There were three other men on the roof at the edges of the torchlight: Arruntius, the commander of the auxiliary unit responsible for the gate and this sector of the walls, and Iarhai and Shalamallath, the caravan-protectors. There was no love lost between the latter two. Both Synodiarchs had come from the town of Arete to offer the services of their mercenaries. There was only enough money for one contract.
Priscus nodded to each in turn.
‘Anything?’ Priscus asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Is the report credible?’
Arruntius stepped forward. ‘The scout has been reliable before.’
‘Then we wait.’
‘Drink this.’ Manu passed Priscus a cup of warmed, spiced wine. ‘Very restorative.’ He rolled his kohl-lined eyes. ‘It might be necessary, given your new purchase.’
‘That is most considerate.’
Manu laughed. Philip looked uncomfortable. There had always been something priggish about Priscus’ brother. It should have been the other way round. Even for these lands beyond the Euphrates, the Edessenes were notorious for the strictness of their moral code. A woman even suspected of fornication would be stoned to death. And the men, while happy to be named a thief or a murderer, would go for their knives at the merest hint that they enjoyed the natural pleasures offered by boys.
Manu started to sing softly.
There is a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach. Alas I can not swim.
Perhaps it was as well that the Emperor Caracalla had abolished the small kingdom of Edessa, incorporating its territories into the Roman province of Mesopotamia-Osrhoene. If he had inherited from his father, as King the morals of Manu Bear-blinder might not have squared with those of his subjects.
‘Put out the torches.’
It was dark until their eyes began to adjust. Then they could make out the bulk of the ballistae hidden under their covers, the stepped line of the machicolations, the flat, black expanse of the plain beyond. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east.
Priscus was tired. Cup in both hands, he leant his forearms on the parapet and gazed out. He was in his forty-ninth year, the great climactic. An Iatrosophist had told him that if he got past that, most probably he would make it to at least sixty-three. Sophists were just empty words and display. They were all charlatans, whether they claimed medical knowledge or not. Anyway it was more likely he would be killed long before then, either by the Persians, or by a knife-man sent by some Emperor.
If he had been twenty years younger, he would still have been tired. After three years of relentless fighting, anyone would be tired. There had been isolated raids in the two years after Alexander had left the East, but it was news of the Emperor’s death that had unleashed the true fury of the Sassanids. Since then the campaigning had been unremitting; few pitched battles, but three long years of unexpected descents, feints, surprise attacks and ambushes. So far, only the major town of Nisibis had been lost. Yet it was a war Priscus knew that his understrength Roman forces could not win. One serious defeat would lead to disaster, the loss of the whole of Mesopotamia, and the opening of the way to the West. Any number of victories meant nothing; the Sassanids could always put another army in the field.
There was a great irony to Priscus defending the eastern borderlands. He had been born out here, in an obscure village called Shahba on the desolate, sandy borders between the provinces of Syria Phoenice and Arabia. Growing up, he had more often spoken Aramaic than Greek or Latin. Unlike his brother, he had no sentimental attachment to the place, none whatsoever. Priscus had worked long and hard to rise in the imperial service, to get away from places like Shahba, get away from the dust and flies, the small-minded, choking censoriousness.
Priscus had a family in Rome. His house on the Caelian was modest, but his son was in the imperial school on the Palatine. The morals of Rome were easy and congenial. His wife was Italian, and seemed unshocked, perhaps relieved, that he had desires outside the marriage bed. He had last seen them in Antioch, three years ago. The boy must be coming up to twelve. Somehow Priscus must see him in the next two years, before he took the toga virilis.
‘There.’
Priscus followed the pointing arm towards the north-west.
Against the deep purple sky, a thick column of black cloud could be half-seen, some miles away, in the direction of the Temple of Nikal, the bride of Sin.
‘They are burning the sanctuary of the Moon Goddess.’ There was hatred in young Abgar’s tone. ‘The Persians have the eyes of goats and the hearts of vipers. They fuck their sisters, their daughters, even their mothers. Disgusting and cruel, they kill their brothers and sons, throw their elderly out to be eaten by the dogs. May Nikal and Sin strike them all dead.’
