikely. All the different peoples – the Romans, the Persians, the chaste Seres, the adulterous Bactrians – how could one god fulfil their different needs, enforce their different moralities? If there was one all-powerful god, why had he made such a bad job of making his presence known to the majority of mankind? No, a god of compassion could never have a son who would say that a man who loved his father or his mother or his children more than the by-blow of divinity was unworthy.

  Ballista thought about his family. He did not want to die here in the dark on this lonely plateau swept by a cold south wind. He wanted to see his family again: Julia’s dark eyes, her strangely self-controlled smile; the line of Isangrim’s cheekbone, his blue eyes, the perfection of his mouth; Dernhelm’s round baby face beaming with triumph as he stood unaided for a few seconds before thumping down on his bottom again.