Warrior of Rome III

by Harry Sidebottom

  Euripides, Women of Troy, 120–21

  When the heavy hangings were drawn briefly back, it let a chill blast of wind from the mountains into the council house at Cularo. The lamps and the sacred fire guttered. The air smelled of autumn. The campaign season was almost over. Soon the army must retreat back through the Alps to Italy or be trapped when the first snows blocked the passes. The emperor Gallienus had to accept that his revenge must wait until next spring – at least until next spring.

  The two men who had entered stood, letting their eyes grow used to the bright lights. One was Hermianus, the ab Admissionibus. The other was a messenger from the Danube. The latter carried a small but heavy leather sack. Knowing what was in the sack, Gallienus supposed he should be pleased. But he was not.

  Sat on the high throne, Gallienus tried to lighten his mood by enumerating what had gone well this year. In distant Africa, the revolt of Celsus had been crushed. The pretender was dead. So were his backers, Vibius Passienus, the governor of the province of Africa, and Fabius Pomponianus, the Dux of the Libyan frontier. It was good that the governors of Mauretania and Numidia, Cornelius Octavianus and Decianus, had stood firm. But it had been close to genius on the part of Gallienus’s female cousin to take those Franks, some of the Bavares who had crossed from Spain and been defeated by Decianus, and enlist them to destroy the uprising. At a stroke, and only at the cost of some land confiscated from Celsus, a dangerous band of barbarian raiders had been converted into a significant military asset. She had done well. At the idea of his family, a horrible thought tried to swim up into Gallienus’s mind. He forced it down, pushed on with the good things.

  On the Danube, the revolt of Ingenuus had also been crushed. In that case, by Gallienus himself. There had been a glorious victory outside Mursa, another triumph for the comitatus, the emperor’s new mobile cavalry force, another success for the tactic of feigned retreat. Let old-school senators grumble that it was un-Roman. They were wrong. It was ideal for cavalry. The Romans had always adapted the useful methods of their enemies.

  Of course, as soon as Gallienus and his comitatus had left for the west, there had been another revolt. But the messenger now approaching the throne had the final proof that Regalianus, the governor of Pannonia Inferior, had shared the fate of Ingenuus.

  The Danube frontier was solid again. Untrammelled by over-rigid adherence to Roman tradition, Gallienus had opened negotiations with Attalus, king of the Marcomanni. Now, in exchange for some land in the province of Pannonia Superior, that fierce German ruler protected the peaceful cities and fields from his hairy kinsmen further north. And there was Pippa. To cement the treaty, Attalus had given his daughter to Gallienus. A German only took one wife, unless he was important and it was necessary to take more than one. Who could be more important than the emperor of Rome? In Pippa’s eyes, she was his second wife; in Roman terms, she was a concubine. But what a concubine. Gallienus let his thoughts run over her body – tall, well built; she was blonde, too – one of his favourite types. A virgin when she had arrived, once broken in she could not have turned out keener on what the old emperor Domitian had called ‘bed-wrestling’. Pippa, Gallienus’s sweet barbarian Pippara, was just how he liked them. Once the duties in this council house were concluded, Gallienus could enjoy an afternoon of pleasure. Sex and drink always took his mind off things.

  The messenger was getting up from performing proskynesis. Gallienus indicated for him to show what he had brought.

  The man put the sack down on the floor, fumbled with its tight lashings. A foul smell emerged.

  Standing, the messenger pulled the head out by the hair. Blackened, wide-eyed, lips drawn back from its teeth by the onset of decay, it looked like an image of Medusa. Regalianus, senator of Rome, descendant of the old Kings of Dacia – that was the end of him.

  Gallienus regarded the loathsome thing dispassionately. He wondered if head-hunting was a native tradition of the Roxolani, the Sarmatian barbarians he had set on Regalianus. They were nomads, eaters of flesh, drinkers of milk. He remembered that they let their women ride to battle with them. But he was not sure about the taking of heads. Possibly one of the officers he had seconded to them, Camsisoleus or Celer Venerianus, had informed them of the correct Roman protocol for the corpses of men who had dared to assume the purple and then lost.

  The living emperor stared at the dead pretender. What to do with the head? Send it to Rome – a pungent message to any senators entertaining thoughts of treason? Put it on a pike here to encourage the army?