His father interrupted the diatribe. ‘When I was their captive, there was a man called Kirder, a priest, one of those they call a Mobad. He was much about the royal court, always whispering in the ear of the Prince Shapur, trying to get near King Ardashir himself. His talk ever was of overthrowing the temples of foreign daemons, founding sacred fires to their god Mazda among the unbelievers.’
There was silence for a time, as the sky grew lighter, and the smoke more evident.
‘They come at a bad time,’ Shalamallath said. ‘In the Spring the shepherds drive their flocks back to the settlements. Many will fall into the hands of the reptiles. There will be hunger if the Persians stay. The beans and pulses must be sown, soon the grain harvested, or the poor will starve.’
It was a pertinent comment. The Synodiarch was very tall and thin to the point of desiccation. Perhaps all those years of guarding camel caravans across the sands of the desert had dried him out. However he had come by his physique, Priscus thought that he was no fool.
The sun lifted clear of the distant hills. Most of the easterners blew it a kiss, performed reverence to the risen god. Priscus did not move.
The Sassanid horde was coming down from the north, dividing into two to encircle the town. Priscus could tell that they were all mounted, but not yet make out any individuals. It meant that the heads of the columns were somewhere between thirteen hundred and a thousand paces distant. Not so far that he could not judge that they rode in great numbers.
‘They have no infantry or siege train, perhaps they will burn everything outside the walls, and move on.’ Shalamallath was keen to show his astuteness. Iarhai evidently was a man of fewer words.
Priscus was not reassured by the reasoning of Shalamallath. Ladders and mantlets could be quickly constructed out of materials plundered from suburban buildings and groves. By his own estimate, there were at least twenty thousand horsemen. Romans who said the Persians would not fight on foot were fools. There were more than enough to attempt a storm of the town.
Shalamallath and Iarhai had come to Carrhae looking for war, and it had found them. Priscus thought of the man in the cellars. He had not come seeking war. His ship driven by storms, the horses under him ridden until they foundered, he had raced halfway across the world to deliver a message. No one ever had crossed the imperium quicker. Instead of a reward, he had been loaded with chains, and thrown in a cell, where he was watched by a mute gaoler.
Priscus had not let the messenger speak to anyone else, had told no one the content of his letter. Instead the governor of Mesopotamia had gone to the agora and bought an expensive new pleasure-slave. A man needed to consider some very important things in his own time, on his own. Priscus detested summoning his consilium unless he was fully prepared, had turned the issues over in his own mind. Of course, now that council might never meet. The Sassanids might kill them all and the man in the cell before the staggering news the latter carried could become known or discussed. That would be one less thing for Priscus to worry about.
‘The King of Kings,’ Manu said.
The Sassanids had halted a little under five hundred paces from the walls. The sunlight glinted off their weapons and armour. Priscus could see bright hues of their costumes and horse t
rappings, the lighter-coloured spots of their faces. Banners flew above their heads. One was larger than all the others; an enormous rectangle, shimmering yellow, red and violet. It hung from a crossbar topped with a golden orb. It had to be the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the royal battle flag of the house of Sasan.
‘Which rider is Ardashir?’ In none of the battles had Priscus yet faced the King of Kings.
‘The one with the golden helmet in the shape of an eagle.’ His time in captivity had made Manu an expert on the Persians.
‘The huge man on the white horse?’
‘No, that is his son, Shapur, his helmet resembles a ram. The King of Kings rides next to him on the black.’
‘Can you tell the others from their banners?’
‘I see the insignia of two other sons of the King of Kings, Ardashir, King of Abrenak, and Ardashir, King of Kerman. There are many great barons – Dehin Varaz, Sasan of house Suren, Sasan Lord of Andegan, Peroz of house Karen, Geliman of Demavend – and many from the court – Manzik Mard Head of Scribes, Papak Master of Ceremonies, Chilrak the Judge, Vardan of the Stables – many others. We should be honoured to have such distinguished visitors.’
‘What will they do now?’
‘They will sacrifice a ram, then a nobleman will ride to the gate and call on you to surrender.’
