'We had better clean you up a bit. Then you can tell the emperor what happened.' The look on Cledonius' face now was not all that different from that which had been on Macrianus' earlier: closed, careful calculation. At an autocrat's court, advance knowledge could be turned to advantage, but close association with some newsbringers could also be dangerous.
Cledonius made a courtly gesture with his arm. The two praetorians let go of Ballista and, together, he and Cledonius set off across the courtyard. The crowds parted. Although his head ached and his shoulders and back were stiff, Ballista found that he could walk quite normally. As they neared the inner gate he saw the three Borani warriors scowling. At the steps the silentarii moved aside. The praetorians saluted and swung back the great doors.
Cledonius and Ballista walked through into another courtyard. This one was long and narrow compared with what had gone before. A colonnade of free-standing Corinthian columns linked by arches ran down either side. The doors shut behind them. It was quiet and almost deserted. Their footsteps echoed as they walked. Statues of deified emperors of the past looked down at them. At the far end was the third gate, a relatively modest affair only three or four times the height of a man set in the middle of four more Corinthian columns.
Another squad of praetorians saluted and opened the doors. Cledonius and Ballista passed from the sunlight through into the near-darkness of the imperial vestibule. They stopped, letting their eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. Dark, rich, purple hangings seemed to absorb what little light was shed by two rows of golden lamps. The air was heavy with incense.
A fat eunuch approached, his hands decorously hidden in his robes. Ballista was not sure if it was the one he had seen before. Cledonius spoke quietly and the eunuch waddled away.
'Wait here,' Cledonius said. 'The eunuch will bring you some water and towels. Wash the blood off your face. I will come and get you.' With no further ado the ab Admissionibus went on through the hangings at the far end, leaving Ballista alone.
The eunuch returned. Ballista cleaned his face. Wetting his hands, he pushed back his long blond hair. It lay lank on his shoulders. He slapped some of the dust from his tunic and trousers. Most of his body ached. He needed to sleep. It was very quiet in the vestibule. Four praetorians stood to attention. Now and then court functionaries crossed the room with silent, purposeful tread.
Ballista wondered if, at the very limit of his hearing, was the sound of distant hammering. At last, after the endless ride, here he was. Time to make his report. The city fell. The Sassanid Persians took it. I failed. Then the worm of suspicion was back in his mind. I failed, as you always knew I would. Men sent on suicide missions can not expect to be welcomed as heroes if they return.
Ballista knew that he had done what he had been sent to do. The imperium was being attacked on all sides; its forces were stretched beyond breaking point. North Africa was ablaze with a native revolt led by a charismatic warrior called Faraxen. In the west Valerian's son and co-emperor Gallienus had based himself at Viminacium in a desperate attempt to hold back beyond the Rhine and Danube the hordes of the north – the Franks, Alamanni, Carpi, Iuthungi, Danubian Goths and many other peoples. Valerian himself had come east to Antioch to try to repel both the barbarians from the Black Sea, the Heruli, Borani, Black Sea Goths and what most saw as the greatest threat of all, the Sassanids from beyond the Euphrates. Yes, Ballista had done what he had been sent to do. He had held up Shapur, the Persian King of Kings, for a whole campaigning season. Through the spring and summer, and into the autumn, the great Sassanid horde had sat before the walls of the city of Arete. They had sweated, laboured and died in their thousands, their every assault thrown back in bloody ruin. Ballista had bought the Romans a year's grace.
But it would have been less embarrassing for the empire if Ballista had died sword in hand in the ruins of Arete. Dead, he could have been a hero. Alive, he was the walking proof of heartless imperial duplicity, a continual reminder that the emperors had cynically sacrificed two units of Roman soldiers and an entire city for the greater good. You bastards, you lied. There never was a relief force. You sent me there to die.
