amulets.
Turpio had been no more concerned than most when it started. A couple of days after the army had crossed the Marsyas river, the camp dogs had started dying. No one had given it much thought. As they marched north, the turquoise waters of the Euphrates on their right, the strangely flat-topped grey cliffs to their left and again on the other side of the river, it spread to the baggage animals. By the time they were following the great river to the east, some of the Moorish light cavalry were complaining of an eye infection. Within twenty-four hours, those affected were so disorientated they seemed not to recognize their closest companions. They began to vomit and suffer uncontrollable diarrhoea. Then the dreadful pustules appeared. Men from other units began to be struck down, too. The line of march was marked by hastily dug graves. By the time the army reached Samosata, no one talked of anything else. Plague is a terrible thing. The first part of the prediction of Appian, the Christian martyr of Ephesus, had come true.
Turpio paused for a moment to get his breath back after the steep climb to the citadel. In front of him was the residence of the Roman governor of the province of Commagene, which Valerian had taken over as his campaign headquarters. Once, it had been the palace of the independent kings of Commagene. It was a strange building, made of diamond-patterned small blocks of limestone. Over the gate was a newly cut inscription: 'Phoebus, the unshorn god, keep off the plague's dark onset.'
Turpio took a deep breath and moved on. His nose and ears were unplugged, but that was not because he was unafraid. Coming up through the town, he had hurriedly walked a block out of his way when he heard the bells of the libitinarii, the carriers-out of the dead, in the street ahead. He was very scared. But he had always had a particularly acute sense of smell. Strong-smelling herbs or perfume in his nostrils, or even in his ears, would have been insufferable.
The throne and dais at the end of the basilica were unoccupied so far. Below them, the consilium was filling up. One man was standing with a space around him. Turpio hesitated. A man of prudence might not choose to stand with Ballista. The loss of the imperial charger under the waters of the Marsyas had deepened the impression that the northerner was out of imperial favour.
Turpio walked over and stood next to Ballista. They nodded to each other. Now the plague had struck, no one embraced. Turpio ignored the covert glances of the others. When Turpio and Ballista first met, the northerner could have had him executed for corruption. Instead, Ballista had promoted him, had given him his trust. Now Turpio knew it was his turn to show fides, good faith. Besides, Turpio liked the man. The big northerner had never asked how it was that Turpio had come to be blackmailed. Not that Turpio would have told him; that secret would go to the grave with him. But it was good of the man not to ask.
The basilica was hung everywhere with swags of laurel, that sure preventative of plague. Its pervasive odour formed the base to a riot of other scents. Turpio felt slightly nauseous. The Danubian Aurelian joined Turpio and Ballista. Since Tacitus had been posted to the west, they were the only two that stood with the northerner.
A herald announced the emperor Valerian. The principes, the leading men of the imperium, dipped their faces to the floor in respect. Turpio noticed that the floor had not been properly swept. There were no charms or sweet-smelling prophylactics on the person of Valerian. His courage had never been in question. But he looked old and frail. As he made his way down the aisle, he held the arm of Macrianus. Click-drag-step. Click-drag-step. It would take little imagination, thought Turpio, to see it as an omen: the aged seeking support from the infirm.
When the imperial party had ascended the dais, the members of the consilium rose to their feet and shouted ritual acclamations of good health that went on a long time.
Eventually, Valerian cleared his throat and began to speak in a voice that seemed to struggle for breath. 'Far- shooting Phoebus Apollo has sent his plague arrows amongst us. Rumours run through the camp. Some talk of the past. A hundred years ago. A shadowy temple in Babylonia. A golden casket wrenched open by Roman soldiers. An evil released on the imperium. Superstitious nonsense!' He paused. 'Some talk of the present. Criminals at dead of night. Flitting through the dark. Poisoned needles in hand. Bringing death to the unsuspecting. All nonsense! Superstitious nonsense!
'The real explanation of this evil is at hand.' The old emperor looked fondly, almost devotedly, at Macrianus. 'Christians! Our orders for persecution have not been implemented with true religious zeal. The gods punish us, Phoebus Apollo unleashes his arrows on us, because still we let many of these atheists live.' Valerian's voice began to fill out with an almost youthful vigour.