  ‘Sic transit gloria mundi.’ Gallienus’s voice was level. ‘Take it away, and give it proper burial.’

  Still holding it by the hair, the messenger shuffled away backwards. The ab Admissionibus Hermianus ushered him out.

  Gallienus could see no reason to waste time in a futile show of open discussion. The senators present might expect it, but neither the high military commanders nor the heads of the imperial bureaux would be put out.

  ‘Comites,’ Gallienus began, ‘winter is almost upon us. The punishment of the renegades and murderers in Gaul must wait until next year.’ He forced himself to smile. ‘The Res Publica must survive a winter without Atrebatic cloaks.’

  There was polite if sycophantic laughter.

  ‘In two days, the comitatus will break camp and re-cross the Alps to winter quarters in northern Italy around Mediolanum. Let everyone see to his duties and make it so.’

  As one, the members of the consilium saluted. ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

  As he processed out into the autumnal streets, dark thoughts surged into Gallienus’s mind. It was not Regalianus’s severed head he wanted but that of Postumus. He had trusted the governor of Lower Germany. Postumus had won a minor victory over a band of Franks returning from Spain. Silvanus, the Dux of all the limes along the Rhine, had justly demanded Postumus hand over the booty. Instead Postumus had used it to bribe the men under his command. Legio XXX Ulpia Victrix had acclaimed Postumus emperor.

  Gallienus would have let Postumus live. Clementia was natural to him. He had sent a laconic message from Italy which left a way open: ‘What are you doing? Behave! Do you seek battle?’ The sanctimonious insolence of the reply – ‘Do not come north across the Alps, do not put me in a position of fighting Roman citizens’ – had infuriated Gallienus. Yet Gallienus had tried again – ‘Let it be settled by single combat.’ Postumus’s answer had been even more galling:

  I am not a gladiator, nor have I ever been one; rather I have served those provinces which you ordered me to save. I was elected emperor by the Gauls; and I am content to rule those who chose me of their free will. I will help them according to the best of my counsel and capacity.

  The snide implications and the self-righteous tone were maddening. But all Postumus’s words palled into nothing beside his actions – his hideous, hideous actions.

  Postumus had marched on Colonia Agrippinensis, where Silvanus watched over Gallienus’s young son, the Caesar Saloninus. The evil Batavian bastard Postumus had invested the city. Food had run short. Scared, overawed by threats, the cowardly citizens had bargained for their safety. They had secured it – at a price. Silvanus and Saloninus had been handed over in chains. Saloninus, Gallienus’s golden, beautiful boy, was killed out of hand with his guardian. What terrors must have gone through his young mind before the sword fell?

  Gallienus had vowed to Hercules that Postumus would die – Postumus, his family, friends, every soldier in Legio XXX, and every man, woman and child in the town of Colonia Agrippinensis.

  Gallienus had thought that Hercules had listened. The war of retribution had begun well. It had been late to start a campaign, but they had crossed the Alps before the traitors knew they were coming. And then, another betrayal. Genialis, the faithless acting governor of Raetia, had declared for Postumus. He threatened their rear. With the comitatus away to the west over the Alps, there was nothing to stop Genialis crossing the mountains and invad
ing Italy from the north. Gallienus had been forced to halt at Cularo. Now he would have to retire to Mediolanum. Next year, he would have his vengeance.

  But would it be next year? In the east, Macrianus the Lame had prospered. From the Aegean to Egypt, every Roman province had acknowledged his sons, Quietus and Macrianus the Younger, as emperors. Next year, the old cripple Macrianus must make his play for Rome. Much of his field army was composed of detachments from the armies of the west. They would demand to return home, force his hand.

  Thanks to the successes of Ballista in Cilicia and Odenathus in Mesopotamia, the Sassanids would be quiet next year. There was unrest in the eastern reaches of the Persian empire. By the Caspian Sea, the Cadusii and the Mardi were said to be in open revolt. Macrianus would march west and Gallienus would have to postpone his revenge on Postumus to meet him.

  Only one man could stop Macrianus marching in the spring: Odenathus. The Lord of Palmyra had fought the Persians, but he returned ambiguous answers to Gallienus’s smuggled letters. He had yet to declare for his rightful emperor or the young pretenders in the east. So much rested on the enigmatic Lion of the Sun.

