could hurt.
Despite the shade, it was hot. Soon Quietus and his delicate eastern priest-king needed a rest. At a word, work was suspended. A couch was brought out and they reclined between the mountain of luxuries and the half- built pyre. They sipped drinks chilled with the snow of Mount Libanus.
Ballista stood rigid. Castricius and Jucundus did the same. They were unarmed, ringed by guards, prey to justified fears. Quietus's words at their last meeting ran round and round in Ballista's thoughts: by dawn, the Lion of the Sun would be dead, or others would suffer. The northerner pictured the senator Astyrius in the gloom of the temple; his headless trunk in the pooling blood. Rather that happen to himself, here and now in this sweltering courtyard, than any harm come to his boys. Let this be over. It was the waiting that always threatened to unman you. Calm, calm. In a way, what was life but one long wait for the final, horrible thing?
At long last, Quietus waved a long-sleeved arm to summon them over. They got up from proskynesis. The sand of the yard had been watered to keep the dust down. It fell in crumbling lumps from the front of their tunics.
Quietus gestured, palm limply up, at a painting. Ballista recognized it as the one from the consilium in the palace at Antioch: The Wedding of Alexander by Aetion.
'What do you think it means?' Quietus asked.
The three officers may have had views, but they kept quiet.
'My dear Sampsigeramus thinks it shows how love and sex can make even the most warlike men, such as the great conqueror, forget the battlefield and soften their bellicose natures.'
Quietus gently ran his hand through Sampsigeramus's hair. 'My dear boy is too trusting. Look what those cupids are doing. Some of them distract Alexander by pulling the clothes off Roxanne. The others drag away his weapons out of reach. All the while, two men stand behind him, another peers around the door. Treachery — it is nothing but an allegory of treachery.'
The awning snapped in the silence.
'Nothing has been spared me,' Quietus complained. 'No disappointment, no treachery, no dishonour, no betrayal. Maeonius Astyanax, Pomponius Bassus, even that weak old fool Theodorus — all traitors. At least Fabius Labeo is discovering the ultimate wages of treachery.'
Quietus suddenly spread his hands wide, palms up. 'And where is the Lion of the Sun this morning? Is he grovelling in the dirt at my feet? Instead, the three of you stand here. Tell me, why did last night's raid end in ignominious failure? What was it if not yet more treachery?'
'No, Dominus.' Ballista was surprised how resolute his voice sounded. 'The Palmyrenes were vigilant. Our men were ill-disciplined. It was bad luck. No treachery.'
'That cannot be.' Quietus was adamant. 'Someone must be held accountable, or the world may think this failure reflects on our own majesty. Our maiestas must be sacrosanct.' His gaze flicked feverishly over the three officers. 'And one of you has already shown himself a traitor.'
The three men stood very still. More Emesene guards appeared from the corners of the yard. The officers were surrounded. There was nothing languid about these easterners. There was the slither of swords being drawn. The Romans stood empty-handed.
Ballista measured the distance to the imperial couch. Five, six paces. A ring of armed guards in the way. He had no weapon. Try to shoulder through, take the wounds. Get to the couch. Grab the ornamental dagger on the emperor's belt. Use it to kill Quietus. Hold the blade to Sampsigeramus's throat. The guards were his men. Bargain for a safe passage.
It was hopeless. Ballista knew he would not get two steps.
'Nothing spared… no betrayal,' Quietus said softly.
The three officers were rigid, waiting.
Quietus thrust out a finger at Jucundus. 'You' — his voice was low — 'you have been comforting my enemies. My enemy's friend is my enemy.'
The centurion knew his life hung on what he said. 'Dominus, I have done no such thing. A malicious informer must have made a false accusation.'
Quietus, quiet as an owl, looked at him.
'Dominus.' The strain showed in Jucundus's voice. 'Dominus, the delator must be in the pay of Odenathus — trying to remove your loyal officers.'
'Not at all,' said Quietus. 'What you did is widely known. You have not even made a secret of it.'
Jucundus was silent.
'You cannot deny taking all manner of comforts into the prison for Ballista.' Quietus smirked like a man who has made a winning throw at dice.
Ballista reacted first. 'But, Dominus,' he exclaimed, 'I am not your enemy. I am one of your Praetorian Prefects. You have entrusted me with the defence of the city.'
'All true now,' Quietus shouted, 'but not true then. Then I thought you were my enemy — that is enough. Jucundus openly succoured a traitor, threatened the gaoler that he better treat the traitor well, betrayed all my trust.' Quietus was almost screaming; flecks of spittle flew from his lips. 'What price loyalty when my wishes are openly mocked?'
Ballista persevered. 'You trust me to command Emesa. Jucundus is one of my most trusted officers.'
'You boast of your loyalty? Well, prove it now. Take a sword and execute the traitor Jucundus.'
A guard stood forward, reversed his sword, held the hilt out towards the Romans.
Ballista did not move.
'Cut him down, or you will die with him.'
A rasp of steel. Quick as a snake, Jucundus had the sword in hand. Its owner leapt back.
The Emesene guards crouched, ready to fight, just waiting for a move or a word of command.
Jucundus changed his grip, thrust the tip of the blade up under his breastbone.
'I will die like a man, not for your amusement.' Jucundus's eyes did not leave Quietus. 'You will die worse. I pray to the gods to be avenged.'
Jucundus threw himself forward. The hilt hit the sand. The blade tore up into his innards. He writhed sideways, groaning in agony.
Ballista found himself on his knees by Jucundus. 'Finish it,' the dying man whispered. Ballista prised the hands loose from the hilt. He twisted the blade, withdrew it, thrust again. Jucundus sighed a great sigh and died.
Ballista got to his feet. The knees of his trousers were soaked in blood. The reeking sword was still in his hand.
The guards hefted their weapons.
Ballista dropped the sword. It thudded on to the stained, fouled sand.
'For I too am dust…,' Quietus mused. 'Life does not forgive weakness… You two return to your duties.'
They recovered their weapons and armour. They left Jucundus's where they lay. Outside, they shouldered the general guilt of the survivor and their own sharper, more specific, individual guilts. They walked. Briefly, they were alone. Ballista put his arm around Castricius's shoulder and talked low and fast into his ear. Castricius turned off to his headquarters above the Palmyra Gate. Ballista walked on to the Tower of Desolation. He climbed the winding staircase. There were six Praetorians on lookout, about all the fighting top could comfortably hold. Ballista told one of them to go and get Calgacus; the freedman was to bring his patronus a papyrus roll, ink and stylus as well as his best, favourite black cloak. Ballista leant forward, settled his elbows on the low parapet and waited.
When Calgacus appeared, Ballista dismissed all the Praetorians.
'Quietus killed Jucundus.' There was no need for preamble.
'I heard.'
'Of the three of us, he was the innocent one. He was gone when I told Castricius to make sure one of the artillery pieces was released early.'
'I know it. But there is nothing to be done about it now.'
'Quietus is building a pyre in the palace.'
'Many men will kill themselves rather than be taken alive — the Romans make a cult of it.' Calgacus shrugged. 'Sooner the fucker is on it the better.'
'It is not just himself he intends to kill,' said Ballista.
Calgacus pursed his lips.
