The palace of Emesa, like that of Minos, was a maze. Of course, the Emesene priest-kings had had over three centuries to add architectural complexity. There had been a Sampsigeramus waiting all those years earlier when Pompey the Great had first led Roman arms into Syria.
Even if they had just been given instructions, it would be doubtful if Ballista, Castricius and Jucundus would have found their way to this secluded courtyard on their own. The morning after the failed raid, this had not been put to the test. Summoned in haste, they had arrived at the main gate and had been taken in charge by no less than sixteen of the Emesene royal guard. As Jucundus had muttered, the odds were worse than five to one.
Since the time of the first emperor, the Praetorians had been among the few who were allowed to be armed in the imperial presence. The more recent post of Prefect of Cavalry was one of the others. None of this held any longer at the court of Quietus. The Emesene guards had brusquely disarmed and thoroughly searched Ballista and the other two. Their weapons and armour were piled negligently against the wall. The easterners, uncaring of their wounded foreign dignitas, had hustled them like condemned prisoners through the myriad corridors of the palace.
Like the palace of Minos, at the heart of the maze was something unpleasant. Quietus at first completely ignored the new arrivals. The emperor was dressed in eastern fashion: long, flowing robes, a jewelled dagger in his sash. Arm in arm with Sampsigeramus, he wandered here and there across the courtyard. Quietus inspected things, issued commands and reproofs, even the occasional word of encouragement.
The open space was a hive of activity. At one end, slaves were laying out a huge array of precious things: paintings, sculptures, dinner services in gold, silver and electrum, intricate carpets and curtains, silken garments. Quietus studied them closely, head on one side, rearranging his hair with one finger. Sometimes he ordered an item removed and another brought out in its place. Opposite all this, other slaves were building an elaborate pyre, surely too close to the wall; with the amount of scented oils being poured, it would burn with an all-consuming ferocity.
Ballista had seen nothing like it before, but it was all oddly familiar.
There was an awning strung over the whole courtyard. It was torn near the centre and let in a column of clean light. The slaves walked tentatively around it, as if it were solid. The emperor and his friend avoided it as if it could hurt.
Despite the shade, it was hot. Soon Quietus and his delicate eastern priest-king needed a rest. At a word, work was suspended. A couch was brought out and they reclined between the mountain of luxuries and the half-built pyre. They sipped drinks chilled with the snow of Mount Libanus.
Ballista stood rigid. Castricius and Jucundus did the same. They were unarmed, ringed by guards, prey to justified fears. Quietus’s words at their last meeting ran round and round in Ballista’s thoughts: by dawn, the Lion of the Sun would be dead, or others would suffer. The northerner pictured the senator Astyrius in the gloom of the temple; his headless trunk in the pooling blood. Rather that happen to himself, here and now in this sweltering courtyard, than any harm come to his boys. Let this be over. It was the waiting that always threatened to unman you. Calm, calm. In a way, what was life but one long wait for the final, horrible thing?
At long last, Quietus waved a long-sleeved arm to summon them over. They got up from proskynesis. The sand of the yard had been watered to keep the dust down. It fell in crumbling lumps from the front of their tunics.
Quietus gestured, palm limply up, at a painting. Ballista recognized it as the one from the consilium in the palace at Antioch: The Wedding of Alexander by Aetion.
‘What do you think it means?’ Quietus asked.
The three officers may have had views, but they kept quiet.
‘My dear Sampsigeramus thinks it shows how love and sex can make even the most warlike men, such as the great conqueror, forget the battlefield and soften their bellicose natures.’
Quietus gently ran his hand through Sampsigeramus’s hair. ‘My dear boy is too trusting. Look what those cupids are doing. Some of them distract Alexander by pulling the clothes off Roxanne. The others drag away his weapons out of reach. All the while, two men stand behind him, another peers around the door. Treachery – it is nothing but an allegory of treachery.’
The awning snapped in the silence.
‘Nothing has been spared me,’ Quietus complained. ‘No disappointment, no treachery, no dishonour, no betrayal. Maeonius Astyanax, Pomponius Bassus, even that weak old fool Theodorus – all traitors. At least Fabius Labeo is discovering the ultimate wages of treachery.’
Quietus suddenly spread his hands wide, palms up. ‘And where is the Lion of the Sun this morning? Is he grovelling in the dirt at my feet? Instead, the three of you stand here. Tell me, why did last night’s raid end in ignominious failure? What was it if not yet more treachery?’
‘No, Dominus.’ Ballista was surprised how resolute his voice sounded. ‘The Palmyrenes were vigilant. Our men were ill-disciplined. It was bad luck. No treachery.’
