The Amber Road

by Harry Sidebottom

  When they were in Clavenna, bees had swarmed around one of the standards. The priests had produced specious positive interpretations: bees laboured together for the common good; they never failed to obey the sole ruler of the hive. But Gallienus remembered the same had happened to the standards of the emperor Niger shortly before his army had been defeated by that of Severus.

  Back in Comum, a priest of Jupiter had announced a dream he had said was sent by the god. In it a man in a toga had forced his way into the emperor’s encampment. He had been accompanied by two lares, the household divinities easily recognizable by the short dog-skin tunics they wore and the cornucopias in their hands. Near the praetorium, in front of the imperial standards, the lares had vanished. Left alone, the toga-clad figure had been beaten to death by the soldiers. The priest had produced his own exegesis of the dream. In every domestic shrine, the lares flanked the togate image of the genius of the household. Genialis was the adjective of genius. After initial success, the governor of Raetia would be deserted by the gods and killed.

  Gallienus was unconvinced by this oneiromancy. For thirteen years his own genius had been worshipped across the imperium. The gods abandoning the genius chimed too closely with a thing that had been preying on his thoughts. Not since that day at Platonopolis with the old philosopher Plotinus, when his soul had been taken to these very Alps, had Gallienus sensed the presence of his divine companion. The emperor was sure Hercules had not left him for ever – like Antony in Alexandria, he would have heard the music – but the god was not with him now.

  Amidst these supernatural concerns, Gallienus had been waiting for something else, something akin to divine intervention. It had appeared in the dead of the previous night in the form of the frumentarius called Venutus.

  As dawn’s rose-red fingers lit the sky, Gallienus had led his army out to battle. His dispositions largely mirrored those of the enemy. A phalanx of heavy infantry was massed across the plain. On their right were four thousand drawn from all the four legions in the two Pannonian provinces. This mountain battle should hold nothing out of the ordinary for their commander, Proculus. He had been brought up in the Alpes Maritimae. Next to Proculus stood the veteran Prefect Volusianus with two thousand of his Praetorians. The left was held by Tacitus with a thousand shields drawn from the Italian Legio II Parthica, and another thousand from Legio V Macedonica marched west from Dacia. Like the enemy, they were all in six ranks, except on each wing, where the additional numbers allowed a formation packed twice as deep.

  To provide covering shooting, the second line consisted of every one of the three thousand auxiliary foot archers the imperial field army possessed. The young Narbonensian protector Carus had charge of them.

  The battle would be decided by the infantry, but not all the cavalry was without use. Gallienus had formed a third line of eastern horse archers to augment the storm of arrows. There were a thousand Persians. They were among those who had surrendered some years before at Corycus in Cilicia. They were still led by their original Sassanid commander, the framadar Zik Zabrigan. They were joined by five hundred Parthians. Ironically, these had fled to Rome to escape the Sassanids even longer ago. As he was a scion of their ancient Arsacid royal dynasty, Tiridates, son of the exiled Armenian king Chosroes, had been set over them.

  The Cantabrians had been sent clambering up the cliff to the right; another five hundred auxiliaries were doing the same on the left. The remainder of the army was the reserve of two thousand horse guards with Gallienus.

  The emperor surveyed the field. All was ready. He had military men around him: the protectores Aurelian and Heraclian, the junior Praetorian Prefect, Censorinus, the Princeps Peregrinorum, Rufinus. Somewhat apart were the heads of the imperial chanceries. Quirinius, the a Rationibus, Palfurius, the ab Epistulis, Cominius, the a Studiis and the others looked very civilian and more than a little out of place, but wherever an emperor went, the commonplace business of the imperium followed.

  It reminded Gallienus of the morning before the battle of Mediolanum. But there was a difference. At Mediolanum the divisions had been commanded by senators as well as protectores. Today the latter provided all the high command. However, he had senators in his entourage. Some were there because he liked and trusted them: Saturninus, the consul; Lucillus, the consul-designate; Sabinillus, the philosophic friend of Plotinus. Others were in attendance for the opposite reason. It was best not to have men like ex-prefect of the city Albinus or the wealthy Nummius Faustinianus out of his sight.

