The Amber Road wor-6

by Harry Sidebottom

  Postumus had never hidden his humble Batavian origins. But, unlike Maximinus Thrax, the first emperor to have risen from the ranks of the army, he had no desire to be seen as a military autocrat at odds with the traditional elite. With Gallienus ever more estranged from his own senators, conspicuous respect for rich landowners might bring advantage.

  There were more than forty toga-clad senators on the benches around Postumus. The governor of Gallia Narbonensis, Censor, sat on his right hand. The governors of two neighbouring provinces, Honoratianus of Gallia Lugdunensis and Aemilianus of Hispania Tarraconensis, were on his left. All three had held the consulship since Postumus’s accession. The curia of Colonia Vienna paraded a fine spectacle of loyalty.

  As the previous day had shown, loyalty could never be taken for granted. Lollianus was an old friend. He had commanded Legio XXX Ulpia Victrix when Postumus had defeated the Franks at Deuso. He had counselled Postumus to take the purple. His rewards had been vast: money, land and promotion to Prefect of the Imperial Cavalry. No one had stood higher in the regime. Postumus had not wanted to believe the treachery, but the evidence left no doubt. Lollianus had approached an officer, Probinus, in his command. This Liberalinius Probinus had reported everything that Lollianus had said. Postumus was a half-barbarian usurper. He must be struck down, and the west restored to the rightful ruler, Gallienus. Worse yet, Lollianus — the very man who had proposed the horrible deed — had condemned Postumus as the cold-blooded killer of a defenceless child. Lollianus had urged Probinus to think how Gallienus would thank those who brought him the head of the man who had murdered his son, Saloninus.

  It had been terrible to watch, but Lollianus had incriminated himself under torture. A man had come to him from Rome. Although dressed as a civilian, Lollianus had known him for a soldier. The frumentarius had handed over a letter from Rufinus, the Princeps Peregrinorum of Gallienus. It had contained many promises: the consulship, command of Gallienus’s comitatus, admission to the ranks of the protectores and five million sesterces would be granted to Lollianus when he had killed Postumus. As the claws tore his flesh, Lollianus had sworn his innocence. Fear of unjust suspicion was what had stopped him reporting the approach. He had destroyed the letter. The latter was damning. It had been a relief to Postumus, as well as the bloodied hulk of the man on the rack, when he ordered Lollianus executed. The body had been disposed of discreetly.

  Haloed by sunshine, the dramatis personae of the next case were ushered into the courtroom.

  Gallienus had no monopoly on underhand means. Postumus reflected that his own attempts to suborn Gallienus’s supporters continued. Admittedly, the consul Saturninus had feigned incomprehension when approached, and nothing could be expected there. Equally, nothing yet had been reported of the sounding out of the protector Carus or the Praefectus Vigilum Placidianus, although, in time, things might develop. But, at Mediolanum, the net around Proculus, the commander of the detachments of the Pannonian legions, was cunningly laid. Knowing the reputation of Proculus for lechery, the frumentarius had travelled there well disguised as a merchant, with a beautiful woman posing as his wife. Sure enough, Proculus had begun an affair. Now it remained for either the woman to draw Proculus into betrayal or her supposed husband to threaten denunciation to the authorities. Adultery was a serious crime. Gallienus might indulge in it himself, but he could not be seen to condone it in others.

  The hangings cut off the light, and the gold-gleaming, perfumed shade of imperial sanctity was restored. Postumus welcomed the interruption to his murky thoughts.

  Unlike those earlier, this case involved a capital offence. In fact, there were two conjoined: sacrilege and treason. Faustinus, a Roman senator with wide estates spreading across Narbonensis and Lugdunum, was accused of cutting down a sacred grove and erecting imperial images where corpses were buried. Given the seriousness of the potential consequences for both accused and accuser, depending on the outcome, and the high status of the former, the facts had been carefully scrutinized.

  The man bringing the charges performed adoration and answered the formal questions: Name? Race? Free or slave? The water clock was turned, and the accuser began his speech.