  Gallienus thought of his old friend Ballista. He had listened to the Angle’s secretary, Demetrius. He had not harmed the young Greek. There was no advantage in it, and the boy was handsome. Demetrius was to remain at court. Gallienus’s spies had informed him of the reappearance in Antioch of Ballista’s wife and sons. His old friend was trapped again in the service of Macrianus. Gallienus felt no ill will towards Ballista, but the northerner could not be allowed to lead Macrianus’s army to the west. He was too good a general. It was not a problem. All it would take was for one of the frumentarii under Rufinus, Gallienus’s new Princeps Peregrinorum, to speak to one of those serving under Censorinus, the spymaster his father had been so misguided to trust. Hand over a report of Demetrius’s words along with Ballista’s ring, with its image of Cupid winding a siege engine, and Macrianus would do the rest.

  Gallienus felt sorry for Ballista, but politics was politics. Anyway, Ballista’s sons had returned, as if from the dead. Saloninus was not coming back. Poor, poor lost Saloninus. Conservator Pietatis – one of the coin types those in charge of the mint had shown him. What a cruel irony. Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus, emperor of Rome, the preserver of piety – unable to avenge his murdered son, unable to rescue his elderly father.

  They were nearing the biggest house in Cularo. It had been voluntarily offered as imperial accommodation. No matter how enforced the offer, the owner would have some explaining to do this winter, after the comitatus had left and men retook the town in the name of Postumus.

  The sharp wind fretted at the wreaths of bay and oak leaves which marked the emperor’s residence. As ever, there was a crowd waiting outside. Among them, Gallienus recognized the bearded figure of Plotinus the Platonist philosopher. The emperor told Voconius Zeno, his recently appointed a Studiis, to detain the lover of wisdom. In normal times, Gallienus liked Plotinus’s company well enough; in Rome, he and his wife Salonina had enjoyed his conversation. But these were not normal times. This afternoon, Gallienus required other consolations, not those of philosophy.

  PART FIVE

  Capax Imperii

  (The East, Winter AD260–Summer AD261)

  ‘The ways of the gods are slow, but in the end their power is shown.’

  Euripides, Ion, 1615

  Up on the dais in the palace in Antioch, the chief men of the imperial entourage were in place. The two youthful emperors, Macrianus the Younger and Quietus, were enthroned. To their left, their father, Macrianus the Lame, sat on a curule chair nearly as high and nearly as elaborate as the thrones. There were no other chairs. Beyond the father was the spymaster Censorinus, backed by the imperial secretaries. To the right of the emperors stood Maeonius Astyanax, the senior Praetorian Prefect; Ragonius Clarus, the Prefect of Cavalry; and, on the end, as the other Praetorian Prefect, Ballista.

  A gust of rain rattled against the windows of the great apse. Outside, it was a cold and grey midwinter morning in Antioch. I am getting soft, thought Ballista: back home in Germania this could pass for mild spring weather. Where Calgacus comes from, this is probably a balmy summer’s day.

  The ab Admissionibus drew back the hangings at the far end of the big room. Blinking a little in the many lights, the governors who supported the Macriani entered: Piso of Syria Coele, Cornicula of Syria Phoenice, Pomponius Bassus of Cappadocia, Achaeus of Palestine, Virius Lupus of Arabia, Mussius Aemilianus of Egypt, Theodorus of Cyprus and Trebellianus of Cilicia. With them was Sampsigeramus, the client king of Emesa.

  Nine powerful men, but it was interesting who was not there: no governors west of Cilicia – above all, not Maximillianus of Asia; and from the east, no Aurelius Dasius of Osrhoene nor, most crucial of all, Odenathus Lord of Palmyra. Certainly all except the Lion of the Sun had sent excuses: illness, bandits or barbarian raiders. It could mean a great deal, or nothing. Politics in the imperium, when the stakes were as high as this, never admitted an easy reading.

