'Sophistry,' said Cledonius. 'No emperor has ever been held captive by barbarians before. Who is to say Valerian is no longer emperor? In any event, there was no duress when I gave my oath to Shapur. I will return.'
Macrianus pointed at Ballista.
Temptation caressed Ballista. One word. Just one word, and he was safe with his family. Back with Julia. Back with his sons; looking into their huge blue eyes, burying his face in their long hair, inhaling the smell of them.
No — Ballista tried to push temptation away. It clung like a whore on a Massilia dockside. Think of Julia, Isangrim, Dernhelm. No — there would be no safety. The very opposite. One word would bring down the terrible curse in the oath he had sworn to Shapur. If it were just on his own head, he could take it. But not on his sons'. If I break my oath, spill my brains on the ground as this wine spills, my brains and the brains of my sons too.
'I return with Cledonius to the emperor.'
'So be it.' Macrianus's face was impossible to read. He tapped his stick for quiet, declared the consilium over, intoned another heartfelt prayer and made his way out. Click, drag, step. His supporters jostled as they were forced to keep to his slow pace. Click, drag, step.
Outside, Maeonius Astyanax was waiting. 'Ballista, a word,' he said.
The senator led Ballista round the basilica to a south-facing garden which abutted on to the palace. The path was flanked by statues of Greek intellectuals, arranged alphabetically: A was Aristotle, B, Bion. They stopped by Homer.
'Your wife and sons are well in Antioch.'
'Thank you.' Ballista felt a hollowness in his chest.
Astyanax fiddled with the book roll in his hands and looked up at the marble bust of Homer. He was going to say more.
Ballista waited. He had spoken to Astyanax a few times. But, beyond the senator's fervent support for Macrianus the Lame, Ballista knew little about him. Julia had once said that rumours linking the two men all involved disgusting impropriety.
Ballista realized he had never really looked at Astyanax before. He was a middle-aged man, with short hair and a short, full beard. His lips were soft and fleshy; his forehead intensely wrinkled. Astyanax twisted the papyrus between his fingers. The man was nervous.
Astyanax looked away from the marble face of the blind poet. His gaze traversed the wall of the palace, as if seeking something to distract him in the diamond-pattern limestone blocks.
At last, glancing at Ballista, then looking away, he began to talk. 'Macrianus genuinely believes he has the mandate of the gods to restore the Res Publica.'
'I do not doubt it.' Ballista's voice was neutral.
'The Christians have to die. Their open denial of the gods, their disgusting atheism, turns the immortals against the imperium.'
'Quite possibly.'
Astyanax turned and looked Ballista in the eye. 'Valerian had to go. He was old, weak, irresolute. The gods demand a strong hand at the helm.'
Ballista said nothing.
'In this age of iron and rust, we must have an emperor.' There was a wheedling quality to the senator's voice.
'We have one: Gallienus. And a Caesar in his son Saloninus,' Ballista replied.
Astyanax shook his head. 'They are far away on the northern frontier.'
'One of them could travel east.'
Astyanax's fleshy lips twitched. 'They are beset by your barbarian cousins.'
Ballista ignored the gibe. 'Gallienus has a brother and another son in Rome. One of them could assume the purple.'
'Gallienus is a degenerate. There is no reason to think his close relatives any better.'
'Certainly Gallienus likes to drink and he likes to fuck.' Ballista nodded at the papyrus in the other's hands. 'He writes poetry and listens to philosophers too. But I have campaigned with him. He knows how to fight.'
Astyanax dismissed the argument with a wave of his hand. 'Macrianus has all the virtues necessary in a princeps. He has self-control, piety, courage, intelligence, far-sightedness.'
'And a crippled leg.' Ballista spoke more harshly than he had intended. 'No man can ascend the throne of the Caesars with a physical deformity.'
'True.' Astyanax smiled. 'That is why Quietus and Macrianus the Younger must take the throne. The sons will be guided by their father.' The treason voiced, Astyanax hurried on. 'The majority of the senate will be with us. They hate Gallienus — his lack of dignitas, the way he excludes them from military commands, panders to the common soldiers, promotes illiterate barbarians.'
Ballista was silent for a moment. There was more than some truth in it. 'A senatorial majority does not win a civil war, armies do,' he remarked.
'Quite so. Those who matter in the east — those who hold the armed provinces — are already with us. While you were away, the governor of Cappadocia met an unfortunate end. Exiguus was killed by bandits.' Astyanax raised his eyebrows. 'Latrones everywhere — dangerous times. Cappadocia is now held for Macrianus by Pomponius Bassus.'
When Ballista did not react, Astyanax carried on. 'Strangely, when he heard the news, Valens, the governor of Syria Coele, fled to the west. He has been replaced by Piso Frugi, another close amicus of the Count of the Sacred Largess. Achaeus, governor of Palestine, is with us. A devout persecutor of Christians, he is aware what the times call for. The prefect of Egypt, Aemilianus, is an ambitious man, and the governor of Syria Phoenice, Cornicula, a weak one. They both realize where their advantage lies. Doubtless, the isolated governors of Osrhoene and Arabia will fall into line.'
Astyanax spread his hands wide in a studied oratorical gesture. 'Then there is Sampsigeramus, the king of Emesa. Seven years ago, in the time of troubles, he put a myriad horsemen in the field. The god he serves has told him to pledge his support. As I said, we command all the armed might of the east.'
Ballista laughed. 'Then why do you need me?'
'We are not sure we do. Yet you might be useful. Much of Valerian's field army was drawn from the west. You have served there. They might like a general they know.' Astyanax sighed. 'And, corrupted by Gallienus, they might prefer a general of your origins.' There was a wealth of contempt in the last word.
'Then it is unfortunate for you that I am oath-bound to return to Shapur.'
Astyanax turned a bland face to the northerner. 'Macrianus dealt with that in the consilium. Anyway, you do not have a reputation for being over-pious. Under you, the persecution of Christians in Ephesus ground to a halt. Your wife's family are Epicureans. Like them, you may think the gods are uninterested in humanity.'
At the mention of Julia, the hollowness in Ballista returned.
Now Astyanax looked pained, his forehead even more wrinkled. 'After Valerian was captured, you were declared a hostis, an outlaw to be killed on sight. That order has not yet been rescinded.' He paused. Ballista feared where this was going.
Astyanax resumed, in short, measured sentences. 'Your family is in Antioch, the capital of the province of Syria Coele. The new governor is on his way there from Zeugma. Piso Frugi is a zealous supporter of Macrianus. Some might say overzealous. The wife and children of a hostis, a traitor to the Res Publica, a traitor to Macrianus — things might not go well for them.'
Ballista could not speak.
Astyanax patted his arm. 'Never take a hasty decision. Sleep on it.' Dawn came up over the stirring city of Samosata. As every day at this time, the beams were removed and the Edessa gate was swung open. Since the capture of Valerian, the guards had exercised great vigilance. When they were satisfied there were no Sassanids lurking, they waved the telones to carry on. The customs official stood back as Ballista and Cledonius led the horses through the gate.
Outside, the two men moved off the road to wait for Garshasp. Ballista did not want to talk. He studied the motley throng of refugees. Day by day, more arrived from south of the river. Ballista wondered how many of them were Persian infiltrators. It was an obvious move. Certainly, Shapur would have thought of it. Yet the telones
