tried to break out. Many were killed. Most were herded back to the barren hillside. A small band escaped from the valley. They were pursued north by hordes of Sassanid cavalry. The rest lay down their arms.
The day after the surrender, the prisoners were ordered south. Those incapable of walking were summarily executed. The Persians arranged their prisoners in a parody of a Roman triumph. The imperial attendants were rounded up. The lictors were mounted on camels; their fasces were hung with money bags and some of the more inventive pornography found in the officers' possession. The emperor rode behind them. Publius Licinius Valerian, Pius, Felix, Invictus was mounted on a donkey. He was dressed as a slave, a crown of thorns on his head. His ab Admissionibus Cledonius walked beside him, saying in his ear, 'Remember: you are but mortal.' The remaining soldiers followed their emperor. Loaded with chains, their officers stumbled at their head.
Ballista's ankles were raw and bleeding from his shackles before they left the camp. He trudged across the sand. His boots had been taken. The thorns tore his feet. His mind wandered. He hoped his familia – Calgacus, Maximus and Demetrius – had escaped. The Allfather willing, they might be safe in Samosata by now. And what of Quietus? Would that repulsive youth also be there? Ballista repeated to himself the vow he had made in Ephesus, the vow he had made again on the barren hillside the other day: One day, maybe not soon, but one day, I will kill you.
Ballista's brief moment of optimism, founded on unlikely plans for revenge, was snuffed out by a much darker thought: Julia and the boys far away in Antioch. The idea of never seeing them again. Not to watch Isangrim and Dernhelm grow. Not to discover what sort of men they would become. No! It could not be. Allfather, Death-Blinder, Deep Hood, Fulfiller of Desire, Woden-born as I am, hear my prayer: I will give whatever is necessary, do whatever it takes, but let me return to them – return to them whatever the cost.
A stumble and a shock of pain in his ankles brought Ballista back to the present. He and the other prisoners trudged on across the burnt, bare floor of the valley
As they neared the southern hills, Ballista saw the solitary pike planted stark against the skyline. Halfway up was nailed a man's right arm. It wore an ornate golden bracelet. Impaled on its point was a man's head. Ballista was glad it had been a quick death. No boiling oil. Decapitation. He stopped to take a last look at his friend's face. The quizzical expression had gone. Turpio's face had a look of mild recognition, the look often seen on the dead which can so disturb those left behind to grieve.
A spear point jabbed into Ballista's back. He stumbled on. One of Turpio's favourite poems came into his mind. Don't cry Over the happy dead But weep for those who dread To die.
