Quietus was in the great temple of Elagabalus. As they marched through the streets, Jucundus, talking out of the corner of his mouth like a legionary on parade, said he had no idea what the summons portended.
When they had reached the sacred precinct and were rounding the altar, Ballista and his escort had to check their progress. A procession of members of the Boule of Emesa crossed their path. The councillors were clad in formal Roman togas, the majority with the narrow stripe of an equestrian, one or two with the broad purple denoting senatorial status. Each carried on his head a golden bowl of reeking intestines. Try as they might, the local worthies could not prevent the odd slop of blood landing on the snowy-white material of their robes.
Ballista took in his surroundings. The three fires on the altar hissed and spat, burning unnaturally bright colours: blue-green, yellow, red. Slaves were busy spreading clean sand on the ground. Mingled with the smell of incense were the stench of unwashed tripe and the powerful tang of urine. Flies buzzed thick in the air. The bowls on the head must be an Emesene particularity, but everything else could not be more normal: the aftermath of sacrifice, the imperium-wide mundanities of conventional piety.
A silentarius took charge of them at the foot of the stairs. After the bright sunlight, the interior of the temple was dark, cavernous. It stretched away, echoing into infinity.
In the gloom, a line of pinprick lights. As Ballista’s eyes adjusted, these resolved themselves into a row of ornate candlesticks dividing the great room, dividing the sacred from the profane. In the middle of the row, on its small, portable altar, the imperial fire burned; beyond them, the golden statue of an eagle. It stood confident on its wide-spread legs. The many little lights slid over its mighty, outstretched wings, over the snake writhing in its cruel beak.
Beyond the eagle, seemingly hanging in the air, was the imperial throne. Quietus sat in it, as still as a statue. He was dressed all in purple and gold; a voluminous tunic and a tall tiara; innumerable jewels. His painted face was immobile.
And beyond Quietus, looming over everything, was the god himself. Elagabalus, the great black stone that had fallen from the heavens, towered up towards the shadowy ceiling. Impossibly dense, it drew what light there was into itself. Only the occasional little rill of light splashed across the god, animating the mysterious markings in the depths beneath his smooth, dark surface.
Neither emperor nor god took any notice of the newcomers. As Ballista and his escort rose from their proskynesis, the silentarius ushered them off to one side. There they waited.
There was a sudden clash of cymbals. From somewhere, the music of flutes and pipes: high, twisting, intricate. Sampsigeramus, the priest-king of Emesa, danced into view. Apart from his necklaces and the many bangles on his wrists and ankles, he was naked. His body was thin, almost emaciated, the veins unnaturally prominent. Palms up, he danced before the emperor and the deity. To Ballista, there could not have been a more stomach-turning picture of eastern servility and effeminacy.
A high, shrill cry, and the act of worship was completed. Sampsigeramus went and sat on a low chair by Quietus. The emperor’s non-entity cousin, Cornelius Macer – now the holder of three high government posts – was on the other side.
‘Bring in the atheist,’ said Quietus.
The Praetorian Prefect himself, Rutilus, brought in the prisoner. It was the tall, severe-looking senator Astyrius. They performed proskynesis. Quietus looked at the prisoner. The silence lengthened.
Astyrius was dressed in Greek himation and tunic, rather than his senatorial toga. He kept his hands clasped in front, eyes modestly downcast. Only a tiny tremor in his legs betrayed the doubts and terrors he must be feeling.
‘Tell me’ – Quietus’s voice was light, conversational – ‘have you been wondering where your pretty slave boy Epaphroditus has got to?’
Astyrius did not answer.
‘No! Really, not at all?’ Quietus raised his painted eyebrows. ‘No concerns for his wellbeing? Not even considering the secrets the two of you share?’
Astyrius opened his mouth, but words failed him.
‘Well, let me tell you anyway.’ Quietus was enjoying this. ‘At the moment, it must be said, he is probably none too comfortable. He is in one of the deepest dungeons under the palace. Although that is unlikely to be his main concern. Because your young friend, or should I say brother, is riding the equuleus. Have you ever seen the wooden horse in action? It is most ingenious. It must be agony for your pretty boy as the pulleys force his limbs apart.’