The hangings parted and Cledonius reappeared. He gestured Ballista to come. The asymmetrical face was mask-like, revealing not a flicker of emotion. Ballista began to smile at the contrast between the short, neatly trimmed beard and carefully forward-combed hair of the ab Admissionibus and his own long, filthy locks and several days' stubble.
The hanging fell behind them and they were plunged into almost complete darkness. They stood still, just listening to their own breathing.
With no warning, the inner hangings were pulled back and Ballista was momentarily blinded by the rush of light. Squinting, he peered into the audience chamber of Imperator Caesar Publius Licinius Valerianus Augustus, Pontifex Maximus, Pater Patriae, Germanicus Maximus, Invictus, Restitutor Orbis.
As befitted his role as mediator between mankind and the gods, the emperor Valerian appeared suspended in mid-air. He was bathed in bright sunlight from the windows of the great apse where he sat. His toga gleamed painfully white and rays flashed from the golden wreath on his head. The emperor's face was immobile. His gaze was fixed on the distance, over the heads of mere mortals, far beyond the confines of the palace. As the Romans deemed right, the emperor looked as remote as a statue.
As Ballista's eyes adjusted, he saw the low altar where the sacred fire burned at the foot of the steps up to the throne. He took in the Praetorian Prefect, Successianus, standing at the right shoulder of the emperor, the row of secretaries behind his left.
Cledonius touched Ballista's elbow and they set off to walk slowly the length of the long audience chamber. In front of the pillars on either side sat the members of the consilium, a dozen or so of the great men of the empire, as still and quiet as cowed schoolboys. Out of the corner of his eye Ballista saw the sons of Macrianus glowering. The face of their father, longer schooled in the ways of the court, was expressionless. Near them, Ballista saw another man he thought that he recognized. The artfully curled hair and beard, the supercilious expression reminded him of someone. In his fatigue the recognition remained tantalizingly out of reach.
They stopped just short of the sacred fire.
'Marcus Clodius Ballista, Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome.' The voice of the ab Admissionibus was reverent but carried well.
Valerian remained motionless, his gaze still far away.
At a sign from Cledonius, Ballista advanced to the foot of the steps and performed proskynesis, adoration. Hoping that his reluctance was not evident, the northerner lowered himself to his knees then prostrated himself full length on the floor.
Still Valerian did not look at him. But after a while the emperor held out one of his hands. Ballista got to his feet and, bowing, kissed the proffered heavy gold ring, set with a gem cut with an image of an eagle.
At last the emperor looked down at the man in front of him. The thin, delicate leaves of the golden wreath rustled.
'Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista, carissime Dux Ripae, my dear Commander of the Riverbanks.'
Ballista looked up at the emperor. There was the prominent chin, the fleshy cheeks and neck. Now the sparse, carefully groomed moustache and whiskers framed a mouth that was set, eyes that contained no warmth. The word carissime was never more of a formality.
The emperor looked at Ballista. The northerner looked back at the emperor. A Roman would have looked away, would have respectfully dropped his eyes. Ballista was buggered if he was going to look away. Motes of dust moved lazily in the sunlight.
At length the elderly emperor nodded, as if to confirm something to himself, and spoke.
'Marcus Clodius Ballista, tell the sacred consilium the things that have happened to you and the things that you have done. Take the floor.'
Ballista carefully walked a few steps backwards, stopping just beyond the low altar of the imperial fire. Cledonius had melted into the background. Ballista was alone in the middle of the chamber. He was very aware of the members of the consilium seated on either side, but he kept his gaze and all his attention on the old man on the elevated throne.
What has happened to me! No one knows better than you what has happened to me. You and your son betrayed me. Gave me false promises and sent me to my death. You bastard! Ballista swayed slightly. He was light-headed. He knew that he had to control himself. He started to talk.
'Last autumn, following the mandata, instructions, given to me by the emperors Valerian and Gallienus, I travelled to the city of Arete on the Euphrates River. I arrived thirteen days before the kalends of December. The