‘That cannot be.’ Quietus was adamant. ‘Someone must be held accountable, or the world may think this failure reflects on our own majesty. Our maiestas must be sacrosanct.’ His gaze flicked feverishly over the three officers. ‘And one of you has already shown himself a traitor.’
The three men stood very still. More Emesene guards appeared from the corners of the yard. The officers were surrounded. There was nothing languid about these easterners. There was the slither of swords being drawn. The Romans stood empty-handed.
Ballista measured the distance to the imperial couch. Five, six paces. A ring of armed guards in the way. He had no weapon. Try to shoulder through, take the wounds. Get to the couch. Grab the ornamental dagger on the emperor’s belt. Use it to kill Quietus. Hold the blade to Sampsigeramus’s throat. The guards were his men. Bargain for a safe passage.
It was hopeless. Ballista knew he would not get two steps.
‘Nothing spared … no betrayal,’ Quietus said softly.
The three officers were rigid, waiting.
Quietus thrust out a finger at Jucundus. ‘You’ – his voice was low – ‘you have been comforting my enemies. My enemy’s friend is my enemy.’
The centurion knew his life hung on what he said. ‘Dominus, I have done no such thing. A malicious informer must have made a false accusation.’
Quietus, quiet as an owl, looked at him.
‘Dominus.’ The strain showed in Jucundus’s voice. ‘Dominus, the delator must be in the pay of Odenathus – trying to remove your loyal officers.’
‘Not at all,’ said Quietus. ‘What you did is widely known. You have not even made a secret of it.’
Jucundus was silent.
‘You cannot deny taking all manner of comforts into the prison for Ballista.’ Quietus smirked like a man who has made a winning throw at dice.
Ballista reacted first. ‘But, Dominus,’ he exclaimed, ‘I am not your enemy. I am one of your Praetorian Prefects. You have entrusted me with the defence of the city.’
‘All true now,’ Quietus shouted, ‘but not true then. Then I thought you were my enemy – that is enough. Jucundus openly succoured a traitor, threatened the gaoler that he better treat the traitor well, betrayed all my trust.’ Quietus was almost screaming; flecks of spittle flew from his lips. ‘What price loyalty when my wishes are openly mocked?’
Ballista persevered. ‘You trust me to command Emesa. Jucundus is one of my most trusted officers.’
‘You boast of your loyalty? Well, prove it now. Take a sword and execute the traitor Jucundus.’
A guard stood forward, reversed his sword, held the hilt out towards the Romans.
Ballista did not move.
‘Cut him down, or you will die with him.’
A rasp of steel. Quick as a snake, Jucundus had the sword in hand. Its owner leapt back.
The Emesene guards crouched, ready to fight, just waiting for a move or a word of command.
Jucundus changed his grip, thrust the tip of the blade up under his breastbone.
‘I will die like a man, not for your amusement.’ Jucundus’s eyes did not leave Quietus. ‘You will die worse. I pray to the gods to be avenged.’
Jucundus threw himself forward. The hilt hit the sand. The blade tore up into his innards. He writhed sideways, groaning in agony.
Ballista found himself on his knees by Jucundus. ‘Finish it,’ the dying man whispered. Ballista prised the hands loose from the hilt. He twisted the blade, withdrew it, thrust again. Jucundus sighed a great sigh and died.
Ballista got to his feet. The knees of his trousers were soaked in blood. The reeking sword was still in his hand.
The guards hefted their weapons.
Ballista dropped the sword. It thudded on to the stained, fouled sand.
‘For I too am dust …,’ Quietus mused. ‘Life does not forgive weakness … You two return to your duties.’
They recovered their weapons and armour. They left Jucundus’s where they lay. Outside, they shouldered the general guilt of the survivor and their own sharper, more specific, individual guilts. They walked. Briefly, they were alone. Ballista put his arm around Castricius’s shoulder and talked low and fast into his ear.
Castricius turned off to his headquarters above the Palmyra Gate. Ballista walked on to the Tower of Desolation. He climbed the winding staircase. There were six Praetorians on lookout, about all the fighting top could comfortably hold. Ballista told one of them to go and get Calgacus; the freedman was to bring his patronus a papyrus roll, ink and stylus as well as his best, favourite black cloak. Ballista leant forward, settled his elbows on the low parapet and waited.
When Calgacus appeared, Ballista dismissed all the Praetorians.
‘Quietus killed Jucundus.’ There was no need for preamble.
‘I heard.’
‘Of the three of us, he was the innocent one. He was gone when I told Castricius to make sure one of the artillery pieces was released early.’
‘I know it. But there is nothing to be done about it now.’
‘Quietus is building a pyre in the palace.’
