line, calling on their opponents to return to the oaths they had once sworn to the rightful emperor Gallienus. None of the marching men had gone over. Instead they had bellowed out a flow of obscenities, mainly directed at Gallienus's relationships with the barbarian girl Pippa and the philosopher Plotinus. They shouted that he defiled his mouth playing the Phoenician to the former, and all his body acting as a wife to the latter.
The military men, the Prefect of Cavalry Ragonius Clarus well to the fore, had put a positive interpretation on it all. A cavalry skirmish signified nothing. Macrianus's riders had been caught unaware, but not one soldier had left the ranks. Morale remained as high as ever.
Macrianus acknowledged he was not a military man. He always learnt what he could about any units under his command, but he was not at home in the field. Yet, even so, he was concerned at the ease with which the cavalry had given way. He half regretted leaving Ballista with Quietus — may the gods hold their hands over the boy; unlike so many, the barbarian spoke his mind. Ragonius Clarus and Censorinus had combined to allay Macrianus's apprehensions. After dark yesterday, the Princeps Peregrinorum had announced that he would go through the camp and gauge the mood of the men before going beyond the palisade and sounding out the loyalty of the enemy pickets. If anyone was considering desertion, it was likely to be the enemy. He had promised to take care, as much care as Dolon had taken in the Iliad. Macrianus had wondered at the inappositeness of the reference. Censorinus had not been seen since.
As the butchers dragged away the carcases of the sacrifices, Macrianus took up his walking stick and slowly made his way to where the imperial standards hung limp in the early morning air. His son Macrianus the Younger sat straight and true on a magnificent black charger. The boy had come on well since his elevation to the throne. He wore the purple and the radiate crown as if born to them. There was a nobility to his aquiline nose and high brow, a hint of hard service to the Res Publica in the slight bags under the eyes. If he chose occasionally to relax from the cares of empire by making small wooden toys, there had been many emperors with far more damaging pastimes.
A quiet gelding was led out. Macrianus's lame leg made riding a trial. Stoically, he let himself be helped into the saddle. Once there, he reached out and briefly gripped his son's hand. Ragonius Clarus rode up, saluted and asked permission to signal the advance.
Macrianus surveyed the scene. A broad upland valley, the road from Serdica to Naissus running through it, almost due west, a small, unnamed stream alongside the road on its left. There was a low mist over the water and, about a mile away, the enemy. A large force, but no bigger than the army with Macrianus — about thirty thousand men. It was drawn up conventionally: heavy infantry several ranks deep in the centre, bowmen behind, some light infantry with slings and javelins in front, cavalry out on the wings. The standards made a brave show all along its front. The imperial standard was not there. Gallienus had not come himself. He was further west, preoccupied with getting revenge on Postumus for the death of his son. The army was commanded by Aureolus. The red Pegasus on white banner of Gallienus's Prefect of Cavalry flew on their right wing. It was said Aureolus was supported by several leading protectores: his near-namesake and fellow Danubian Aurelian, Manu ad Ferrum; Theodotus the Egyptian; Memor the African; the siege engineer Bonitus, and the Italian Domitianus, who implausibly claimed descent from the Flavian dynasty.
The army of the Macriani was virtually a reflection of its enemy. Stationed with the thousand troopers of the Equites Singulares just behind the centre of the infantry line, Macrianus the Elder had a good view from the vantage point of his horse. Everything seemed in order. His son was looking at him. He nodded. Macrianus the Younger told Ragonius Clarus to carry on. The latter gave the command to advance.
Centurions passed the order on, bucinatores sounded their instruments, standard bearers got ready to lift.
Ragonius Clarus was shouting something over the din: 'When the mist burns off, the sun will still be low, straight in the eyes of Aureolus's men.' Macrianus was finding it hard to listen: something was wrong with the unit directly in front. It was a vexillatio from Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis. The detachment, originally five hundred men, now considerably less, had been sent east from its base at Durostorum in Moesia Inferior for Valerian's Persian campaign. The standard bearer in charge of the vexillum had pulled the standard from the ground with no problem, but as he began to walk forward, the shaft tangled his legs and he lost his balance. The vexillum tottered and fell to the ground. The men of Legio XI halted.
