emperor did not impose better order by the time the army marched out of Samosata, disaster beckoned.
From his position on the edge of the bluff, Turpio surveyed the line of march. Below and in front of him, the road crossed the river Marsyas, a tributary of the Euphrates. There was a fine stone bridge. It was wide enough for ten men abreast, but it was a bottleneck for an army of this size. It had taken three days for the majority of the fighting men to cross. The gods alone knew how long it would take the bloated baggage train. As he looked, Turpio saw the huge, purple, sail-like flags that marked the personal baggage of the emperor edging through the crush towards the lip of the bridge. Off to the left, just in front of a stand of eucalyptus trees, a group of Arab nomads watched. Wherever you went in this part of the world, the tent-dwellers appeared from nowhere. They would stand and watch, completely impassive. Usually, they had their herds with them, children running about. But these were just a dozen or so men, standing still, watching.
As Turpio tiredly ran a hand over his face, the gold ring, the symbol of his new membership of the equestrian order, flashed. He turned it this way and that, noting how well it matched the golden bangle he had taken from Shapur's tent, taking pleasure in both of them. He had risen far from being a humble legionary. But he was not going to let it go to his head. Worldly success was transient. A poem came into his head: For mortals, mortal things. And all things leave us. Or if they do not, then we leave them. Nice lines, fitting. Their author, Lucian, had been born in Samosata.
Down by the bridge, Turpio could make out the big figure of Ballista. Turpio felt intensely sorry for his friend. Nine months in the wilderness, then recalled to the standards and given the humiliating post of deputy to the Praefectus Castrorum, deputy to his own ex-subordinate. Turpio thought Ballista may well be right that it was a deliberate slight engineered by Macrianus the elder. Not that Turpio believed the northerner's theory that the Comes Sacrorum Largitionum was plotting to overthrow Valerian. Whatever Quietus had shouted in Ephesus was just the juvenile outburst of a spoilt brat. The oily Quietus may have returned to court in something approaching triumph after his inventive massacring of Christians, but no one would stand him or his pampered brother on the throne of the Caesars any more than they would stand the old cripple of a father. Turpio knew that Ballista was hurt that even those closest to him did not give his theory any credence. Still, the northerner was bearing everything stoically. Turpio would do everything he could to make his position as least embarrassing as possible. Worldly success was transient.
Movement to the left of the bridge caught Turpio's eye. More Arabs were coming out of the trees. They were mounted, leading more horses. Those standing were swinging up into the saddle. They were all kicking on towards the bridge. They had spears and bows. There were at least twenty of them. Gods below, the camel- fuckers were raiding the baggage.
Turpio gathered his cloak in one hand and held it above his head, the army signal for enemy in sight. He roared a warning. No one in the jostling throng by the bridge noticed. Although it was a mild spring day, Ballista was sweating heavily. His voice was hoarse from shouting orders. Which was the more bone-headedly recalcitrant, a camel or an imperial porter?
'Get those fucking wagons in line astern.'
Faces looked at him with incomprehension or dumb insolence. So this was what it had come to: the son of the warleader of the Angles, a Roman Dux, reduced to little better than a porter himself. Ballista realized his post as deputy to the Praefectus Castrorum was a deliberate slight. Still, if Macrianus thought injured pride would cause Ballista to slip up, he was mistaken.
'You there, with the emperor's charger, go next. You, with the imperial chariot, hold back here near me. The rest of you, with the wagons, wait over there where you are. There is only width on the bridge for one of you at a time.' His voice was almost lost in the braying of animals and shouting of men. The nearest wagon driver was not paying the least attention. He was looking over the northerner's head. Ballista filled his lungs to curse him. The man dived over the far side of the wagon. Something thumped into the wood next to Ballista. Shrill yells filled the air.
Ballista turned. An arrow was coming straight at him. He leapt sideways. The arrow missed by a hand's breadth. There were about twenty Arabs, mounted, armed, closing fast. He looked around. Chaos everywhere. Baggage handlers screaming, running, some trying to hide under wagons, others throwing themselves over the parapet of the bridge. A couple of Dalmatian cavalrymen, dismounted like himself, were nearby, standing open- mouthed. He roared at them to form up on him. They shuffled either side of him. The three men were without helmets, armour or shields. Ballista drew his sword and wrapped his black cloak around his left arm. He missed Maximus at his side. Typical of the Hibernian to choose this moment to go and see to their horses.
The tent-dwellers sheered off to either side. They had no intention of fighting armed men if they were not forced. They were intent on plunder and the easy pleasure of killing the unresisting. Just to Ballista's right, by the columns that marked the start of the bridge, half a dozen raiders surrounded the purple, gem-encrusted chariot and its four almost snow-white horses. The groom who had been too slow to flee was cut down. One of the Arabs jumped into the chariot. He was gathering the reins.
Calling for the Dalmatians to follow, Ballista ran to the chariot. An Arab spun his horse, jabbed his spear. Ballista sidestepped, caught the shaft in his left hand and tugged. The rider was yanked forward, half out of the saddle. Ballista brought his sword down on his skull. It cracked like the shell of a snail. Blood and brains splashed hot in Ballista's face.
Ducking under the hooves of the rearing horse, Ballista vaulted up into the chariot. Wrestling with the reins, the Arab did not see him coming. Ballista thrust the point of his sword into the driver's back. He twisted the blade, withdrew it, the man screamed and toppled out sideways. The battle-trained pale grey horses stood motionless.
Ballista turned. He was alone. The Dalmatian cavalrymen were gone, swallowed up in the melee. The northerner was surrounded by four mounted raiders. They would fight now. They wanted revenge for their slaughtered kinsmen. For a few moments, the five men and eight horses were a still point in the eye of the storm.
Ballista sensed as much as saw the Arab over his left shoulder throw his spear. He swivelled and, gripping his sword two-handed, batted the missile away, inches from his face. He spun through 360 degrees. The other three did not move.
The one who had thrown his spear unslung his bow. He pulled an arrow from his quiver. He grinned. The others were grinning, their teeth very white in their long, dark beards. The bowman notched the arrow. He drew the bow. One of the others laughed.
Out of the confusion, a Dalmatian soldier launched himself at the bow-armed Arab. With no fuss, the raider shot him through the chest. The soldier staggered back. Hands clutching uselessly at the black-feathered shaft, he fell.
There was a surge of noise. Another tent-dweller galloped up. In a high, urgent voice, he yelled at the men facing Ballista. They hesitated. The newcomer yelled again, turning his own horse back the way they had come. Reluctantly, the others booted their mounts and, shouting over their shoulders what were threats in any language, raced after him.
A small body of cavalry headed by Turpio appeared from the left and thundered after the raiders. There was little likelihood it would catch them.
All around Ballista was utter chaos: dead and dying men and beasts; clouds of dust; deafening noise. Up on the bridge proper, Valerian's war horse was rearing and plunging. The groom hanging on its back was incapable of controlling the maddened stallion. There was a vicious crimson gash along the animal's flank. A stable lad ran to try to grab its bridle. With a wild eye, the charger span away on its hind legs. It bucked. Reared up again. And then, almost too quickly to be comprehended, it jumped clean over the parapet.
With a resounding splash, horse and groom vanished beneath the waters of the Marsyas.
XXV
Almost all the men arriving at the imperial headquarters in Samosata had either neatly sewn little bags of herbs or perfume-drenched rolls of material wedged in their ears and pushed up their noses. They were very frightened. Some of those invited to the emperor's consilium actually rattled, they wore so many protective
