Stubborn and superstitious as her barbarian husband could be, Julia had never seen him quite so given over to morbid, god-haunted introspection. 'Nonsense,' she snapped. 'Even if the gods existed and troubled themselves with the affairs of men, there would be no punishment on you or your children — because you have done nothing wrong. Jason was forced into his oath to Medea. If he had not taken it, she would not have helped him and he would not have won the golden fleece. You were forced into your oath to Shapur. If you had not taken it, you would have shared the fate of Turpio. Oaths under duress count for nothing.'
At last, Ballista seemed to have come back from wherever he had been. 'Then why did Jason's sons die?'
'Medea killed them because he abandoned her.' Julia smiled. 'There is a lesson there.'
Ballista also smiled, if grimly. Then he leant over and spoke close to her ear. 'I took another oath, a voluntary one to myself. Should I keep it?'
Despite herself Julia felt apprehensive. 'What?'
'To kill Quietus.'
Julia was very still, thinking hard. At length, she spoke. 'Yes. You will think yourself less of a man if you do not. And it may be the only route to safety.'
Ballista nodded.
'But,' whispered Julia, 'it will not be easy. You must wait your time.'
Again Ballista nodded.
'And, Quietus alone is not enough. You must kill the entire family.'
PART FOUR
Conservator Pietatis (The West, the Alps, the city of Cularo, Autumn, AD260)
'For those whom fate has cursed Music itself sings but one note — Unending miseries, torment and wrong.'
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.