  Postumus did not need to give it his full attention. He had been thoroughly briefed. The evidence around the maiestas charge was ambiguous. The portraits of Postumus and certain past emperors deified for their goodness — Augustus, Trajan and Pius — had been set up in a small building next to a cemetery. But both were surrounded by the same wall. The charge of sacrilege was straightforward. Faustinus was guilty. He had ordered the trees sacred to the gods chopped down. His sole defence would be ignorance.

  Faustinus was a rich man from an established family, kin to many senators present in the courtroom. He was not yet bound to the Gallic regime. Postumus had no wish to bend the law to favour the influential, but sometimes the greater good demanded a clementia beyond the statutes. Now Lollianus was dead, imperial mandata had gone north summoning Lepidus, the governor of Gallia Belgica, to take command of the imperial cavalry. Postumus was minded to appoint Faustinus to the vacant province.

  The most pressing of the new duties of Faustinus would be to send detachments of troops south. The gathering of forces on the north Italian plains left no doubt that Gallienus would strike this summer. Postumus considered Gallienus would follow his previous invasion route over the Alps via Cularo down into Narbonensis. Postumus would await him here in the Rhodanus valley at Colonia Vienna. Detachments were being summoned from those provinces currently least threatened by barbarians: Hispania Tarraconensis, Gallia Belgica and Britannia Superior. Should Gallienus take the only other viable route, north into Raetia, Postumus would force-march north and east by Lugdunum, Vesontio and Augusta Raurica. The governor of Raetia, Simplicinius Genialis, would have to hold out as best he could. The only reinforcements Postumus had been able to spare him were the thousand or so Angles from his German bodyguard. As noble warriors, all Arkil’s men were experienced horsemen. Postumus had issued the Angles with mounts and watched them ride off into the mountains. The thought of them made Postumus glance at his bodyguards by the curtains: big, tough Franks. It was strange the ways by which these northern warriors ended up in the heart of the imperium. The Franks had come by the terms of a treaty imposed after defeat in battle, the Angles as a result of the treachery of one of their own.

  The accuser finished his speech. The water clock was turned again and Faustinus began his defence. Naturally, the senator had not been told his acquittal was a foregone conclusion. Considering he was on trial for his life, Faustinus was making a good showing: weighty, calm and without histrionics. Postumus was impressed. Faustinus had no military experience, but, as the composition of Postumus’s bodyguard showed, currently there was nothing to be feared from the Franks and Angles. With only civilian tasks, Faustinus should do well in Belgica.

  The acquittal of Faustinus would bring another problem. What to do with his accuser? Bringing a malicious charge on a serious matter — and what could be more serious than sacrilege and treason? — laid a man open to a countercharge of calumnia. A jurist had advised Postumus that the penalties for calumnia were exile, relegation to an island or loss of status. Postumus had no doubt the accusation had been motivated by money. Avarice most likely lay at the heart of the majority of maiestas charges. If a man was convicted of treason, his accuser stood to gain a quarter of his property. That the imperial fiscus got the rest was a standing temptation to impecunious and unprincipled emperors. Postumus needed money, never more so now war threatened, but he would not act the tyrant. Besides which, the accuser came from a landed family of equestrian status and was related to several senators loyal to his regime, including his amicus Volcatius Gallicanus.

  Faustinus timed his oration to perfection. It ended moments before the water clock ran out. The senators gave their opinions. Postumus stroked his beard and listened, for all the world as if he were Pius or Marcus Aurelius. ‘Clementia’ was the word most often on the
lips of his assessors. Clemency would reign for both parties. Faustinus was exculpated because the sacred grove had fallen into disuse, which might have an element of truth. His accuser was guilty of nothing except excessive loyalty to his emperor. Faustinus would be appointed to Gallia Belgica, and Postumus would have Volcatius Gallicanus assure his kinsman that the failed prosecution had not brought any imperial disfavour; in fact, any reasonable petition he might wish to bring might well be granted. Postumus knew it was hardly the justice Marcus Aurelius might have dispensed, but times were hard. Disaffection had to be avoided with civil war looming and treachery everywhere.