  Gallienus looked up at the standards flying behind him: the red Pegasus on white background of the horse guards, and his own imperial purple draco. With the serried ranks of steel-clad riders and horses below, they made a brave sight. It was a pity he did not feel the tension in the air, the tightness in his skin, that told him his divine comes was with him. But, with or without Hercules, he knew he would acquit himself with courage. Was he not descended from both the Licinii and the Egnatii? Virtus had never been lacking in those two ancient Roman families.

  There was no reason for further prevarication. Gallienus drew his eagle-hilted sword. Freki the Alamann and another of the German bodyguard closed up on either side of the emperor they had sworn to die protecting.

  ‘Are you ready for war?’ Gallienus flourished the sword.

  ‘Ready!’ The cry spread out through the army.

  ‘Are you ready for war!’

  As the third response echoed off up the hillsides, Gallienus told the bucinator to sound the advance.

  The brassy notes were picked up by trumpet after trumpet through the army. The thing was in motion, and there could be no stopping it now. With the tramp of measured tread, the infantry moved forward. The cavalry walked after, the hooves of their horses crushing the yellow flowers which carpeted the valley.

  The Raetian army waited, dense and immobile. The only movements were the flags fluttering above.

  Gallienus transferred his sword to his hand with the reins while he wiped the sweat from his palm on his thigh. He prayed silently, his lips barely moving: Hercules, Guardian of Mankind, Overthrower of Tyrants …

  The tide of the imperial comitatus slowly flowed up the slope. Twice, parts of the line halted to let the rest catch up. They dressed their ranks. There, Gallienus thought, that was the advantage of professional officers over senatorial amateurs. No wild charges like the uncontrolled pursuit unleashed by that young senator Acilius Glabrio at Mediolanum. Here, Gallienus’s protectores had their men well in hand.

  When the front rank closed to within four hundred paces, trumpets rang out from the Raetian lines. Their standards inclined to the fore. Like a great vessel slipping its moorings, their whole force moved downhill.

  Gallienus’s spirits soared. His men were within ballista range. Simplicinius Genialis had no concealed artillery. And the Raetians were moving. They had not sown the ground in front of them with caltrops. They had not dug those concealed pits with stakes at the bottom the soldiers called lilies. Simplicinius Genialis had had the time to prepare the battlefield. Perhaps the portly equestrian had not been metamorphosed into such a man of war after all.

  At about two hundred paces, just outside effective bowshot, the imperial army halted again. ‘Testudo!’ – the call came back to Gallienus from dozens of centurions – ‘Testudo! Testudo!’ Big shields swung up, locked together, and the heavy infantry roofed and walled themselves against what must come.

  Gallienus felt a dip of disappointment. The Raetian troops had halted. Their front ranks, too, were going into testudo. Of course, they were Roman regulars as well. It was only to be expected. Gallienus noted the Angles on the enemy left were going into their version of the formation. What was it Ballista had said they called it? A shield-burg, something like that. It was strange to think he would never see the friend of his youth again. In his report, the centurion Regulus who had fought his way out had said he had not seen Ballista’s body but made it clear there was no possibility he had survived the Gothic sa
ck of Olbia.

  Like sentient siege engines created by some latter-day Daedalus, massive artifices made of men and wood and steel, the leading edges of the two armies ground towards each other. There was no moving fast in testudo.

  As if choreographed at a lavish imperial spectacle, trumpets simultaneously sounded from both sides, to be followed on the instant by a myriad twanging bows and the awful sound of thousands of arrows slicing through the air. They fell like squalls of dark, evil rain. Thunking into wood, glancing off steel; all too many found a place in flesh, human and equine. Men and beasts screamed. Horses, maddened with pain, reared and bolted among the eastern horse archers in front of Gallienus. Most of the victims in either army were in the rear ranks. Warded by their shields, in the gloom, the inhabitants of each testudo shuffled and nudged ahead.