‘And when we do not?’
‘They will try to kill us all.’
‘Thank you. Let me think.’
The members of the consilium respected his wish. Along the walls on both sides, Roman soldiers jeered at the Persians. The sun was warm on Priscus’ right cheek. His eyes followed the foreign priests about their ceremony. Before they had finished, he had made up his mind.
‘Manu, Syrmus, I am not minded to let the one who approaches the gate return from his task.’
‘He will not come very close,’ Manu said.
Priscus smiled. ‘Are the Bear-blinder and the Scythian no longer artists with their chosen weapon?’
‘Bardaisan of Edessa was the artist,’ Manu said, ‘we were his acolytes.’
‘Use the ballista to be sure of the range,’ Syrmus said.
‘No,’ Priscus said. ‘I do not want them to know about our new ballistae just yet. It must be down to the skill of you two. Choose a position, and conceal yourselves. Wait for my order. I will shout the name of your old master.’
‘As you command, My Lord.’ For the first time, Manu spoke not in Greek but Syriac, as he took his leave.
Waiting, Priscus tried not to think about the prisoner in the cellar, and all that his presence implied.
‘Rider coming.’
‘Which one is it?’
‘Sasan, Lord of Andegan.’ Ma’na Prince of Hatra knew the Sassanids almost as well as Manu.
The nobleman rode a magnificent Nisean stallion. A chestnut, it had to stand at least sixteen hands tall. He was no closer than a hundred paces when he reined in his horse. It shook its head, pawed the ground.
The Persian took off his helmet, the better to be heard.
‘Who commands here?’
Priscus climbed up onto the parapet, bracing himself with a hand on a merlon.
‘I am Gaius Julius Priscus, governor of the province of Mesopotamia-Osrhoene. I command here.’
The Persian seemed unsurprised. ‘The King of Kings Ardashir bids me tell you to heat the water and prepare his food. He would eat and bathe in his town of Carrhae tonight.’
‘Bardaisan!’ Priscus shouted. ‘Bardaisan!’
Along the wall, off to the left, Manu and Syrmus rose up, drew and shot in one fluid movement. The first arrow took the Persian in the shoulder, the second full in the chest. The Nisean stallion wheeled, and the dying man crashed to the ground.
A roar of outrage came from the Persian ranks.
‘Well,’ Priscus said, ‘Andegan needs a new lord.’
Chapter 29
The Northern Frontier
Sirmium,
Two Days after the Ides of March, AD238
‘The men are ready, Emperor.’
Maximinus did not acknowledge the officer. His gaze remained fixed on the fragile alabaster vase cradled in his great scarred hands. The first two days after the news had come, to get oblivion from his thoughts, he had soaked himself in wine. Neither the alcohol, nor the soft murmurings of his secretary Apsines had done any good. This morning he had stopped drinking, summoned the consilium, and ordered the troops to assemble on the Campus Martius outside the town.
‘Emperor.’
Maximinus lifted the vase to his lips, kissed it, and with great delicacy placed the ashes of Paulina in the travelling case by the throne. He looked around the imperial pavilion as if it was all strange to him, as if he had never before seen its interior or the men assembled there.
The sacred fire burnt low. Beyond, in the purple gloom, stood the serried ranks of the imperial friends. To the fore was Flavius Vopiscus, next to him Faltonius Nicomachus, the governor of Pannonia Inferior. A pace behind them were the great equestrian officers: Anullinus the Praetorian Prefect, Volo the commander of the frumentarii, Julius Capitolinus Prefect of the 2nd Parthian Legion. Further back still, merging into the shadows were the commanders of individual units: Sabinus Modestus of the heavy cavalry, Florianus of the Britons, Iotapianus of the Emesenes, and many others.
Maximinus studied each of them closely, letting nothing go unnoticed, not the way they held themselves, nor the flicker of their eyes. They were all dressed for war. Maximinus wondered if he could trust any of his so-called amici. Capitolinus owned an estate in Africa. The cousin of Modestus was a traitor. Iotapianus had betrayed his kinsman Alexander. Anullinus had murdered that ineffectual Emperor and his aged mother, cut off their heads, desecrated their corpses. While he had been drinking, Flavius Vopiscus had issued orders as if he, not Maximinus, wore the diadem. Old Tiberius had been right: when you sat on the throne of the Caesars you held a wolf by the ears.