  XVII

  The Headwaters of the Vistula River

  The Grethungi had treated the expedition well. Ballista had liked Tuluin, the son of King Tulga. They had exchanged gifts as between equals: heavy gold arm-rings, cunningly wrought. After a round of feasts, when he had finished entertaining them, Tuluin had accompanied them upriver to the neighbouring Venedi. That people wore clothes like the Sarmatian nomads, but spoke the language and observed the customs of Germania. Their king, too, had shown them hospitality, and then led them on to the lands of the various tribes of the Lugii. Here they had come first to the Helisii, where they had left their boats drawn up on the banks of a tributary of the Borysthenes and continued on horseback. From there they had traversed the territory of the Naharvali, whose priests dressed as women, and the Manimi, who were more conventional in their religion. Finally, thirty days after the portage of the great rapids, they had reached Mirkwood and the headwaters of the Vistula.

  Ballista dismounted before the high-gabled hall of Heoden, the king of the Harii. Without asking permission of anyone in the courtyard, he ordered his men to stable the horses. The guards looked down from the surrounding palisade, and children peered around outbuildings. Ballista stood with Zeno and the eunuch Amantius, and waited. Nothing could be heard from inside the hall, but smoke issued from the smoke holes in the roof. When his men returned, Ballista led them to the iron-bound door of the hall and pushed it open.

  The hall stretched away. It was lit by torches and the fire that burned in the central hearth. Long tables and benches ran down both sides, the high table along the far end. The throne behind the latter was unoccupied. Men sat at most of the benches. They were all dressed in black, silent and watchful. It crossed Ballista’s mind to wonder what the Greek Zeno behind him was making of all this. Possibly he saw himself as Orpheus or some other hero stepping into the underworld. It was all very familiar to Ballista.

  Enough space had been allocated on the left-hand benches for Ballista and those who followed him. Up near the high table, it was an ale-bench of sufficient honour. Ballista led them through the hall. Their boots thumped on the boards of the floor, their spurs and war gear jingled. At the table they remained standing.

  An elderly warrior got up from his seat at the foot of the empty throne. He addressed Ballista in formal tones. ‘Is this the Dernhelm son of Isangrim who left this hall as a boy of fifteen winters? Despite the beatings we gave him, he remained stubborn and full of boastfulness. Even the famed night-fighters of the Harii could not teach him how to set an ambush, how to move in the dark. He seems little changed except for his years. We heard that, undissuadable by friend or foe, his pride urged him to seize the throne of the Caesars. Once perched there, he found the eminence too high, and threw himself in the dust before a statue of the emperor, sobbing and begging for mercy. Despite that humiliation, he looks around now as if the hall of his foster-father Heoden is beneath him.’

  A low hooming of approval came from the black-clad warriors of the Harii.

  ‘Gifeca,’ said Ballista, ‘the drink lends eloquence to your tongue; although your wife always said it unmanned you in other ways. She could tell you how I moved in the dark all those years ago. No wonder she told me that a sober youth was more use to her than a drunken man.’

  The Harii snorted into their ale.

  Ballista had not finished. ‘No whisper has ever reached me of any deeds of Gifeca of the Harii among distant enemies, no perils or ambushes survived by daring swordplay. He has killed a few bare-arsed local tribesmen, but at the mere mention of the red-crested legions of Rome or the fierce Persians, it is said, old Gifeca reaches for more drink or shits himself with fear.’

  Now the Harii laughed, banging the tables. Gifeca himself grinned, walked across to Ballista, and enfolded him in his arms. ‘It has been a long time, you little shit.’

  Finding it hard to speak in the bear hug, Ballista grunted in assent.

  The formal flyting over, servants brought in more drink. Ballista got little of it, as many of the Harii who were companions in his youth or were kinsmen of his mother wanted to talk.

  No sooner was there a lull than Ballista had to get back to his feet as the king entered the hall. Heoden led his queen by the hand. He stood in front of the throne, she by his side. His hair was white; hers golden. He looked over the hall, and the ale-benches fell silent as he began to declaim.