Ragonius Clarus had seen what had happened. He stopped talking.
A terrible omen, thought Macrianus.
Ragonius Clarus spurred his horse forward. He was bellowing: 'Vexillarius, pick the fucking thing up!' It was too late. Along the line, those unable to see what had caused the standard to go down drew the same conclusion: surrender. One after another, standards were lowered. Units halted. Legionaries, auxiliaries, barbarian allies put down their weapons. They stretched out their arms to the other side.
'Quick, this way.' Ragonius Clarus was tugging at the bridle of Macrianus's horse. 'The Pannonians are not surrendering. Quick, to the left.'
Macrianus looked around wildly to see that his son was safe. He was with them. They thundered across the ground.
'All is not lost,' Ragonius Clarus called over his shoulder. 'We can fall back on the camp.' 'All is not lost,' said Ragonius Clarus.
Outside, the setting sun was a huge orange ball. Long shadows stretched across the camp, played on the wall of the imperial tent. There was less than an hour to darkness.
Macrianus the Elder indicated that the Prefect of Cavalry should continue to address the much reduced consilium.
'We have nearly twelve thousand men: six thousand Pannonian legionaries, five thousand of Sampsigeramus's bowmen from Emesa, about half mounted, and a thousand Equites Singulares. A sizable and useful force.'
All true, thought Macrianus, but our opponents now have nearly fifty thousand men under arms. He did not let these calculations affect the attentive and quietly confident set of his face. The officers were shaken. Macrianus the Younger looked scared. Macrianus smiled reassuringly at his son.
'We have plenty of supplies. The camp is well fortified. We could withstand a siege,' continued Ragonius Clarus.
Which would merely delay things for a time, thought Macrianus. There is no army that will come and raise the siege. We stripped the east bare to raise this force. We have no allies waiting in the wings. And it is not even as if Gallienus were leading the besieging army himself. In that case, almost anything might have happened — a stray arrow kills the emperor, or supplies fail, plague breaks out, the men get sick of hard labour and privations, from one motive or another Gallienus's own troops strike him down… Sieges are dangerous times for emperors. But none of that could happen. Gallienus was safe in the west.
Outside, a man was shouting, near the imperial tent.
'Alternatively,' said Ragonius Clarus, 'we can break out. A night march to Serdica, then east. Byzantium is one of the best-fortified cities in the world. It would hold up Aureolus while we regroup further east.'
Other voices had joined the man shouting.
Macrianus was no soldier, but he knew a night march was a desperate venture, one that might destroy an army all unaided.
One of the Equites Singulares burst into the tent. 'Dominus!' Ignoring the young emperor, he spoke directly to the father. 'The Pannonians are mutinying. They are tearing the imperial portraits from the standards.'
Age cast aside, barely using his stick, Macrianus burst from the tent. The trooper was right: there was an ugly crowd around the standards of Legio II Adiutrix. The images of the young emperors were in the dust. Macrianus walked boldly up and halted a few paces from the mutineers. The noise dropped to a low, menacing muttering. Macrianus was pleased when, unbidden, his son came to stand at his shoulder. The boy was no coward. The show of unity might help. If ever they had needed help, it was now. Macrianus would have offered a brief prayer, but there was no time.
'Commilitiones.' Macrianus's voice carried well, betrayed no panic. 'Commilitiones, this is not how the men of Legio II Adiutrix behave. Would the men who crushed the Batavians, ventured beyond the ocean to conquer Britain, drove the Dacian king from his throne, and sacked the Parthian capital of Ctesiphon have behaved like this? The legionaries of Legio II Adiutrix do not mutiny like a bunch of eastern auxiliaries or Arab tribesmen.'
Macrianus was not sure if he was winning them over. At least they had not offered any violence so far.
'You have taken the sacramentum to my sons. We have paid you the donative we promised. My son