'All this will change tomorrow. Through the piety of our devoted friend Macrianus and the diligence of the head of the frumentarii, Censorinus, those disgusting atheists here in Samosata have been apprehended. There are many of them. Men and women. Tomorrow they will burn. Their ashes will be scattered to the four winds.'
A wistful look came into the emperor's eyes. 'All will be well. Long-haired Apollo will turn aside his bow. The kindly gods will hold their hands over us again. Our subjects will behold in the broad plains the crops already ripe with waving ears of corn, the meadows brilliant with plants and flowers, the weather temperate and mild. The strength of our arms will return. The Persian reptiles will flee before us. United we will conquer. Let us rejoice. Through our piety, through our sacrifices and veneration, the natural gods, the most powerful gods, will have been propitiated. The gods will smile on our endeavours. Let us rejoice!'
As the basilica echoed to the acclamations of his piety and wisdom, the silver-haired emperor slumped back on to his throne as if exhausted. After the thirty-fifth 'Valerian, happy are you in your piety, safe are you in the love of the gods, safe are you in our love,' it was quiet. Macrianus came forward to the edge of the dais. He leaned on his walking stick topped with the silver effigy of Alexander the Great. 'Comites Augusti, Companions of the Augustus, our noble emperor desires your advice on how to proceed against the Persians. He commands you to speak freely.'
Several hands shot up. Macrianus indicated that his own amicus, Maeonius Astyanax, should speak. 'There can be no doubt that the sagacity and piety of the emperor will avert the displeasure of the gods and sweep away the plague. But some five thousand fighting men have died, many more are sick. Just as it does with a man, it takes an army time to recover from illness. We are in no condition to campaign. We must stay here in Samosata and convalesce. An embassy must be sent to the Sassanids to negotiate a truce. The envoys should take rich gifts, the sort of luxuries that turn the head of an avaricious barbarian such as Shapur.'
There was a general rumble of approval. As Macrianus gave Pomponius Bassus the right to speak, it occurred to Turpio that the lame courtier had usurped the role of the ab Admissionibus. That functionary stood impotently at the back of the dais. Cledonius appeared to be fuming.
Striking an oratorical pose, Pomponius Bassus began. 'There is a time for war and a time for peace. A time for tears and a time for rejoicing.' Turpio heard Ballista exhale with irritation as the nobleman's sententious phrases rolled out. 'A time for love and a time to hate.'
Four more of the comites had spoken in favour of the proposal when Ballista raised his hand. Turpio was surprised, and even more so when Macrianus gave the northerner permission to speak. Out of the corner of his eye, Turpio thought he saw the sons of Macrianus smirking.
'With all due respect, I do not agree.' There was silence at Ballista's words. 'To open negotiations is to show weakness, never more so than in time of war. It will only serve to encourage the superbia of the eastern barbarians. To initiate diplomacy is not the Roman way. Embassies come to the emperor. He does not send them. Has not emperor after emperor interpreted embassies from the Indies and beyond as tokens of submission?'
A hostile muttering ran through the basilica. Ballista ploughed on. 'We should not remain in Samosata. Plague comes to armies that remain in camp. We should take the field. If we impose strict disciplina on the march to Edessa, issue rigorous orders for hygiene and the digging of latrines, the plague is more likely to abate.' One or two of the comites, led by Quietus, sniggered.
Macrianus gave Piso Frugi permission to have the floor. Another of Macrianus' creatures, thought Turpio. 'While I will bow to Ballista's knowledge of barbarians and latrines' – he paused for laughter – 'I think none of us here need his advice on the ways of the Romans.' There was more laughter. 'The previous speakers were right. We must buy time with glittering trinkets.'
Amid the roar of approval, Macrianus turned and smiled encouragingly at the emperor. The hubbub died as Valerian laboriously got to his feet. 'We have heard your opinions. We thank you for them. Free speech is the heart of libertas. We have made up our mind. An embassy will be sent to Shapur. It will take costly gifts. It will speak soft words. It will make a truce. It is the Roman way to send young men, those not yet of the highest rank, to deal with barbarians. The ambassadors will be the son of our beloved Comes Sacrarum Largitionum Titus
