Hidden in the unlit colonnade, Ballista waited. It was the last hours of the night, some time after the start of the fourth watch. Away from the palace to the south, across the open space of the citadel, he could make out furtive figures in the darkened temple of the Tyche of Zeugma. Without Ballista consciously directing it, his right hand moved: first to the dagger on his right hip, freeing it an inch or so from its sheath and snapping it back, then to the sword hanging on his left, drawing it a couple of inches and pushing it home again, finally to the healing stone tied to the scabbard. What was going to happen was all bad. But he had no choice but to play his part.
At last he heard them moving up the hill; a confused murmur of voices, the rattle of weapons, no attempt at concealment. As the first of them came through the gate, the torches they carried flickered through the leaves of the fruit trees. Snatches of boisterous, rough voices reached Ballista. The men emerged from the orchard fully armed for war — helmets, mail shirts, shields and weapons. But the column was in no order. The soldiers walked with friends from their units, talking in loose groups. The centurions present led some of them off to left and right. In no time at all, the palace was surrounded.
There goes all hope of escape, thought Ballista. His mind had been running on slipping away on the far side of the citadel; down through the trees, over the low wall, across the roofs, saddling Pale Horse and riding west, following the route Castricius's man had shown Calgacus and the others. Of course it had been an idle thought. Even if he reached Antioch, how would he get Julia and the boys away? Come to that, what welcome would Gallienus give him in the west? He remembered entertaining a similar idea before the siege of Arete. Childish fantasies. It was time he put such things aside. Still, it was good of Castricius to have reunited him with Pale Horse and his own weapons. He touched the healing stone again.
The ring of armed men around the palace began to chant.
'Come out! Show yourselves! Quietus and Macrianus, come out! You cannot hide from the soldiers!'
Nothing happened. The soldiers clashed their weapons on their shields. Their chants became impatient. Flasks of drink passed from hand to hand. One or two whistled, called out obscenities.
This cannot go on for long, thought Ballista.
A rectangle of orange light sprang out from the palace as a door opened.
'Come out! Come out!'
Quietus and Macrianus the Younger stepped out. There was tension in their movements, none of the usual arrogant swagger.
Macrianus the Younger raised his right arm in an oratorical pose. The noise from the soldiers gradually fell away. Torches hissed in the night air.
'Soldiers of Rome, what is the meaning of this? Have you forgotten your disciplina? Return to your quarters.'
'Never! Never!' The men roared back.
Now Quietus came forward. His arms were stretched out in entreaty. 'Remember our youth, our blameless lives. Have pity on our father's grey hairs. Do not put us in this danger. We have not asked for this. We have done nothing to deserve it.'
A few soldiers laughed. Then, as if at an order, they all began a rhythmic chant:
'Quietus imperator, Augustus free from all guilt, may the gods keep you. Macrianus imperator, Augustus free from all guilt, may the gods keep you.'
Over and over, the words were chanted. Quietus and Macrianus the Younger made half-hearted gestures of unwillingness.
From the gloom, Ballista listened and watched. He had heard that, in some Scythian tribes, a man's ritual reluctance to rule was overcome by pelting him with mud. It seemed a custom the Romans could adopt with profit.
A new chant boomed out. 'The good faith of the soldiers, happiness!' Louder and louder it was repeated. 'Fidei militum feliciter! Fidei militum feliciter!'
Slowly, Macrianus the Lame made his way out of the palace to stand between his sons. He raised his walking stick. The silver head of Alexander glinted. The soldiers instantly stopped chanting. The father gestured Quietus to speak.
'Fellow soldiers, it is a heavy burden you wish to place on our shoulders. Commilitiones, you know that neither my brother nor myself has sought this honour. Yet the gods know our love for the Res Publica.'
Quietus paused, as if in deep thought — the effect slightly spoilt by the half-smile on his weak mouth.
'Commilitiones, we hear your command. The soldiers of Rome are the sword and shield of the imperium, the embodiment of our ancient virtus. But to be Augustus is not just to be a military commander. Our minds would be easier, our burden less heavy, if we knew that the senate and people also called us to the purple.'
As Quietus finished, lights blazed out from the temple behind the soldiers. Through its open doors Ballista could see a group of civilians gathered around the statue of the Tyche of Zeugma. The ring of soldiers opened to let them pass.
Maeonius Astyanax, toga-clad and backed by other senators, halted before the candidates for the throne. In the torchlight, his eyes were like pebbles under water.
'Too long the ship of state has drifted, no firm hand on the rudder. Valerian was old and ineffectual. Now he is gone, may the gods have mercy on him. His son, Gallienus, lies sunk in luxury and debauchery. Shunning the senate house, the forum and the army camp, he disports himself with pimps and prostitutes, actors and barbarians. Fit only to be dragged with a hook, he brings disgrace and disaster. The throne of the Caesars calls for vigorous young men of courage and decency. The senate calls for Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus and Titus Fulvius Iunius Macrianus. Take the purple. Each of you: trust us, trust yourself!'
The senators took up the call: 'Crede nobis, crede tibi; crede nobis, crede tibi.'
At the twenty-fifth repetition, another group of civilians came forth from the temple. The man at their head looked overawed. He was sweating heavily.
'I am Barlaha, son of Antiochus, a member of the Boule of this city.'
Some of the soldiers, well refreshed with wine, sniggered. Barlaha stumbled on.
'Rome has made one city of the civilized world. She has given all who dwell in the imperium citizenship. All the citizens of Rome speak through us, the Boule of Zeugma, when we call Quietus and Macrianus to the throne.'
The two young men inclined their heads in acceptance.
'The immortal gods grant long life to Augustus Quietus, long life to Augustus Macrianus. Happy are we in your imperium, happy the Res Publica.'
Like a well-trained chorus, the audience chanted.
Two small groups of soldiers encircled Quietus and Macrianus. A flat, oval infantry shield was placed on the ground before each brother. They stood on them. The soldiers bent down and carefully, if with a certain unsteadiness, lifted the shields and raised Quietus and Macrianus to the heavens.
Macrianus the Younger, wobbling just a little, waved and made a fair show of imperial dignitas. Quietus, pouchy little eyes darting here and there, could contain himself no longer. Now and then clutching at the top of a soldier's head for balance, he giggled in open exultation.
Once the two young men were safely back on terra firma, their father embraced them and spoke.
'This has been so sudden, so unexpected, the hands of the gods must be behind it. Man must always bow to the dictates of the divine. But it has been so sudden that the necessary regalia is not prepared.' The old man produced two ropes of gold, glittering with jewels. 'These were your late mother's necklaces; for now, use them as diadems.'
Quietus held up his hand. 'Thank you, Father, but no; such a female adornment would not be right. There will be nothing womanly about our reign,' he simpered.
A couple of cavalrymen approached. 'Use these gilded horse trappings, Domini.'
This time it was Macrianus the Younger who demurred. 'Many thanks, commilitiones, but what has been worn by a beast would impair the dignitas of an Augustus.'
There was an awkward pause. A centurion hissed, 'Now, you fools.' Two standard bearers shuffled up. They removed the gold collars from their necks. Evidently overcome by the occasion — or by alcohol — they had forgotten
