I
Ballista wanted to be a good Roman. Woden the Allfather knew he did. But it was difficult. At times like these it was almost impossible. How could they stand the stupid rules and ridiculous rituals, the stifling impediments of civilization? If a wounded man coated in the dust of nineteen days of almost non-stop travel rode up to the imperial palace in Antioch, staggered slightly as he dismounted, and said that he had news for the emperor's ears only, news of the terrible Persian enemy, you would think that the courtiers might usher him without delay into the presence of the Augustus.
'I am most abjectly sorry, most high Dominus, but only those specifically invited to the sacred consilium of the emperor Valerian Augustus can be admitted.' The fat eunuch was adamant.
'I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome. I have ridden non-stop from the Euphrates, and I have news of the Sassanid Persian enemy that the emperor needs to hear.' There was a clear dangerous edge to Ballista's voice.
'I could not be more abjectly sorry, most noble Dux, but it is impossible.' The eunuch was sweating hard but, metaphorically, he did not lack balls. He was standing his ground.
Ballista could feel his anger rising. He breathed deeply. 'Then pass a message to the emperor that I am outside and need to speak to him and his advisors.'
The eunuch spread his hands wide in a gesture of desolation. 'I fear that it is beyond my powers. Only the ab Admissionibus could authorize such a thing.' Rings – gold, amethyst, garnets – glittered on his chubby fingers.
'Then tell the ab Admissionibus to give Valerian the message.'
A look of genuine shock appeared on the heavily jowled face – no one in the court would dream of baldly referring to the emperor by just one of his names. 'Oh no, the ab Admissionibus is not here.'
Ballista looked around the courtyard. Brick dust hung thick in the air. From somewhere came the sound of hammering. At the foot of the steps stood four silentarii, their title eloquent of their function – no man should disturb the sacred calm of the imperial deliberations. They were backed by a dozen praetorian guardsmen by the great doors at the top of the steps. There was no chance that Ballista could force his way into the imperial presence. He listened to the hammering. Although it was almost a year to the day since Ballista had been at the new imperial palace at Antioch, it was still unfinished and much would have changed. There was no real likelihood that he could expect to find an unguarded way to sneak in among the confusion of builders. He knew that his fatigue was making his grip on his temper tenuous. As he rounded again on the functionary barring his way, the eunuch began to talk.
'Not all members of the consilium are here yet. The ab Admissionibus is expected at any moment, Dominus. Perhaps you might speak to him.' The eunuch's smile was placating; his expression was like that of a dog which fears a beating and bares its teeth.
At Ballista's nod the eunuch quickly turned and waddled away.
Ballista looked at the heavens, then closed his eyes as his tiredness provoked a wave of nausea. 'For fuck's sake,' he said in the language of his native Germania.
Opening his eyes, Ballista again looked round the courtyard. The large, dusty square was crowded with men from all over the imperium of the Romans. There were men in Roman togas, Greeks in tunics and cloaks, Gauls and Celt-Iberians in trousers. Other groups clearly came from beyond the borders. There were Indians in turbans, Scythians in tall, pointed hats, Africans in colourful robes. Wherever the emperors went, the business of the empire followed them in the form of innumerable embassies. There were embassies from communities within the empire waiting to ask for benefits, both straightforwardly tangible – relief from taxation or from the billeting of troops – and more symbolic: honorific titles or the right to enlarge their town council. And there were embassies from further away, from the so-called 'friendly kings', wanting help against their neighbours or financial subsidies. They always wanted financial subsidies. Now the empire was reeling – attacked on all its frontiers, rebellions breaking out in province after province – those near enough to raid across the borders always got their subsidies.
'Excuse me.' Ballista was exhausted. He had not noticed the man approach.
'I heard you speak in our language.' The man was smiling the smile of someone who thinks that he has come across one of his own race a long way from home. His accent pointed to one of the southern German tribes, one down by the Danube or the Black Sea. It put Ballista on his guard.
'I am Videric, son of Fritigern, the King of the Borani. I am my father's ambassador to the Romans.'
There was a silence. Ballista pulled himself up to his not inconsiderable full height.
'I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the Warleader of the Angles. The Romans know me as Marcus Clodius Ballista.'
The look on Videric's face changed to something very different. Automatically, his hand went to his hip, where the hilt of his sword should rest. It was not there. Like Ballista's, like all other weapons, it had been taken by the praetorians on the front gate.
Two other Borani came up and flanked Videric. The three warriors glowered. They looked much alike: big powerful men, long fair hair to their shoulders, a surfeit of gold rings on their arms.
'You bastard,' Videric spat. Ballista stood his ground. 'You fucking bastard.'
Ballista looked at the three angry men. He had sent his own men, his bodyguard Maximus and the others, to the barracks. He was alone. Yet there was little immediate to worry about. The praetorians did not encourage those waiting in the hope of seeing the emperor to fight among themselves.
'Last year in the Aegean, two longboats of Borani warriors, and you only spared about a dozen to sell as slaves.' Videric's face was very pale.
'Men die in war. It happens.' Ballista kept his voice neutral.
'You shot them down when they could not resist.'
'They would not surrender.'
Videric stepped forward. One of the other Borani put a hand on his arm to restrain him. Videric gave Ballista a look of complete contempt. 'And that is why we Borani are here to collect our tribute from the Romans. While you…' Words failed him for a moment. Then he laughed, a harsh snort. 'While you wait like a slave for your orders. Maybe your Roman master will see you after he has handed his gold to us.'
'I live in hope,' Ballista replied.
'One day we will meet again where there are no Roman guardsmen to protect you. There is a bloodfeud between us.'
'As I said, I always live in hope.' Ballista turned his back on them and walked away to the centre of the great courtyard. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you.
A deep metallic boom rang out from the inner gate. Ballista turned. Around him all conversation died as almost everyone turned and gazed up at the gate. High up on the second storey was a gilded statue of a naked man. In his right hand the statue held a tall stake. Nine large golden spheres were suspended at the top of the stake; three more rested at the bottom. Despite his fatigue, Ballista found the mechanical water clock caught his attention. Obviously, one of the spheres slid down at the start of each of the twelve hours of daylight. It was the third hour. Conventionally, this was when the salutatio, the time for receiving visitors, ended and the courts began to sit. The autocratic powers of the emperors had long ago blurred such distinctions.
As the reverberations died away a low hum of talk returned. The water clock was new. It had not been there a year earlier. The engineer in Ballista made a mental note to find out how it worked. He looked away, scanning the courtyard. The great fortress-like walls with their embedded Corinthian columns dwarfed the crowd. The Borani were near the inner gate, still gawping up open-mouthed. Ballista moved away towards the outer gate.
A small group of peasants, thin men in much-patched tunics, shifted to one side as Ballista sat on the ground. The big northerner settled himself to wait. His elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, he shut his eyes. The sun was warm on his back. The peasants started talking softly in a language Ballista did not know. He thought it was Syriac.
His mind drifted. Once again he saw the flames engulf the city, the strong south wind pull long streamers of fire into the night sky, the eruption of sparks as a roof gave way. Once again he saw the city of Arete die. The city that he had been charged to defend.
Inexorably, Ballista's thoughts turned to the nightmare flight from Arete. The hellish, relentless pursuit through
