Fulvius Iunius Quietus, the fierce young fighter from the Danube Lucius Domitius Aurelian and Marcus Clodius Ballista.' As soon as he had stopped talking, Valerian reached for the arm of Macrianus and left.
Both Ballista and Aurelian looked utterly dumbfounded. Quietus, however, appeared merely pleased.
Outside, Turpio stood waiting for other members of the consilium to finish congratulating Aurelian and Ballista. Fair-weather friends, he thought. From the town stretched out below him came the bells of the libitinarii, accompanying the carrying out of more of the dead.
Turpio really could not believe Ballista's claim that Macrianus was plotting to overthrow Valerian. But, every day, the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum seemed to have more control over the aged emperor. The consilium had been carefully orchestrated. It did seem that the lame one could do whatever he wished. Turpio wondered why Macrianus had chosen to have his son Quietus accompanied on the embassy by Aurelian and Ballista. Certainly the hateful courtier did nothing without a reason. Turpio played some lines of poetry over in his mind. May the earth cover your corpse lightly, loathsome Macrianus, so that the dogs have less trouble digging you up. Across the river from Samosata, the road to Edessa ran over high plains and rolling hills. It was a dry landscape. Already in April the yellow-grey, sometimes reddish, soil was powdered and dusty. Sometimes, away from the road, the hills bunched up into real mountains, bare and closely folded, but Ballista was surprised by the general openness of the terrain. He was not pleased. He had thought the countryside would be more rugged, unsuitable for large numbers of horsemen. He had thought that, when the infantry-based army of the Romans finally marched, it would be reasonably sheltered, at least as far as Edessa, from the cavalry horde of the Sassanids. Now he knew that would not be the case.
The embassy was moving very slowly. Each of the three ambassadors had brought their servants; just a few for Aurelian and Ballista himself, a glittering cavalcade for Quietus. There were six interpreters and thirty packhorses carrying the diplomatic gifts, with half as many men again to look after them. There were twenty Dalmatian troopers to protect them from the nomadic tent-dwellers. But it was none of these that were slowing the pace, it was the garlanded ox that was being driven ponderously along at the front of the caravan. Quietus never missed an opportunity to sneer at its presence. But Ballista had insisted on it. Long ago, he had learned from Bagoas, the Persian slave boy he had owned, that it was a sign the Sassanids used to show they had accepted peace terms. Another was the bags of salt that he had ordered tied to the standards. To be sure, there was a Roman herald, complete with diplomatic wand, up front with the ox. But the symbols of one culture might mean something else or nothing at all in another. First contact with the enemy would be a dangerous moment. He did not want all his men riddled with Persian arrows before they had a chance to explain they were envoys who came in peace.
As he ambled along on Pale Horse, Ballista wondered for the umpteenth time why he had been chosen as an ambassador. On the one hand, he could speak Persian but, on the other, the embassy had been given a surfeit of interpreters. Ballista had been out of imperial favour for a long time. His advice against making these overtures of peace had been rejected. It was widely thought at court that the man who had frustrated Shapur for so long before the walls of Arete, who had killed so many of his warriors, the general who had ordered the burning of the enemy bodies after the battle of Circesium, would be far from welcome to the Zoroastrian, fire-worshipping Sassanid King of Kings.
Ballista's eyes followed a stork flying south-east, roughly parallel to them. His thoughts rolled on. Macrianus had run the consilium like a well-trained chorus in the theatre. The northerner now understood why Tacitus had been posted back to the west and the ex-consul Valens had been left behind to command the troops at Zeugma. Two less influential voices in the consilium to contest the growing influence of the Comes Largitionum. It galled Ballista that no one, not even those closest to him, accepted that that lame bastard was plotting to betray the frail old emperor who regarded him as his most loyal friend. Cledonius would no longer even see Ballista. The northerner had ceased to talk about it at all. It was doing no good and, even among amici, there was the ever- present danger of frumentarii spying. Still, as Ballista watched the stork disappear over a range of hills, he tried to comfort himself with the thought that surely even Macrianus would not send his younger son on a mission that would lead to his death.
