He had got no further when an exceptionally strong gust of wind tore one of the purple hangings from the front of the dais. It eddied for a moment. An imperial servant ran after it. A second gust sent it skidding along the ground, to come to rest where the injured Aurelian stood, leaning on a walking stick. The Danubian picked it up and handed it to the slave.
There was a slight stir at the back of the dais, but most of the men standing there had not risen high in the imperial service by exhibiting obvious interest in things that might be interpreted as dangerous omens. The emperor himself had paused, but he did not deign to look directly at the incident. Now the servant had retrieved the bit of cloth, Valerian continued.
'From the very earliest times, the west has been relentlessly attacked by the cruelty, avarice and lust of the east. First, duplicitous Phoenicians who sailed to Greece under the pretence of trade abducted Io, daughter of King Inachus of Argos. Since then, Mardonius, Xerxes, and now Shapur, in their pride have led innumerable Asiatic hordes against us.
'There have been times when oriental cunning and treachery have brought defeat to the west. The aged Roman general Crassus betrayed and beheaded at Carrhae. The agonies of hunger and fear suffered by Mark Antony and his men on the retreat from Phraata in Media. A few years ago, in the time of troubles, the defeat at Barbalissos, the sack of so many cities, including mighty Antioch herself. Last autumn, the fall of Arete.
'But there have been many, many victories won by open western courage and disciplina. From the Athenians of old burning Sardis to the Roman emperors Trajan and Septimius Severus sacking Ctesiphon, the capital of the oriental despot.
'And there will be more western victories. Make no mistake, war is coming, all-out war. The insolence of Shapur, the so-called King of Kings, must be crushed once and for all. It will not be this year or next, there are many preparations to make, many things at home to set in order but, soon, your emperor at your head, we will march east and finish the Persian menace for ever.'
Valerian paused to allow for the required cheering. After a time he waved a hand to quieten the army. 'You, the victors of Circesium, must have your rewards.' The aged emperor had their attention now.
'After your labours, you deserve rest, a time of pleasure. Every man in the victorious army will receive five days' leave. Your valour deserves recognition. When you return to the standards you will each be issued with a new red military tunic.'
When the soldiers were sure the emperor had stopped, they cheered again, rather less enthusiastically.
'The officers – just as their duties are greater, so should be their honours. Each officer in command of a unit will be presented with a silver-ornamented swordbelt.' There was a most perfunctory cheer.
'Your commander, the Dux Ripae, Marcus Clodius Ballista, must be praised for the rigours of the army's training, the dedication with which he kept order on the march down the Euphrates. To him will be presented a golden armlet weighing seven ounces, a gilded silver clasp, and four handkerchiefs from Sarepta.
'In every battle there is a time when all hangs in the balance. Our sacred majesty is well informed that, at Circesium, the moment was seized by one of the noblest of young Romans. With no thought for his own safety, on his own initiative the Legate Gaius Acilius Glabrio led a daring charge against overwhelming odds which shattered the Sassanid army. To our most dear Gaius Acilius Glabrio we will present a golden collar weighing one pound, a golden clasp with a Cyprian pin, and a white part-silk tunic ornamented with purple from Girba.'
As the old emperor, accompanied by Macrianus the Lame, made his way to his carriage, the army repeatedly chanted, 'Valerian Augustus, long may you live!'
The men in the ranks were chanting loud enough, but Ballista knew they were not happy. They had five days' leave, but no donative, no gift of money, in their hands to spend on drink and women. As for being given a military cloak, the Comes Sacrorum Largitionum was responsible for supplying clothes to the army. Several thousand new cloaks must be some scheme of Macrianus the Lame to further enrich himself. The majority of the officers also were unlikely to be thrilled. An ornamental sword belt seemed a tawdry reward.
At least one man in the army would be delighted, Ballista thought sourly. Despite disobeying orders, despite putting the entire army at risk and throwing away the chance to wipe out the Sassanid army, Gaius Acilius Glabrio, with his patrician glamour and excellent contacts at court, had somehow emerged as the hero of the battle of Circesium. Publicly honoured and flattered, there could be no doubt he stood high in imperial favour.
Equally, there was no doubt where Valerian's speech left Ballista himself. The inclusion of Arete in the list of western defeats, the faint praise for his training and ordering of the army, the lack of kind words and, above all, the demonstrable inferiority of his gifts compared with those of Acilius Glabrio, showed clearly that he had lost imperial favour. The gods alone knew how long it would be before he might get a chance to win it back – if ever.
'Valerian Augustus, long may you live!' As the imperial carriage left the campus martius, the chanting died away. Vicarius Proconsularis (Summer AD258-Spring AD259)
'For it is written, 'I shall destroy the wisdom of the wise, and bring to nothing the learning of the learned.' Where is the wise man now? Where is the scribe? Where is the investigator of the present age?' – Paul of Tarsus, I Corinthians I. 19-21
XIII
The imperial summons came early on a July morning one thousand and ten years ab urbe condita, since the founding of Rome. It was over a year since Valerian had addressed the returning army of the Dux Ripae, over a year since Ballista had lost the favour of the emperor. In all that time, apart from being told to remain in Antioch, he had received no further orders, no command to attend the imperial consilium. He had been ignored.
At first Ballista had been happy enough in his unlooked-for freedom, away from the court and the poisonous intrigues that surrounded the vice-regent of the gods. He had money. Technically, he was still the Dux Ripae. His stipendium was still paid. He had peace. The sons of Macrianus the Lame made no new attempts on his life – the northerner was convinced they had been behind the assassin with the scar on his hand. Ballista had time to do all the things that made him happy. He had played with his son, made love with his wife, eaten a great deal of seafood, passed whole days reading.
True, the social life of a man cast out from the imperial circle was somewhat reduced. Not all want to be seen to be too close to such a man. Ballista had spent more than a usual amount of time in waterfront bars with Maximus. Yet Aurelian and the Danubian circle had not deserted him. He had gone drinking and, once Aurelian's injury had healed, hunting with them. They went searching for lion and tiger in the mountains. Sometimes they even took Julia and Isangrim with them. They found only fallow deer. However, there were always ostrich and humped ox out on the plains towards the lake.
But a year is a long time. Although he would hardly admit it to himself, Ballista had found that a life of unremitting otium, leisured peace, can begin to drag. There are only so many times you can eat your favourite fish dinner. Of course, he told himself, things would have been very different if he had been at home, either in Tauromenium in Sicily, or his birthplace in the far north.
The imperial summons, when it came, was a complete surprise. The emperor wished Marcus Clodius Ballista to attend him. He should bring his letter of appointment as Dux Ripae.
As Ballista walked into the great courtyard of the imperial palace, the water clock struck. Four golden spheres rested at the bottom of the stake, held by the gilded statue on top of the inner gate. At least he would not be late.
Something in the conviction of his stride conveyed itself to the throngs of petitioners, who moved out of the way. Near the inner gate, he had to check his pace as a party of northern barbarians were slow to step aside. For a few seconds, he suspected they might be Borani, but a sharp look revealed the striped clothes and elaborate hairstyles of northern Germania. It was just the habitual truculence of a group of Franks.
At the foot of the steps, the sight of the imperial codicil in his hand parted the ranks of the silentarii. The praetorians saluted and opened the doors. A eunuch appeared to lead him down the long peristyle. Their footfalls echoed. Statues of long-dead, deified emperors – Augustus, Claudius and Trajan among them – gazed down impassively as the heavy doors shut behind them.