‘Father, we should go.’
Maximinus did not look at his son, but stood, massive and powerful. Perhaps his mere presence would overawe the consilium. At least he could trust the soldiers. Enrich the soldiers, ignore everyone else.
Outside the rain had stopped. The ground was mud, but it was a fine spring day. The sun shone, and a brisk wind snapped at the standards above the massed ranks.
Maximinus ascended the tribunal. His son and the amici fell in behind him.
The troops waited in silence.
Maximinus felt a great weariness. The gods knew, he had never wanted any of this. Everything he had done, everything he would do, none of it was for himself. It was all for duty, for Rome.
Apsines had written a speech for him, full of fine sentiments and balanced cadences. It was in his hands, but he was not going to read it. Better to speak from the heart. One soldier in front of many.
‘Fellow soldiers, the Africans have broken faith. When did they ever keep it?’
The troops laughed, as he had known they would.
‘They have acclaimed the two Gordians as Emperors. One is so broken with old age that he can not rise, the other so wasted with debauchery that exhaustion serves him for old age. Terrible enemies to have – an old man close to death, and a drunkard too befuddled to crawl from one dining couch to another.’
Not the sophisticated rhetoric of Apsines, but it pleased the soldiers.
‘And what fearsome army do they bring against you? Not the Germans, whom we have defeated on many occasions, nor the Sarmatians who regularly come to beg for peace. No, they lead the Carthaginians! Men whose hard training is in rhythmic dances, choruses and witty speeches.’
He paused, letting the spring breeze chase the wine fumes from his head.
‘No one should be disturbed by the news from Rome. Vitalianus was caught and murdered by a deceitful trick. Everyone knows the fickle and cowardly nature of the Roman plebs. They only have to see two or three armed soldiers to be pushing and trampling on each other, as each man runs away to save hi
s skin, without a thought for the common danger.
‘And if that was not treachery enough, what of our glorious Senate? We fight for their safety, the safety of their wives and children, and how do they repay us? They declare us hostes, enemies of the Res Publica. We are to be denied fire and water. It should be no surprise. Our discipline offends them. They prefer the Gordiani who share their degenerate habits. They are hostile to my rule because it is sober and strict, but welcome the Gordiani, and you all know the scandals of their lives.
‘These are the kind of people against whom we are at war, if war is the right name for it. I am convinced that we only have to set foot in Italy for all of them to hold out olive branches and bring their children to us, begging for mercy and falling at our feet.
‘Tomorrow I will lead a flying column of cavalry to the west. We will go by the Savus Valley, and seize the mountain passes. The next day, the Pannonian legions, in light marching order, will break camp. They will take the easier road through the valley of the Dravus. Flavius Vopiscus will have the command. Four days hence, the main body, under Julius Capitolinus, will follow them. The Prefect of the Camp Domitius already has gone ahead to secure our supplies.’
Maximinus wondered how to end. Enrich the soldiers, ignore everyone else.
‘This will be a good campaign; easy fighting and vast rewards. I grant every man in the army a year’s pay. When we have taken Rome, I grant you the property of our enemies, the wealth of all the Senate. You can take it, and enjoy it without restraint.’
As the cheers rang across the parade ground, Maximinus turned and climbed down from the tribunal. His son and amici jostled after him. Flavius Vopiscus was to the fore. While Maximinus had been drinking, Vopiscus had ordered Domitius ahead to gather supplies. Was that commendable foresight, or a dangerous assertion of independence? Paulina had been right; an Emperor had no friends, could not trust those closest to him.
Maximinus trudged back towards the gates of the city. He had made no mention of Sabinus and Potens. With the Urban Cohorts and the Watch at their command, they might yet crush the revolt in Rome unaided. It made no odds. When he arrived, he would keep his promise to the soldiers. The Senate was a reeking stable, mired in long generations of filth. He would scour that building, scour it remorselessly.
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