Astyrius made a small choking sound, then controlled himself.
‘Not that he is all that pretty any more.’ Quietus laughed. ‘In fact, he is rather repulsive. You would hardly recognize him.’
The emperor stopped talking and peered closely at Astyrius.
‘I am not sure what it is about your physiognomy, but I have never liked the look of you. Never trusted you. So I had the frumentarii lift your little boyfriend Epaphroditus from the baths. We hung him up – by one hand actually, much more painful – and while beating him – just the usual rods, thongs, whips – asked him some questions about you. Do you know, he would not say anything. You would have been very proud of him.’
Astyrius had mastered the trembling in his legs.
‘And then the strangest thing happened,’ Quietus continued. ‘We got the claws to work on him. It really was terrible the way they were stripping the skin from his sides. But as he still refused to incriminate you, I suggested the torturers went to work on other bits of him: stomach and thighs, the soles of his feet, his pretty cheeks and forehead. And that was when he cried out: “Even murderers are not treated like this, only us Christians.”’
Quietus smiled at Astyrius. ‘Well, you can imagine how that encouraged us. We pressed on with a will. When I was at Ephesus, I discovered the pleasures of interrogating Christians. I even offered your little slave boy his freedom if he would admit you were a Christian. The impudent little cinaedus replied, “I have been freed by Christ.” So once again you Christians, not content with denying the gods, stand convicted of attempting to undermine all property rights here on earth.’
‘I am a Christian,’ Astyrius said.
‘Is it true you have sex with your sisters?’
‘I adore Christ. I detest the daemons. Do what you will. I am a Christian.’
‘And eat specially fattened babies?’
Astyrius squared his shoulders. ‘I am a Christian. It is better to die than to worship stones.’
‘You are about to find out if that is true.’ Quietus signalled to the Praetorian Prefect.
Rutilus pushed Astyrius to his knees. The Christian did not struggle, but he called out, his voice powerful, ‘You have condemned me, but God will condemn you. You will fall as the stars of heaven are swept down to earth by the dragon’s tail.’
Rutilus drew his sword.
Astyrius leant forward, offering his neck for the blow. ‘The devil goes about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.’
Rutilus raised the sword.
‘It is for you, Christ, that I suffer this!’
The sword fell. It was a neat stroke.
Astyrius’s head fell heavily, wetly, to the floor. It rolled an uneven two or three turns towards the row of lit candles. For a time his trunk remained, four distinct jets of blood pumping out, splashing on the marble floor. The flow diminished, and the body collapsed sideways.
In the dark silence, Quietus spoke. ‘With treachery all around me, only misfortune has remained faithful to me – misfortune, my doomed family and my Emesene friend Sampsigeramus.’ He ruffled the priest-king’s hair, and relapsed into silent introspection.
‘Dominus?’ Eventually it was Rutilus who dared try to break into the emperor’s thoughts.
Quietus continued to stare at the decapitated corpse. ‘Afterwards, one always regrets having been so benevolent.’ He spoke more to himself than anyone else.
‘Dominus?’
&n
bsp; Quietus came back from his private world of sanguinary regrets. He snapped out orders. ‘Get that thing out of here. We have news that Odenathus is marching against us. It matters little in the long run. Pomponius Bassus will soon appear at his rear. But until then we must take thought for our safety. I am advised I need officers experienced in siege works. The barbarian Ballista is reappointed as Praetorian co-prefect. His colleague Rutilus will command the west and north walls, the Prefect of Cavalry Castricius the east and south. Ballista’s will be the overall plan for the defence of Emesa. The barbarian had better do a better job than at Arete. His wife and sons will remain in gaol. As the first Palmyrene is seen on the walls, they will die.’
The Tower of Desolation of Emesa was more an observation post than a defensive work. Its circular battlements were only a few paces across. Its interior was entirely taken up with the twisting stone staircase. The tall tower looked out south-east: five miles of cultivated land, then the measureless high desert, stone-strewn, baked by the sun, infinitely harsh. That might account for its name.
