'Dominus, this parley is a trap.'
Wearily, Valerian drew a hand across his face. 'It may well be. But what else is there? The army cannot march – the Sassanids will massacre us down on the plain. It cannot stay here with no water or food.'
'Dominus, if we hold out until nightfall, we can try to break out to the north.'
Valerian shook his head. 'The men will not stand for it.'
'You still have over a hundred mounted men, the remains of the Equites Singulares, a few others. We could try and cut our way out.'
'We would never reach the river.' The old man laughed bitterly. 'My men might mutiny, but I will not desert them. Besides, that dear boy Quietus tells me Shapur is a civilized man for a barbarian – a great lover of Euripides. We must talk to him. We may be able to negotiate a safe passage for the army. There is nothing else for it. Let us go.'
Ballista said no more. There was nothing to say.
They rode in columns of twos, Valerian flanked by the Praetorian Prefect Successianus, then the ab Admissionibus Cledonius and the commander of the Equites Singulares Aurelian. Turpio and Ballista brought up the rear.
The valley floor seemed very wide and very empty. They had not gone far when a cheer rolled across from the hillside in front where the Sassanids waited. Behind them was silence.
Half a dozen horsemen detached themselves from the Persian horde and cantered down the slope. In the centre was the unmistakable figure in purple and white, streamers flying out behind, high gold crown on his head – the glorious son of the house of Sasan, the King of Kings in all his majesty.
The eastern horsemen crossed the distance in no time. Shapur reined in his Nisaean stallion in front of Valerian. The other Persians spread out around the Romans.
No one spoke. There was silence. The wind was getting up again. It brought the smell of burning. Little dust devils swirled beneath the horses' hooves.
Shapur's dark, kohl-lined eyes studied the silver-haired Valerian. At length, the King of Kings smiled, almost pleasantly. 'Who is this with the white crest that leads the army's van?' He spoke in Greek. 'You are just as they told me you would be.'
Ballista nudged his horse towards the emperor. His way was blocked by the Lord Suren, on another great black Nisaean stallion.
'Shapur, son of Ardashir,' said Valerian, also in Greek, 'this is an auspicious day.'
'Rather more for me than you, I suspect.' Shapur's laugh seemed one of genuine amusement.
'The first meeting of an emperor of Rome and a king of the house of Sasan. There is much to discuss.'
Shapur shook his head, the pearls he wore in his ears swinging. 'I must tell you, the time for words is past, old man.'
The Nisaean stallion surged forward. With the grace of a natural horseman, Shapur leaned across and seized both Valerian's wrists. He pulled them skywards, half hauling the old emperor up out of the saddle.
Ballista kicked his heels in. Frightened of the Suren's huge mount blocking its way, the northerner's horse refused. Ballista was thrown forward, off balance. The Suren's mail-clad fingers dug into his throat. Desperately, Ballista's fingers sought the Persian's face. They grasped his beard. He pulled. Locked together, the two men struggled.
Shapur's voice rang out over the din. 'Valerian, emperor of Rome, with my own hands I take you prisoner.'
Over the Suren's shoulder, Ballista could see the Sassanid cavalry pouring down towards them. A horse reared near by. Successianus was thrown to the ground, among the stamping hooves.
The fingers at his throat were choking Ballista. He could not breathe. His vision was dimming. The Persian cavalry were surging all around them.
'Surrender, my children' – there was a catch in Valerian's voice – 'surrender.'
Ballista ceased to struggle. The Lord Suren released the grip on his throat. The northerner looked up. The emperor caught his eye. Valerian shook his head slightly and spoke with infinite sadness. 'I have been a fool. I doubted your loyalty and ignored your advice. And now it has come to this.' The Sassanids had erected a raised golden throne on the hill opposite the remnants of the Roman army. Seated there, Shapur was shaded by a parasol. The mighty lords of the Sassanid empire flanked him. They were tall men. They stood proud, make-up immaculate, hands resting on the hilts of their long cavalry swords. Above them all, the Drafsh-i-Kavyan cracked in the breeze.
The six Romans stood, dirty, hands bound, waiting under the pitiless sun. Among the nobles, close to the throne, Ballista recognized the Lord Suren. Further away, the jaunty blue clothes, embroidered with delicate four- petal flowers in yellow, of the traitor Anamu. Off to one side stood the Magi and the sacred fires. Ballista noticed with trepidation that the priests of Mazda had set pots to bubble over the flames. The memory of the fate of Roman prisoners at Arete was strong in him. Boiling olive oil tipped into the eyes: a hideous way to die. The northerner fought down a rising feeling of panic.
Shapur held a strung bow in his hands. He pointed it at Valerian. Two clibanarii pushed the old man forward, threw him face down in the dirt, then yanked him to his knees.
'Valerian, once emperor of the Romans, now slave of the house of Sasan, will you tell the remnants of your army cowering on the hill over there to surrender?'
'I will not.'
'A pity. It would spare much suffering.' Shapur spoke reflectively. 'Earlier today, my son, Prince Valash, the joy of Shapur, gave a noble example of the mercy of the house of Sasan when he let depart those who had fought bravely among the legion he had trapped and destroyed. Now, it seems, a different example is needed. That of exemplary cruelty; a sight of what will befall them if they do not come down from the hill.'
Shapur indicated the other prisoners be brought forward. One by one, they were thrown to the ground and their names and rank called out: Successianus the Praetorian Prefect, Cledonius the ab Admissionibus, Aurelian the tribune of the Equites Singulares.
Ballista was shoved forward, his legs kicked out from under him. Although his hands were bound in front, he landed heavily, the wind knocked out of him. A fist in his long hair jerked him savagely up to his knees.
Shapur leaned forward, the bow in his hands. 'This one I know – the butcher of Arete, the ungodly one who defiled sacred fire with the bodies of true believers at Circesium. He will be the one.'
'No!' Turpio yelled.
A moment later, he landed face down next to Ballista. The clibanarii yanked him to his knees.
'He fought you nobly at Arete, defeated your men at Circesium in open battle. A warrior deserves respect!' Turpio roared defiance.
Shapur looked with curiosity at the prodigy of a man that would openly defy the King of Kings to his face. Then his expression changed. He rose. He sprang down from the throne, strode over, grabbed Turpio's right arm. The ornate golden bracelet glittered.
'Where did you get this?' The Sassanid king's voice was soft with menace.
Turpio said nothing.
'You are the one who would have murdered me in my bed, cut my throat as I slept or took my pleasure.'
Shapur stepped back. He called over his shoulder: 'Valash, my son.'
The tall, slim young man in the surcoat emblazoned with big cats came and stood by his father. He rested his hand on his long, straight sword. Shapur pointed at Turpio. 'This one. Do it at the foot of the hill, where all the Romans can bear witness.'
Ballista lurched to his feet. 'No, you bastard, not him!'
Something very hard and heavy hit Ballista on the side of the head. A surge of pain. The earth rushing up. A dull collision. The grains of sand unnaturally clear and large close to his eyes. Darkness.
Epilogue (Spring AD260)
The five thousand or so Romans left on the hill held out for over twenty-four hours. During the night, some
