Ballista felt pain as a handful of his hair was torn out.
Quietus fell, arms and legs flailing hopelessly as he scraped down the sheer stone wall and on to the hard, unforgiving rocks below.
No noise behind Ballista. He had not been attacked. He turned slowly. He was unarmed. He had even dropped the stylus.
The two Praetorians faced him. Swords drawn.
A pool of blood flowed out from where one of the easterners lay. It began to drip and then run over the top step. The other Emesene was nowhere to be seen.
Ballista looked at the Praetorians. One of them had a distinctive angular face, a huge hooked nose.
The Praetorians looked at each other, then back at Ballista.
As one, they reversed swords, held the hilts out, and shouted.
'Ave Caesar! Ave Imperator Marcus Clodius Ballista Augustus!'
An imperium of three men, one of them the emperor. There had been ten subjects, the whole contubernium stationed at the Tower of Desolation, but Ballista had sent one to each of the six legions, and one each to Castricius and Rutilus. None of them had come back. He was left standing at the base of the tower with Ahala and Malchus, the two Praetorians who had originally hailed him emperor.
Ballista laughed at the improbability of his elevation. An unarmed barbarian. He'd even left the stylus somewhere up on the battlements. A new Augustus with ten followers. Now down to two. It was good that the Emesene cavalrymen had run away when Quietus was killed. But this could still be a very short reign.
There came the sound of running feet. Hobnailed boots, jingling harness. Soldiers, coming fast, and not a few of them. It could be a very short reign indeed.
Ballista saw Ahala and Malchus look at each other. Any misgivings now were futile. Their fate was bound to his like a dog to a cart.
The soldiers came round the corner — from their shields, men of Legio XVI Flavia Firma. There were about forty of them, headed by a centurion. In the reduced circumstances of the army, it was what passed for a century. The legionaries had drawn swords. They were in no doubt where they were headed. They were running purposefully.
'Titus went to them,' said Malchus. 'He is bringing them to us.'
'I do not see him,' said Ahala.
Malchus looked beseechingly at Ahala. The latter shook his angular head. There was nothing to do. The two who first hailed a failed pretender had nowhere to run.
Sunlight flashed on the advancing blades.
The centurion flung up his right hand.
The legionaries halted. Five, six paces away. They were panting. They were tired, but they were ready to kill — they had that wildness about them.
'Dominus.' The centurion saluted. He was not young. The impressive array of awards on his armour rattled as his chest heaved. 'Dominus, Sampsigeramus has declared himself emperor. He has ordered the palace fortified. He is leading troops to sieze the temple of Elagabalus.'
There had been no acclamation, no proskynesis, but the centurion had called Ballista Dominus. As emperor or as prefect? The thing hung in the balance. But clearly he would rather lead his men on the orders of Ballista than the priest-king of Emesa.
'Do you know how many men he has with him, Centurion?' Ballista's voice was calm, competent.
'No idea, Dominus. There has been fighting. Sampsigeramus's men attacked some of those who would not take the sacramentum to him.'
'Does he have Romans as well as Emesenes?'
'We saw some from Legio III Gallica, some auxiliaries as well.'
It was not a huge surprise. Legio III Gallica had been the local legion for a long time. It had supported other pretenders — Heliogabalus, Iotapianus, Uranius Antoninus — from the royal house of Emesa.
'Have any of the Emesene troops refused to acknowledge him?'
'Not that I know, Dominus.'
The Actium trick, thought Ballista, we will have to try that. Octavian, the first Augustus, had declared war not on Mark Antony but on Cleopatra. Turn a civil war into a foreign one. Any Romans on the other side have been so corrupted by decadent foreign ways, just like Antony, they have ceased to count as Romans.
'Men coming, Dominus,' said Ahala.
These soldiers were marching without undue haste. They were from a regular auxiliary unit, Dacian spearmen, about eighty of them. They stopped as one and saluted smartly. With the hope of a donative, they moved as if on a parade ground.
'Ave Imperator Caesar Marcus Clodius Ballista.'
Their centurion introduced himself and announced that imperial regalia must be found: the diadem and purple cloak, the sacred fire, the wreaths of oak and laurel. And lictors, there must be the right number of lictors carrying the fasces.
Ballista thanked him, but said finding him some arms and armour was more pressing. This went down well with all the milites present. Ballista sent a couple of legionaries to Hippothous at the rented house for his equipment, and another one to the Palmyra Gate to talk to Castricius. He had been going to send one to check the gaol when he remembered that Sampsigeramus had fortified the palace.
Now Ballista had about a hundred and twenty men with him. He knew more were prepared to fight Sampsigeramus, were already fighting him. Time for a speech while they got his armour, then off to try the luck of war at the temple of Elagabalus.
'Commilitiones' — Ballista's voice was used to reaching the rear ranks — 'The tryant is dead! I killed him with my bare hands — these hands.' He paused while they cheered. 'I had no thought except to free the army and the Res Publica from his foul actions, the filthy actions that degraded us all. When the soldiers hailed me emperor, I could not have been more surprised. I have no desire for the high office. I would walk away now, but the situation does not allow it. The Res Publica is in deadly danger again. The tyrant may be dead, but his teacher in tyranny — or should we say his husband? — is alive. Sampsigeramus, this cinaedus, this sniggering little easterner, is not only alive, but he has the audacity to claim the purple! These arrogant orientals never learn. We all know what happened to his kinsman Heliogabalus — dragged through the streets by a hook, then stuffed into a sewer.'
'The hook, the hook… drag him, drag him.'
Ballista waved his arm for silence. The chanting stopped as if performed by a well-trained chorus.
'And who supports him? A bunch of easterners like himself.'
The soldiers jeered — no matter where they came from, their primary identity was Roman soldier.
'Wait,' shouted Ballista. 'Do not get overconfident. We have a dangerous fight on our hands. These easterners are tough — they only ever wear the thinnest silks. And they have stamina — they must have to take it up the arse all night.'
The soldiers liked this stuff. Ballista knew it was all bollocks. But the soldiers liked this stuff.
'If you come across any from Legio III Gallica, do not worry. They have been out here so long, they have gone native. They are worse than the natives — taught the locals how to suck cock. Not one of them did not start his life abandoned on a dung heap in a back street of Raphanaea or some such Syrian shithole.'
'Fuck them, fuck them…'
'It is time to go and pull this effeminate off the throne. Sampsigeramus is hiding in the temple of Elagabalus. The god will not help him. We will drag him out and kill him.'
'Drag him, drag him… the hook, the hook.'
'Remember the temple is sacrosanct. Any soldier pillaging it will suffer the harshest penalty. But the palace is not. After we have dealt with Sampsigeramus, shall we see what we can find there?'
'Dives miles, dives miles.'
'After I have had a look at his treasury — all the wealth taken by the avarice of Quietus's father — a donative to the loyal troops will be announced.'
'Rich soldier, rich soldier.'
Hippothous and some other men had appeared with Ballista's weapons and armour, his original bird-crested