  The next wave of the consilium was ushered in – some forty senators, headed by the ex-consul Fabius Labeo, the nobilis Astyrius and a relative of the Macriani called Cornelius Macer. It was impressive. Admittedly, long ago, more had fled east to join Mark Antony in his doomed campaign against Octavian. Yet the imperium was now divided three ways between Gallienus, Postumus and the sons of Macrianus. To assemble so far from Rome about one in twelve of all senators was impressive.

  The final group was shown in – a huge throng of equestrians, almost all junior military officers: prefects, tribunes and the like. Among them, the bright-red hair of tall Rutilus stood out. Ballista also caught sight of the pointy face of Castricius. The latter winked. He had come a long way since being a slave in the mines.

  At a sign from the ab Admissionibus, the members of the consilium performed proskynesis. As he got up, Ballista saw that Macrianus the Elder had merely leant a little forward and blown a kiss. The lesser form of adoration could be put down to his age and incapacity, but it could be interpreted as something very different.

  When the comites were back on their feet, the senators looked around, trying not to give evidence of their surprise and displeasure at the lack of seats. Ballista could see what the regime was attempting: trying to mark the emperors out yet more from their most powerful subjects, to enhance even further their dignity. But it was a potentially dangerous ploy. All too easily it could smack of arrogance, or even oriental despotism. A real emperor could sit cross-legged on the ground eating porridge with his legionaries and not lose dignitas.

  Laboriously, Macrianus the Elder hauled himself to his feet. Leaning on his walking stick, he pulled a fold of his toga over his head. In a firm voice, he prayed for all the immortal gods, all the natural gods of Rome, to guide their deliberations, hold their hands over the emperors and their consilium. The flame burned blue-green as he sprinkled a pinch of incense over the sacred fire.

  Regaining his seat, Macrianus indicated that Maeonius Astyanax should hold the floor. The senior Praetorian Prefect cleared his throat. The air was thick with incense and perfume, although it did not quite cover the bitter reek of burning which still lingered from the Persian sack.

  ‘Most noble emperors, members of the consilium, I bring good news.’ Astyanax paused. The lights made deep shadows in the lines on his forehead and under his fleshy mouth. His face was inscrutable.

  ‘Only a short time now stands between the degenerate tyrant Gallienus and his death. He fritters away what little is left with prostitutes and pimps, barbarians and buffoons – dressed as a girl, submitting as a girl, mocking the dignitas of the throne and the maiestas of the Roman people.’

  Ballista knew that Astyanax, revelling in his orotundity, could keep this up for hours. Some of the usual phrases of invective floated through his thoughts – ‘more unnatural than Nero’, ‘crueller than Domitian’, ‘more perverse than Heliogabalus’; ‘incest and magic’;
‘the profligate’, ‘the coward’, ‘the enemy of men and gods’. Rain beat on the windows.

  ‘Now the forces of righteous retribution are ready to march.’ Astyanax’s words brought Ballista’s attention back. ‘The minor troubles of a few days ago are a thing of the past. It was nothing more than the almost commendable over-eagerness of a handful of troops from the west to free their contubernales and families from the perverted lusts of the tyrant.’

  Which, Ballista thought, was a good way of describing a serious mutiny – one only defused by a large donative of cash to the mutineers and a complete capitulation to their demands: yes, the western troops could begin their march home as soon as it was spring, some even sooner.

  ‘Here in the east all is secure. The cities of Carrhae and Nisibis, recovered from the Sassanids by Odenathus, have been handed over to the governor of Osrhoene. Setting them in order, of course, accounts for the absence of Aurelius Dasius from this gathering today.’

  It might, thought Ballista.

  ‘I have received a letter from Odenathus himself.’ Astyanax produced a piece of papyrus from his scabbard. It neatly reminded his listeners that he, with Ragonius Clarus and Ballista, was one of the three men allowed to go armed in the presence of the emperors.

  ‘The Lord of Palmyra will take the war to the Persians. He has the Sassanids on the defensive. The Lion of the Sun intends no less than to sack Shapur’s capital of Ctesiphon. He expresses his complete confidence that the gods will settle the rule of Rome on those they favour.’

  Astyanax flourished the letter before returning it to his scabbard. Ballista saw no more than that there was writing on it. He would not have been surprised had it been blank.

  ‘In view of Odenathus’s signal loyalty to Rome, our noble emperors have sent him magnificent presents from among the property justly confiscated from the atheist Christians.’