Ballista leant on one of the crenellations and embraced the rare moment of solitude. Up here, the wind tugged at his cloak, made his long fair hair stream away. Out in the desert, he could see it raising tall, spinning dust devils. The wind was from the south. It was going to raise a fierce storm. Odenathus’s main army was approaching through the desert from the east. When the storm reached them, they would hunker down, backs to the wind, cloths tied across the faces of men and animals – wait for it to blow itself out. It would delay them by a day or so.
Once, when the Persians sent an army across the Libyan desert to despoil the holy oracle of Zeus Ammon at the oasis of Siwah, a huge storm got up one night. As the soldiers slept, the sand buried them alive. The army was lost for ever. Ballista smiled – no chance of that here. This was a different desert: not enough sand, all too many rocks. Then again, the gods loved Siwah; it was unlikely they had a great affection for Quietus. The army of Odenathus would be delayed by a day or so.
The Palmyrene outriders were already here. Ballista had watched the light cavalry arrive. First, dense clouds of them, clothes flashing bright in the sun. They came in five groups. Each had ridden with purpose to its station. The four main roads – north to Apamea, south to Laodicea ad Libanum, east to Palmyra, and north-east to the distant Euphrates – were blocked. The fifth group spread out to westward, along the banks of the Orontes, watching for any attempt at intervention across the Libanus mountains from the old legionary base at Raphanaea.
The light horse in the second wave that encircled the town were in smaller units. Ballista had watched them swooping through the farmsteads and suburban villas. They were looting – when did soldiers not? – but there was no burning. Their discipline was good. Odenathus did not want to alienate the Emesenes. He wanted them to come over.
Not all the horsemen were Palmyrenes. Through the swirling dust, standards and shield patterns marked out regular Roman units. These alae, originally raised in distant Thrace, Dalmatia and Gaul, must have been provided by governors opposed to Quietus: Aurelius Dasius of Mesopotamia, Virius Lupus of Arabia, and maybe, if the rumours were true, Pomponius Bassus of Cappadocia. These Roman regular light horse came close to the walls, displaying themselves to the Roman defenders. Odenathus clearly wanted them to come over as well.
Ballista was impressed. It was like a hunting expedition on a huge scale. The fixed stakes were driven in, then the nets hung from one to the next, leaving no way out. Odenathus knew what he was about. No need for surprise there. No one harried Shapur out of northern Mesopotamia, retook cities like Carrhae and Nisibis from the Sassanids, unless he knew what he was about.
Numbers of light horsemen were always difficult to judge, but there looked to be about ten thousand of them ringing the town. The Palmyrene heavy cavalry and the infantry were still on the road. Ballista had no idea how many they were. Cornelius Macer – the cousin Quietus had made, among other things, head of the frumentarii – had produced no reliable figures whatsoever. The ineptitude was not enough to make Ballista wish Censorinus back as Princeps Peregrinorum. At a guess, it was unlikely the main body of Odenathus’s army was smaller than the force already outside Emesa. So, the Lion of the Sun would have at least twenty thousand men, maybe more, maybe many more.
And to oppose him, Ballista had what? Quietus had a Praetorian Guard of a thousand. There was the core of Legio III Gallica, the main unit of the garrison of Syria Phoenice, some two thousand men. There were also vexillationes of five hundred men each from five other legions: IIII Scythica and XVI Flavia Firma from Syria Coele, X Fretensis and VI Ferrata from Syria Palestina, and III Felix from the outpost of Circesium. The five and a half thousand Praetorians and legionaries were augmented by about the same number of regular auxiliaries. Then Sampsigeramus claimed to have ten thousand Emesene bowmen, horse and foot.
It was a sizeable force: twenty-one thousand men, more than half of them Roman professionals. Unfortunately, it only existed in the mind of Quietus and, seemingly, those of his closest advisors, his cousin Macer and the king Sampsigeramus. In consilium, all the other officers – including Rutilus, Castricius and Ballista himself – paid lip service to it. But in the unobservable places of their hearts, they knew it was not true.
Ten years of wars, foreign and civil, since the coming of the time of troubles had worn the Roman units down. In a decade of confusion, detachments had been sent away and never returned, new recruits had not been levied. Death and injury, disease and desertion had left the units pale shadows of their former selves. Keeping old men with the standards far beyond their time for retirement had caused resentment but done little to maintain numbers. It was dubious if any unit, apart from the Praetorian Guard, had half the men it was said to have. And no one put any faith in the existence of the ten thousand Emesene warriors claimed by Sampsigeramus.
