Time to go. As Ballista walked across, a groom hastened up with a mounting block. The northerner thanked him but waved him away. Even in armour, he swung up easily enough into the saddle. His leg was much better. He arranged the imperial cloak, settled the diadem on his head. Leaning forward, he patted Pale Horse's neck, murmured into his ears. Who would have thought we would wear the purple? Enjoy it — like holding a wolf by the ears.
There had been little time. With the death of Sampsigeramus, his supporters — the Emesene warriors, the men of the detachment of Legio III Gallica and the few Roman auxiliaries who had favoured him — had all put down their arms. Yet there had been much to do. Looting had broken out and had to be suppressed. A few high-profile beheadings, nothing too harsh — a dozen outside the palace and the temple, and a similar number in the agora — had taken care of that. Groups of individuals and whole units had left their stations on the city walls. They had been chivvied back into place. A large donative had to be promised to the soldiers and was then paid out of the treasures found in the palace. The family of Sampsigeramus was wealthy, and Quietus's father, Macrianus the Lame, had always been efficient in gathering money. Now, for a brief time until the bar and brothel owners took it, the milites were dives indeed. At a more exalted level, the army high command had been confirmed: Rutilus remained Praetorian Prefect and Castricius Prefect of Cavalry.
All the soldiers, from Rutilus as Praetorian Prefect to the lowest Emesene militiaman, had hurriedly taken the sacramentum. One from each unit had recited the oath: 'By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the emperor's commands, never desert the standards or shirk death, to value the safety of the emperor above everything.' Then all the others had shouted, 'Me too!' It had always struck Ballista as slightly comic, but when addressed to himself, it came close to a ludicrous mime or farce.
Then there were the issues of familiarity and contempt. To how many emperors had these men given their oath? For a veteran nearing the end of his twenty years, there would have been a horde of imperatores: Gordian III, Philip the Arab, Decius, Gallus, Aemilianus, Valerian, Gallienus, Macrianus and Quietus. And that was if he had not followed any of the many ephemeral pretenders such as Iotapianus or Uranius Antoninus. And now there was Imperator Caesar Marcus Clodius Ballista Augustus.
So many oaths given. So many oaths broken. The new emperor knew all about that. Gone is the trust to be placed in oaths; I cannot understand if the gods you swore by then no longer rule, or if men live by new standards of what is right?
Ballista made a sign. Ahala rode up behind him and unfurled the northerner's white draco. The Equites Singulares fell in behind Ahala. Ballista waved, and they set off.
The streets were muted. Both soldiers and civilians acknowledged the cavalcade, yet the cheers were tentative, uncertain, and those he passed performed the lesser form of proskynesis. Of course, they knew the purpose of Ballista's ride — even if the outcome was in deepest doubt.
At the Palmyra Gate, the others were waiting on horseback. Ballista dismissed the cavalry guard, except for his new standard bearer. He spoke briefly with Castricius, who was to remain behind to ensure order in Emesa. Leaning far out of the saddle, they embraced and said farewell.
Ballista looked down the line at who would go with him. Ahala carried the draco directly behind him. Then, in columns of twos, were Rutilus and three senatorial governors. It had not only been the army Ballista had had to conciliate. Fabius Labeo, the noble and surprisingly resilient governor of Syria Coele, would probably have been grateful enough just to have been released from his iron cage over the northern gate. But he, like Cornicula of Syria Phoenice and Achaeus of Syria Palestina, had received substantial material inducements to join the new regime. It slightly rankled with Ballista. He had a healthy dislike of the religious bigot Achaeus but, ultimately, it was not his money. The avarice and ruthless efficiency of Macrianus the Lame had proved useful. For the moment at least, the three governors followed Ballista Augustus.
The gates squealed open. As he rode under the tall arch, Ballista saw the sculptures of the eagle, altar and black stone of Elagabalus and the innumerable scratched prayers for a safe journey. It was not his god, and it was not his way. Allfather, Deep Hood, Death-blinder, keep your one eye on your descendant.
The little column of six riders went on. Past the stark, stained crosses, the ornamented tombs of the necropolis. Across two hundred paces of no-man's land. Through the lines of the besieging Palmyrene army. Dark eyes, expressionless faces watched them. Up to the open space in front of the great tent, where the many standards flew.
The Lion of the Sun was seated on the ivory-trimmed curule throne of a high Roman magistrate. Odenathus was backed by his court. On one hand were his chief minister Verodes, two of his generals, Zabda and Haddudad, and the son by his first marriage, Haeranes — now grown into an active-looking young man. On the other stood the Romans: Pomponius Bassus, governor of Cappadocia; Virius Lupus, governor of Arabia; and Maeonius Astyanax, sometime Praetorian Prefect of the rebels Macrianus and Quietus — may their names everywhere suffer damnatio memoriae. In the background, but determined not to be left out, was his current wife. Zenobia was holding by the hand their infant son, Vaballathus, or Wahballat, as some called him. With her were a couple of earnest, hirsute men in Greek dress.
The entourage of the Lord of Tadmor was splendid in burnished steel, gilded armour and bright, nodding plumes. But the open space was dominated by someone else. More than half lifesize, the emperor Gallienus stood to one side. Brows furrowed, eyes hooded, the statue looked down on the scene. Ballista was reminded of a story that the successors of Alexander could only be brought to meet together if presided over by the empty chair of the great Macedonian.
Ballista dismounted. Those behind him did the same. Grooms took their horses away. Ballista took a couple of paces forward and stopped.
Odenathus rose from the curule chair. He was wearing a western-style corselet with big, buckled-down shoulder guards. On his arms and legs were cunningly embroidered eastern tunic and trousers. A golden brooch on his right shoulder secured a scarlet cloak; it was matched by a scarlet sash tied around his waist. His left hand was closed around the hilt of his long sword. The pommel was in the shape of a flower. The Lion of the Sun was magnificent, his painted face inscrutable.
The two principals regarded each other, in the background the unnatural silence of the crowd, the hiss and snap of the standards, the silica sounds of the breeze moving the sands — patterns fleeting across the surface.
Ballista walked to the statue of Gallienus. Under his long nose, Gallienus's beak-like mouth seemed set in disapproval. Ballista unclasped his purple cloak and set it at the feet of the statue. Then he took off his diadem and placed the strip of white material on top of the cloak.
Slowly, Ballista performed proskynesis in front of the statue. He got up and turned back to Odenathus.
In a confident, strong-voiced Latin, Ballista began: 'For the safety of the Res Publica, the soldiers demanded that I take power. Having killed the usurper, I now lay down all my power at the feet of my rightful emperor Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus Augustus. I give myself to his clementia in the person of his Corrector totius Orientis, Odenathus of Palmyra.'
At long last, the Lion of the Sun spoke. 'How slowly and painfully should I kill a man who has the arrogance to assume the trappings of imperial power?'
Ballista stood where he was.
'Or there again, no.' Odenathus smiled. 'By the maius imperium over the eastern provinces entrusted in me by Gallienus Augustus, I declare Marcus Clodius Ballista innocent of any and all charges of maiestas.'
The two men stepped forward, and formally embraced.
'Let them come out,' Odenathus called over his shoulder.
Isangrim, Dernhelm — his darling boys — Julia, and Maximus, Calgacus; all here, all safe.
'The throne of the Caesars is too high an eminence for weaklings like Quietus, or even for men like us,' said the Lion of the Sun.
Safe back in the arms of his familia, Ballista agreed.
And all unnoticed at the back, Zenobia scowled and whispered to Maeonius Astyanax.