  ‘Tonight in the hall of the Black-Harii, the Walkers-of-the-Night, we celebrate the return of Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, my sister’s son, my foster-son. Since his time among us, no man of the north has travelled further or won higher renown among distant peoples. Like the Allfather his ancestor, he goes by many names. The Romans know Ballista, the Persians tremble at the name Nasu, the Tervingi run from Vandrad. And we feast his Battle-companions. From the way they carry themselves, I am thinking it is not exile but adventure and boldness of spirit which brings them here. They will have many tales to relate as we feast. At no other time is the heart so open to sincere feelings or so quick to warm to noble sentiments. Let the soul of every man here be laid completely bare in the freedom of friendship and festive surroundings.’

  As the Harii roared, Heoden seated himself on the dark, rune-carved throne.

  Ballista thought the king had pitched far too high the praise of the ill-assorted Romans and Olbians who followed him. The eunuch Amantius had never shown himself possessed of much of an adventurous disposition. Still, the words might well have pleased Zeno, if he had been able to understand any of them.

  The queen took the feasting cup, and, as was only right, offered it first to her lord, the guardian of the people. The theoden tasted the mead, and pronounced it good. She passed among each part of the hall, offering the treasure-cup to every man according to his rank. After the eorls of Heoden had drunk, she came to Ballista.

  ‘Greetings, Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. I give thanks to the gods that my wish has been granted to meet the nephew of my lord.’

  Ballista put the cup to his lips. The mead was bright and sweet. The girl was good to look at, her arms very white. She was young, this Myrging princess, Heoden’s new wife. Ballista thought of Julia.

  The queen looked into Ballista’s eyes. ‘All hold you in honour, even to the cliffs at the world’s end, washed by ocean, the wind’s range. As you remember the benevolence of my lord in your youth, so I am sure you will repay answerable kindness to the young sons I have given him, and guard them honourably.’

  Ballista said he would. Like his own father, Heoden had married several times. The king of the Harii had older sons from his previous wives. Everywhere in the world where one man ruled, inheritance was a problem. It could not be otherwise, unless by custom the eldest took power, and then an unworthy man might sit on the throne.

  Servants brought in food: great platters of roast meats, hot bread. Ballista drank from a silver goblet with scenes of men assaulting a city on it, most likely the seven against Thebes. A thing of great worth, made by a Roman craftsman, it was filled with local beer.

  As the drink went round, the warriors became boisterous. Crude jokes and outrageous boasts were joined by hard words. Drinking vessels and fists slammed down to give weight to what was said. A bone was thrown, then another.

  The target was an ill-favoured warrior seated at the end of Heoden’s hearth-troop near the door. The first missiles went
wide, and he tried to ignore them. Those near him edged away. His tormentors were his own companions among Heoden’s men. A beef bone caught him on the shoulder. A roar went up. More things were thrown. The victim ducked and tried to fend them off.

  Lithe as an eel, Maximus vaulted the table. He caught a bone in mid-air, turned and hurled it back. The warrior who had thrown it was too surprised, too slowed by drink to move. It hit him in the forehead. He crashed backwards like a felled ox.

  There was silence in the hall. Warriors got to their feet, reaching for their weapons, outrage in their movements.

  Ballista climbed over the table, stood between Maximus and the men on their feet. ‘My friend Muirtagh has a good arm and a good heart. The odds seem unfair. It is unseemly for many to persecute one.’

  Castricius and Diocles came to stand by Ballista. A moment later, Heliodorus joined them. As the latter moved, the other Romans and some of the Olbians got to their feet. No one had yet drawn a blade, but violence was only a moment away.

  ‘Hold. There will be no fighting in my hall without my word.’ Heoden stood. Despite his age, he stood straight and tall. All eyes were on him.

  ‘Your actions show your courage and the nobility in your souls. But you do not know the reasons for this thing. The man you protect swore his sword-oath to me. He was not the least among my warriors. Many times I rewarded his bravery in battle. But Rikiar stole from one of his companions. Now he must sit in the lowest place and endure their taunts until such time as I declare his punishment over. It is that or he must go into exile, sorrow and longing his sole companions.’