the desert. His sword slicing into Titus' guts. The trooper gasping out his life breath. The vicious fight at the Horns of Ammon. Then two days crossing the mountains. Hunched in the saddle, sharp, gnawing hunger driving out all other thoughts. Their staggering journey from one brackish watering hole to another.
Ballista's thoughts moved on. Down from the mountains at last. The first Roman-held village. Clean water, food, a bath, the news that the emperor Valerian had set up his court in Antioch. Then on down a broad Roman highway to the caravan city of Palmyra. And there he had left Bathshiba. Left her and Haddudad. It had been a hurried, tense parting for the three of them, with much left unsaid. There had been little time to say anything, and Ballista had lacked the words. He had not known what he wanted to say.
The rest of the journey had been physically easy. Good Roman roads all the way. West from Palmyra to the next great caravan city of Emesa. Then north up the lush valley of the Orontes River. Ballista again felt the motion of the horse under him as they plodded through the water-meadows towards Antioch, towards the imperial court and the report that he must give today. The city fell. The Sassanid Persians took it. I failed. Click, drag, step. Click, drag, step.
The sounds jerked Ballista awake.
From under the arch of the outer gate came Macrianus. Click went his walking stick, his lame foot dragged, and his sound one took a step. Click, drag, step. The crowds parted as he moved into the courtyard. He was followed at a couple of paces by two other men in togas. In all bar one respect they were younger images of himself; the same long, straight nose, the receding chin, the pouches under the eyes. But the sons of Macrianus walked easily. There was a lithe, confident swagger in their step. Ballista had never seen the sons before, but he had met Macrianus once or twice.
Marcus Fulvius Macrianus may have been old and lame, and his low birth was widely known, but he was not to be taken lightly. As Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, Count of the Sacred Largess, as well as being in charge of clothing the court, the army and the civil service – the imperial dye works answered to him – he controlled all the money taxes in the imperium, the gold and silver mines, the mints that produced the coinage and, most potent of all, he paid both the regular cash salaries of soldiers and officials and the not infrequent donatives to the military. As Praefectus Annonae, Prefect of the Grain Supply, he fed the city of Rome and the imperial court. He had agents and depots in every province of the imperium. More to the point, he had the ear of the emperors.
Macrianus had risen high. Now he shone in the sunlight, his toga gleaming white, the golden head of Alexander the Great which topped his walking stick flashing. Click, drag, step. Neither he nor his sons looked right or left as they made their way towards the inner gate and the imperial consilium.
Ballista hauled himself stiffly to his feet.
'Ave, Comes. Ave, Marcus Fulvius Macrianus.'
Click, drag, step. The lame man paid no attention.
'Macrianus.' Ballista stepped forward.
'Out of the way, you filthy barbarian. How dare you address the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae.' The contempt in the son's tone was not feigned.
Ballista ignored him. 'Macrianus, I need to talk to you.'
'Speak when you are spoken to, you piece of barbarian shit.' The youth was closing on Ballista.
'Macrianus, it is me.'
The lame man did not break his slow progress, but he looked at the long-haired, dirty barbarian who was speaking to him. There was no immediate recognition on his face.
'Macrianus, it is me, Ballista, the Dux Ripae. I have news of the Sassanids…' The blow to the left side of his head cut off Ballista's words. He staggered a few steps to his right.
'Let this be a lesson to you.' The youth waded forward, ready to punch again. Ballista crouched, one hand to his temple. He turned slowly, as if dazed, to face his attacker.
When the youth came close enough Ballista lashed out a straight right, hard and fast to the crotch. The youth doubled up, both hands clasping his balls. He tottered three steps backwards. The toga was a ceremonial costume, its very impracticality its point. Romans wore it on special formal days when they were neither doing physical work nor fighting. Now the youth's toga caught round his legs. He sat down hard.
Ballista straightened up and turned to Macrianus.
'Macrianus, it is me, Marcus Clodius Ballista, the Dux Ripae. You must take me with you into the consilium.'
Macrianus had stopped. He stared into Ballista's eyes. Something more than recognition, some guarded calculation, as if he had never expected to see Ballista again, played across his face.
'It is vital that I talk to the emperor.' Ballista heard men running, hobnailed boots pounding, others scrabbling out of the way. He kept his eyes on those of Macrianus. A small smile began to spread across the face of the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum.
Ballista was knocked sideways and crashed violently to the ground as the praetorian tackled him. The guardsman rolled off Ballista and got to his feet. Another praetorian arrived. He punched the butt of his spear into Ballista's back. Despite the sickening surge of pain, the northerner tried to get to his feet.
A blow to the head stopped Ballista. Another to the stomach dropped him to his knees. He covered his head as a flurry of spear butts rained down on his arms and shoulders.
'That's it. Beat the barbarian pig. He threatened the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum and attacked my brother Quietus. Beat him senseless, then throw the dog out into the street,' the other young man was shouting.
Ballista was curled up into a ball, the paving slabs gritty under his cheek as he tried to cover himself. After a short time the beating stopped. Ballista heard Macrianus' voice.
'My son, Macrianus the Younger, is right. Now throw him out into the street.'
Strong hands grabbed the northerner and began to drag him to the outer gate. Ballista twisted his head, and got a blow round the ear for his pains. But he saw Macrianus and his two sons resuming their rudely interrupted progress to the imperial consilium.
'Macrianus, you cunt, you know that I am the Dux Ripae.' Although he must have heard, the Count of the Largess did not pause. Click, drag, step. He vanished up the steps and into the inner gate.
Almost gently, one of the guardsmen punched Ballista in the side of the head.
'Keep a civil tongue in your head when talking to the nobility, you barbarian fucker.'
Ballista ceased to struggle. He let his head loll. The toecaps of his boots were dragging on the ground. Expensive boots – that will do them no good, he thought inconsequentially.
'Halt.' The voice was one accustomed to being obeyed. The praetorians halted. 'Let me see him.'
The guardsmen let go of Ballista, who collapsed onto the flagstones.
'Put him on his feet, so that I can see him.'
The rough hands that grasped Ballista were almost solicitous as they manoeuvred him to his feet. Seeing the northerner sway, two of the praetorians supported his arms.
A long, thin face swam into Ballista's view. It came very close, the big eyes squinting. Ballista thought it was strange: he was so light-headed with fatigue that he felt no real pain. His forehead tickled as blood ran down from a cut on his hairline. He tried to wipe it away with his left hand, but only succeeded in smearing it over more of his face.
'Gods below, is it really you, Ballista, under all that filth?'
Ballista stared back at the man. The long, thin face was oddly asymmetrical. It looked familiar.
'Cledonius, it has been a long time.' Ballista smiled. It hardly hurt at all. Although not a close friend, Cledonius, the ab Admissionibus, had long been something of an ally of Ballista's at the imperial court.
'What in Hades has happened to you?' Cledonius sounded genuinely concerned.
'You mean before the praetorians beat me?'
Cledonius rounded on the praetorians. 'On whose authority did you do this?'
The praetorians came to attention. 'The order came from the Count of the Largess, Dominus.'
Cledonius' face gave nothing away. Life in the palace did not encourage wearing your heart on your sleeve. He turned back to Ballista.
'The last I heard, you were Dux Ripae.' Cledonius opened his mouth to say something else but stopped. Ballista could almost see the thoughts running through the other man's mind. You were appointed Dux Ripae. You were ordered to defend the city of Arete from the Sassanids. You are here hundreds of miles away in Antioch, wounded, covered in dirt. The city has fallen. You have failed.