  Gallienus watched the eagle of Legio III Italia Concors. The gilded bird advanced steadfastly over the testudo of Bonosus’s rebel legion. Arrows began to fall among the imperial party. It was good. As Gallienus had thought, the purple draco was too tempting a target. He was drawing the aim of the Raetian archers away from his fighting men at the front. Gallienus called for a shield. Freki the Alamann gave him a surprised glance. Let him look. It had been a long time since Gallienus had entered battle without his divine comes. There had been no need for a shield when Hercules had wrapped him in the skin of the Nemean lion; it was proof against iron, bronze, stone.

  The armies were closing. The gaze of Gallienus switched between Bonosus’s eagle and his own heavy infantry. ‘Now!’ he whispered. ‘Surely now, Proculus.’ As if the thought caused the deed, the imperial front ranks halted. Not as neat as on a parade ground, but not too ragged or bowed. On the left, the column of legionaries commanded by Tacitus kept going. But there was no movement on the right. Had something gone wrong? Why was that wing stationary? What was Proculus doing?

  With relief, Gallienus saw the two thousand on the right resume their advance. Proculus might be a whoremonger, but he was a fine officer. And he was loyal. Gallienus found himself grinning. It had been an inept attempt by the frumentarius of Postumus to entrap Proculus. The whore masquerading as wife to the frumentarius had admitted everything without torture. Gallienus had had her whipped anyway. Her pain – the livid stripes – had added to his pleasure when he had taken the bitch himself. Afterwards, he had been merciful; merely giving her to Proculus’s men. It might be doubted if they had exercised much clementia. The frumentarius, of course, had died slowly.

  A roar brought Gallienus back. The Angles on the rebel left had burst from their Shield-burg into a wedge. They raced forward. Fleet of foot, they caught Proculus’s men by surprise. They crashed into the legionaries before the Pannonians had a chance to shift out from their testudo into a fighting formation. Gallienus could see Angle warriors actually climbing on top of the locked shields of the legionaries. They hacked down with their longs-words, like crazed roofers demolishing the structure beneath their feet. Only the twelve-man-deep formation of the Pannonians, the constant pressure from the rear, was preventing them from being swept away.

  Away to Gallienus’s left, the Roman legionaries of both sides were more circumspect. The big shields swept down, the men jostled further apart to allow them to wield their weapons. They exchanged javelins, drew their swords and then both sides charged. The clash echoed back from the hillsides. The advantage of the slope on the rebel side and the greater numbers on the imperial cancelled each other out. But it was an equilibrium purchased with men’s lives.

  As the wings engaged, Legio III in the middle of the rebel line came to a standstill. There were perhaps thirty paces between it and the stationary centre of the imperial army. Gallienus stared at the rebel eagle, willing it to move. ‘Hercules, Saviour …’ He prayed desperately, mouthing the words aloud, unconcerned if mortals overheard. Deliberately, the eagle inclined forward. By all the gods, no. The eagle tipped further, swept right down to the ground. All the other standards followed. The legionaries put down their shields, reversed their swords, raised their right arms in salute.

  ‘Ave Imperator Gallienus!’ The men of Legio III chanted his name. Imperator Gallienus. It had worked. The deep-laid plot had worked. Venutus had achieved what he had claimed. The blandishments of gold had won over the spendthrift Spaniard Bonosus, and he in turn had brought his legion back to its right and proper allegiance.

  Enfolded in hot battle, the men on the wings fought on, unaware of events in the centre. Things were different for the Raetian militia. Seeing themselves betrayed, as one they turned and sought safety in flight. The auxiliary archers, far from shooting them down, looked to get away first.

  Gallienus looked up the valley, beyond the fleeing mob. The standards above the horsemen were turning, moving away. Simplicinius Genialis was enough of a commander to see the day was lost. The cavalry alae began to canter back towards the baggage. They would get through, but it would be difficult for the thousands on foot. Their numbers would hinder them, the carts and tents get in their way, and the hills on the right came round close to those on the left, leaving but a narrow passage.

  ‘Sound the recall,’ Gallienus said to the bucinator.

  The call was picked up across the valley.

  On either wing the combatants stepped apart. Tacitus could administer the sacramentum to the legionaries from Germania Superior on the left. Proculus could do the same to the Angles on the right.

