consilium were equally stony-faced.
Calgacus would not have been alone in noting that, this time, Marinus did not salute. The Caledonian knew why. Back in the church, Marinus had made his choice: Christian, not soldier.
'Marcus Aurelius Marinus, our magnanimity has given you time to come to your senses.' Achaeus's voice was cold. 'What do you say?'
'I am a Christian.'
'So be it,' snapped Achaeus. He waved some guards forward. They seized Marinus. They stripped him of his sword belt, his cloak, his boots, anything which denoted him as a soldier.
'You will be taken to the south necropolis. You will be beheaded. No one is to give you burial. Your corpse will lie by the road for the dogs to eat.'
Marinus betrayed no emotion.
'There is no reason for delay,' Achaeus announced. 'Take him away.'
Calgacus did not need to exercise any caution in following this time. A centurion and ten legionaries, the condemned man's commilitiones, escorted Marinus. Behind them came about thirty civilians — those who especially disliked Christians or particularly enjoyed a public execution, or maybe just had nothing better to do.
Calgacus did not go all the way. He turned off to the right and entered the empty theatre by the city walls. Once he had climbed to the top of the seating, he had a good view over the rear wall.
Sure enough, the centurion halted his men just beyond the town walls, as soon as they reached the first tombs of the necropolis. With a minimum of fuss, a blindfold was put on Marinus.
By the side of the road, the Christian knelt down. He leant forward to expose the back of his neck. The blade of a sword glittered in the spring sunshine. The spatha descended. It was not a good strike. Blood everywhere, but the neck was not severed. Marinus was pitched full length. He was writhing. The executioner had to steady him with a boot on his back and a firm grip on his hair. Four, five times, the spatha chopped down until the head came away.
The soldiers left him lying by the side of the road. Without a backwards glance, they marched off into town. Some of the civilians remained standing there for a while, but soon Marinus's remains were unattended.
High up in the theatre, Calgacus made himself as comfortable as he could and settled down to wait. The night after Ballista had killed Appian in Ephesus, someone, presumably Christians, had come and stolen the body — well, seemingly, torn it apart and taken bits of it. Calgacus thought it was worth keeping an eye on what was left of Marinus.
Travellers came and went on the Ascalon road. In wagons, on donkeys, mules, horses, on foot, they passed, usually in groups, occasionally on their own. Some stopped to look at the fresh corpse, the blood already draining into the dirt, but most did not.
The waiting did not bother Calgacus — he could happily do nothing for hours on end — but he was getting very hungry. Tonight, despite the cost, he would treat himself to a really good meal before a girl — maybe that new Greek girl Chloe: she had a look in her eye, made him laugh.
The sun began to sink towards the sea. The western sky was a blaze of purples, blues and reds. The travellers had gone from the road. If nothing happened before dark, Calgacus would have to go down and creep closer.
All that was to be heard was the sound of the surf. It might have lulled Calgacus had his hunger not been so sharp. He was getting ready to move when the file of men appeared from the town.
At their head was a tall figure. From within the folds of his cloak could be seen a flash of shimmering white toga and, amazingly, a broad purple stripe. The man was a senator. It was Astyrius, and he was trailed by four servants.
They reached the dead man. At Astyrius's gesture, the servants spread a magnificent, costly robe on the ground by the remains. Astyrius reverently picked up Marinus's gory head and placed it on the robe. The servants lifted the body to join it.
The robe was carefully folded. Astyrius himself helped shoulder the burden. The illegal cortege moved off, cross-country to the east.
Well, well, thought Calgacus, who would have thought it? As he walked stiffly down the steps, he wondered if his were the only eyes that had been watching. 'Christians to the lion,' he thought.
Macrianus the Elder, Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae, holder of maius imperium, father of the Augusti, washed the blood off his hands. A servant took away the golden bowl; another handed him a towel. They may well be on campaign, somewhere in the wilds between Thrace and Illyricum, but standards had to be maintained.
The sacrifices had told Macrianus nothing. The entrails had been hard to read, ambiguous. Surely the gods would not abandon him now? He had never yet done anything without consulting them, checking they approved. All his life had been devoted to doing their work. Not even the most malevolent could deny he had been zealous in persecuting the atheist Christians. And had he not sworn to all the natural gods — in his heart, not just with his lips — that when he had done with the followers of the crucified Jew he would turn on and eradicate the Jews themselves? Let the godless emigrate beyond the frontiers, for if they remained they would die.
Yes, Macrianus had laboured long on behalf of the Pax Deorum, the relationship between man and gods that had always sustained the imperium of the Romans. Dangerous choices had been faced, difficult decisions made. But he had been well rewarded, as his piety deserved. His rise from obscurity to riches and power, the elevation of his sons to the throne — both clearly made manifest the favour of the gods.
Macrianus knew he had done nothing but good, had done nothing wrong. True, his conscience initially had been troubled by the idea of removing Valerian. But the old emperor had been too hesitant. He had stood in the way of the work of the gods. Even so, it had been a relief to Macrianus when he received the explicit approval of Jupiter Optimus Maximus in a dream.
The opaque entrails meant nothing. The gods would not abandon Macrianus now, not in the middle of a campaign against the godless tyrant Gallienus. As soon as news of Valerian's capture had reached Gallienus, even while his aged father was being dragged around Cilicia, Gallienus had rescinded the edict against the Christians. It was said he had gone so far as to give them back their unholy meeting places and burial grounds. There was no chance the gods could favour such a man over Macrianus and his sons.
But if the signs from the heavens were mixed, they were not more so than those on earth. The advance expedition to the west led by Macrianus's old friend Piso Frugi had been a disaster. First, in the backwater of Thessaly, of all places, had come Piso's usurpation — what evil daemon could have prompted the fool to that? — then his death at the hands of Valens, Gallienus's governor of Achaea. The situation had somewhat recovered. The troops under Valens, a bunch of auxiliaries as headstrong and unreliable as all soldiers were these days, had mutinied. They had proclaimed Valens emperor. The unwanted eminence had lasted only a short time. Frumentarii sent by Macrianus's loyal Princeps Peregrinorum Censorinus had abruptly ended the ephemeral reign.
Not everything had gone wrong in the aftermath of the Pisonian debacle. Byzantium had remained loyal to the regime and it afforded the Macriani father and son and their main army a safe crossing from Asia.
As they advanced west into Europe, the mixed blessings had continued. It was a disappointment that Valentinus, the acting governor of both Moesia Superior and Inferior, had kept the provinces in the faction of Gallienus. But to balance that, the four legions stationed in the provinces of Pannonia Superior and Inferior had declared for Macrianus and Quietus. Macrianus the Elder was quite aware that this had not been prompted by love for his sons. The Pannonian legionaries were still smarting at the defeat and deaths of their candidates for the purple — Ingenuus and Regalianus — by the forces of Gallienus. They would have probably followed a trained monkey against Gallienus. Still, it gave an impression of momentum, and it was a useful addition to the expedition. When the Macriani reached Serdica, they found two large vexillationes from Legiones I and II Adiutrix had marched down to join them. There had been scenes of celebration as these newcomers mingled with smaller vexillationes from all four Pannonian legions who were already serving with the army. The four thousand newcomers roughly replaced those lost to sickness, straggling and desertion on the long march from Antioch.
The events of the day before struck Macrianus as ambiguous at best. A couple of hours' march west out of Serdica, and the enemy cavalry had appeared. It was light cavalry, and there were a lot of them; mainly Dalmatians, but also quite a few Moors, with their distinctive long, braided hair. They had surrounded the marching column, driven in the cavalry outriders. They had not killed all they could. They had ridden close, up and down the