Numbers continued to fall. Desertions continued. Day by day, furtive figures slipped out of the postern gates or over the wall and away. Far from stemming the flow, the arrival of the enemy cavalry increased it. The Palmyrenes welcomed the deserters with open arms.
It was not just the rank and file who were abandoning the regime of Quietus. The sometime Praetorian Prefect Maeonius Astyanax had never returned from his embassy to Palmyra. Astyanax, the great amicus of Quietus’s father, now was said to ride close to the right hand of the Lion of the Sun.
Then there was the governor of Cappadocia, Pomponius Bassus, the man who was meant to raise a great barbarian army of Iberians, Albanians, Alani to sweep down the Euphrates and save the day. For some time, no message had come from him. Now it was almost certain he had gone over to Gallienus.
It was surely a sign that even Theodorus, the elderly, hesitant governor of unarmed Cyprus, had sent messengers west openly repudiating Quietus.
A more visible proof yet was Fabius Labeo. Two nights earlier, the governor of Syria Coele had been apprehended inconspicuously leaving by the Apamea Gate. Few senators were much good at being inconspicuous. The two silver-mounted carriages and three wagons necessary to move his essentials and maintain the governor’s dignitas had rather taken the clandestine edge off Labeo’s movements. With tears running down his face, he had maintained he had been leaving to levy troops in his provincial capital of Antioch. Even Quietus had not believed it. Fabius Labeo now resided in a metal cage hanging over the Apamea Gate. No one was to give him food or water, on pain of joining him. It was generally agreed that the punishment, if novel and possibly un-Roman, did show a certain poetic justice.
‘Ready, Dominus?’ The Praetorian’s head popped up through the trapdoor.
Down below, Rutilus and Castricius were waiting. It was the appointed time to make their daily report to Quietus. Three senior centurions from the Praetorians, including Jucundus, fell in behind as they set off across town for the palace. Apart from occasional trips to the temple of Elagabalus, Quietus never left the palace now.
The officers did not
talk as they marched. As soldiers did, Castricius twirled the end of his belt. The metal fitting at the tip thrummed through the air. It was good that he was here. Ballista would have liked to talk to him, but not in front of the centurions, any one of whom, even Jucundus, could be an informer. And there was Rutilus – a good officer, but he had never given any sign he was other than completely loyal to the house of Macrianus.
At the gates of the palace, the Roman officers were brought up short. There was not a single Praetorian to be seen. On duty instead was the royal guard of Sampsigeramus. They could not have formed a greater contrast to the Romans in their plain white un-dress tunics and dark trousers. The Emesenes owned a lack of uniformity that was magnificent and colourful – saffron, blinding white, delicate rose; embroidered with flowers, striped and hemmed. Some had put down their spiked helmets and inlaid shields. Most leant back against the walls, a few with their eyes shut against the glare. Off to the right, a couple had gone further. They sat, heads drooping, with their arms around their drawn-up knees.
Not all were so somnambulant. Their commander may have eased his feet out of his sandals, but his eyes were watchful. He admitted the Roman officers with pursed, contemptuous lips.
They went down one long, cool corridor after another. Now and then, windows opened on to well-watered, shady gardens where caged birds sang. It was hard to believe that the vanguard of the besieging army was not a mile from this profound peace.
A final corridor, and they were at the door of the women’s rooms. The guards here had taken lethargy further. A scatter of slippers. Five pairs of naked feet. The warriors lay on a richly patterned carpet. The bottom step of a flight of three served as their pillow. At the top, their leader reclined against a doubled-over cushion. He spoke in Aramaic. One of his men got up and drifted through the door.
Awake, but supine, the guards regarded the Romans with insolent eyes. Behind the easterners, the door was opened. The Emesenes rose to their feet. Their gorgeous silks and languid movements suggested something of the inhabitants of the women’s quarters. They followed the Romans up the steps and through the door.
Warrior of Rome III Page 29