A shout brought Ballista back to his surroundings. The Dalmatian on point duty was holding his cloak in one hand above his head. The trooper pointed to the hills in the east. Ballista scanned the bare, undulating skyline. A few stunted wild olive trees, twisted by the wind. And there among them men on horses. Six or seven. Then more and more. Fifty, a hundred, more.
Ballista ordered the caravan to halt. Automatically, the Dalmatian cavalry took up their positions around the column. Ballista took his helmet from the horn of his saddle. Inconsequentially, he noticed the marks of the repairs from the ambush at the Horns of Ammon. He settled the thing on his head.
Beside him, the northerner heard the rasp of steel as Quietus drew his sword.
'Put that away.'
Quietus bridled. 'Why should I take orders from you?' The young man's lip was trembling, his eyes wide with fear. For a split second Ballista wondered if his opportunity had come. Aurelian was the only witness of rank. Should he cut Quietus down now? But the moment passed. One day Ballista would kill him. Not today.
'Put it away.' Sulkily, his hands fumbling, Quietus sheathed his sword. Ballista raised his voice. 'No one touch a weapon. Those with bows, make sure they are unstrung. Do as I do.'
Ballista watched the Sassanid cavalry descend the hillside. Dark shapes against the yellow-grey dust they raised. There were at least two hundred of them. As they reached the level ground their line split, fanning out to surround the Roman column. Allfather, Hooded One, Grey Beard, watch over me now. Ballista forced himself to be calm. When the easterners were about two hundred paces away, Ballista pulled the bow from the quiver hanging from his saddle. He held it high above his head. From the shape of the composite bow, it was obviously unstrung.
The Sassanids came on fast, horsemen jinking round thickets of brushwood, streamers flying out behind them, loose eastern clothing snapping. They broke into high, ululating cries. The bows in their hands were strung, arrows notched. With a thunder of hooves, they crossed the front and rear of the Roman column, galloping round to encircle it. Quietus was whimpering. Behind him, Ballista could hear Demetrius praying.
A stone's throw away, they reined in, horses breathing hard, tossing their heads. Hostile, dark eyes stared from behind drawn bows. After the pounding hooves and the wailing, the quiet was ominous. Out of the corner of his eye, Ballista saw Quietus' hand moving to the hilt of his sword. Aurelian leaned across and stopped him. Their every move was tracked by Persian arrowheads. The tension was nearly unbearable.
A Persian detached himself from the line. His face, framed by long, black hair, was a picture of disdain. 'We have been expecting you, waiting for this invasion of the territory of the divine, powerful Shapur King of Kings.'
Ballista moved Pale Horse out of the line. 'We are not invaders. We are ambassadors from the pious Valerian, King of the Romans, to his brother, the virtuous, peace-loving Shapur King of Kings. We bring gifts and a letter of peace.'
If the Sassanid was surprised that Ballista spoke in Persian, he gave no sign of it. His handsome face sneered. 'Shapur does not have a non-Aryan brother. He has non-Aryan slaves. The only King of the Romans he knows is the one who by his mercy sits on a lower throne at his own court, the one called Mariades.'
Ballista sensed a stir in the Romans behind him as, among the foreign words, they recognized the name of Mariades, the fugitive brigand from Syria set up by Shapur as a pretender to the throne of the Caesars. Ballista ignored it. 'The benefactor of mankind, the peace-loving Shapur King of Kings, beloved of Ahuramazda, would not smile on a man who harmed ambassadors.'
A look of suspicion appeared on the Persian's face. He brought his horse closer. He studied Ballista. 'The word that was given to me was true. I know you. I am Vardan, son of Nashbad.'
A distant memory struggled to surface in Ballista's mind. He did not move.
With no warning, the Persian drew his sword and thrust the long blade within inches of the northerner's face. The memory came back. A dark night in the south ravine below the walls of Arete. Vardan's sword at his throat, as it was now. The Persian smiled. 'I see you remember. You tricked me once. I said then that I would seek you out, that there would be a reckoning.'
Ballista fought down his fear. The blade at his throat did not waver. Vardan spoke. 'Tell your men to throw down their weapons.' Ballista gave the order, and Persians sprang forward to gather them up.
With a fluid movement, Vardan's blade sliced through the air. He sheathed it.