  Gallienus handed back the shield, sheathed his sword. He tried to think of an epigrammatic saying suitable to the moment of success; something modest, stern but memorable. Nothing came. He did not care. He had won. He had proved to himself he did not need divine aid. Why should he? Was he not worshipped as a god himself? In time, he would slough off his mortality, and take his place on Olympus.

  A rider clattered up from the left. The men of Legio VIII Augusta and Legio XXII Primigenia had sworn the military oath to their rightful Imperator.

  Ordering just his German bodyguard to accompany him, Gallienus rode across to the right.

  ‘I give you joy of your victory, Imperator.’ Proculus saluted.

  ‘What is the delay?’

  Proculus shrugged. ‘The barbarians are reluctant to give their oath. They are too stupid to see their position is hopeless.’

  Gallienus looked out over the crests of the legionaries. A big Angle chieftain stood out in front. Standards flew over the wall of shields: a white horse on a green field, various dracones, one white, another red.

  These were Ballista’s people. The big, middle-aged chieftain even looked like him. Gallienus knew some words of their language. But it was unbecoming for an emperor to use such a tongue. He spoke in Latin, slow and clear.

  ‘Your leader has fled. The battle is lost. Give me your sacramentum, and you will serve in my comitatus.’

  The tall Angle replied in decent Latin. ‘We gave our oath to Postumus, not to Simplicinius Genialis. Postumus has our word and our treasure.’

  Gallienus unlaced his helmet, hung it on a horn of his saddle. Diplomacy should always be conducted with an appearance of confidence, and with an open hand. ‘Give me your word, and I will give you new treasure.’

  ‘We are not Alamanni. We do not break our word.’

  Gallienus stilled his bodyguard Freki with a gesture. ‘I know the good faith of the Angles. I grew up with your princeps Ballista.’

  At the name, the ranks muttered.

  ‘Ballista has served me for many years. Now, on my instructions, he travels to your homeland to bring your king and the peoples he rules back into my friendship. Swear your oath to me, and the Angles will be reunited.’

  ‘I must consult my principes.’ The warrior stepped back, and was surrounded by a group of mailed warriors, each as large as himself. They talked, low and earnest.

  Gallienus sat his horse. It would not have been politic to tell these barbarians the truth, that Ballista was dead in the ruins of Olbia.

  A different noble came out of their r
anks. An older, grizzled man, his mail was clotted with blood.

  ‘You have not shown Ballista honour. We keep our word. We will leave this place.’ The chieftain moved back. The shields of the front ranks snapped together. The rest turned. Under the white horse banner and the white draco, they ran off towards their mounts. Those that remained beneath the red draco began to edge away.

  For a moment, Gallienus was too angry to speak. A roar swelled up from the legionaries.

  ‘Kill them!’ Gallienus shouted. ‘Kill all of them, do not let one of them escape!’

  XXIV

  The Island of Hedinsey

  Ballista walked down the gangplank. Maximus, Tarchon and Wada the Short followed him on to the dock; the rest remained on the Warig. He went up to the warriors. There were fifty of them, in full war gear. He did not recognize any of them. Under their helms, their eyes were unfriendly. Their spears were levelled. A dozen archers, bows drawn, stood off to one side, covering the ship. It was not quite the homecoming he had imagined.

  A young warrior spoke the ritual challenge.

  ‘Strangers, you have steered your steep craft through the seaways, sought our coast. I see you are warriors, you are dressed for war. I must ask who you are. I will have your names now, and the names of your fathers, or further you shall not go.’

  Ballista unlaced his helmet, took it off. ‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. It is with loyal and true intentions I have returned to Hedinsey. My bench-companions are from many lands; Romans and Olbians from the south, a Vandal, two Heathobards, a Rugian. Tarchon here is from Suania in the Caucasus, Muirtagh of the Long Road from Hibernia, Wada the Short is from the Harii.’

  There was a stirring in the ranks, but the young warrior did not unbend. ‘If you are who you claim to be, I was a child when you left.’ He gestured.

  An older warrior stepped forward, peered at the newcomer. Ballista peered back.