‘Many men will kill themselves rather than be taken alive – the Romans make a cult of it.’ Calgacus shrugged. ‘Sooner the fucker is on it the better.’
‘It is not just himself he intends to kill,’ said Ballista.
Calgacus pursed his lips.
‘There was a king of Assyria called Sardanapallus,’ said Ballista. ‘He was besieged for two years in his capital, Nineveh. When there was no hope, he had every precious thing he owned and everything he had enjoyed collected together. The women and boys he had fucked, all the horses he had ridden – their throats were cut. The bodies and the treasures were burned with him.’
Still Calgacus said nothing.
‘Quietus is heaping up his things by the pyre. I think he intends to play the Assyrian. He wants his passing to be marked by an orgy of destruction. He will take many others with him. Quietus is insane.’
‘Aye, most likely,’ said Calgacus. ‘So you have to play the hero again.’
‘I am going to fulfil a vow I made some time ago,’ Ballista said seriously. Then he laughed. ‘And you get to play the hero too.’
‘Fucking wonderful,’ Calgacus said, without expression.
‘Get two quiet horses and some drab clothes. Keep an eye on this tower. When you see me wave this best black cloak from the battlements here, go to the prison. Kill the gaoler and any of his assistants – there is seldom more than one – they do not look like fighters. Ride with the boys and Julia to the Palmyra Gate. Castricius is expecting you. He will let you out through the postern gate. Take them to Haddudad and Odenathus.’
‘And you?’
‘I am going to play on Quietus’s obsession with treachery to get him to come here.’
‘And then?’
‘Cheer up, sooner or later he will probably kill us all anyway.’
Ballista looked out from the Tower of Desolation at the desert and the sown. The strip of tilled land was full of Odenathus’s army. In the desert was nothingness, desert absolute.
If you were dressed in just a tunic, with the breeze, it was almost cool up here. Calgacus had helped him strip off his equipment. Though they had done it before, it was hard saying goodbye to the old Caledonian, very hard. Nearly a lifetime of largely unspoken affection. Calgacus had asked him would he not go and see his boys. Ballista would not. He had not the courage for it. Tell them he loved them. Tell her too.
The old man had left without a word of complaint.
Up on the tower, Ballista had waited. Calgacus needed time to collect the horses and clothes. The sun had crawled across the sky. Eventually, Ballista had summoned a Praetorian to go to Quietus with a message.
Before he left, Calgacus had handed over the things. The best black cloak lay at Ballista’s feet. The writing things were in his hands. He must write something. A letter to his boys and wife? Depending on how things fell out, it might be twisted and used against them. He wrote, ‘Legio III Felix’. Then he tore from the roll the thin strip of papyrus with the words and twined it round his fingers.
Ballista, stylus in one hand, scrap of papyrus in the other, leant on the crenellations and tried to calm his thoughts. The Norns had spun his fate. The length of his life and the day of his death had been fated long ago. Nothing he could do would unpick it.
His mind was not stilled. Too many questions were running through it, treading hard on each other’s heels. Would Quietus come? Most likely – he was baited with treachery, and he was mad for treachery. Had Maximus reached Palmyra? Had Haddudad taken him to Odenathus? Had the Lion of the Sun believed Ballista’s letter? Was Maximus out there watching this very tower from somewhere in the camp now? There was no telling for any of it. Would Calgacus save his boys and Julia? About this, the most important question, he felt oddly calm. He had no doubt that Calgacus could deal with the gaoler and his assistants. Of course Castricius would see them safe through the postern gate. Haddudad owed Ballista’s family every hospitality. He almost smiled at the thought of Julia and Bathshiba together. But then, what of himself – would he succeed or fail?
And when it was done or not, what then? Was there an afterlife? The Christians seemed certain. It buoyed them up in the face of the steel and fire. Ballista had seen the insane resolve it gave them. But it made no sense to him. The resurrection of the body – what a nonsense. Why would you want to come back old and infirm, wracked with the pain of the thing that killed you? And if you had a choice, how could it work? You wanted to be thirty. You wanted to be with the twenty-year-old woman you loved then. But your sons were not born then, and you wanted to be with them too. As for the woman, maybe she had a better time of it with someone else. It would be an accommodating god that would give each Christian their own heaven.
Ballista’s ancestral Valhalla seemed a far better choice: the slick-palmed excitement of battle every day. You took the pain, but then wounds miraculously healed, there was a feast every night – food, drink, poetry, the friendship of men, and later, as the stars wheeled across the bottomless sky, the love of women. But even here, problems crept in, like the Evil One. In Ballista’s childhood, there had been no mention of books in the hall of the Allfather. But now, without reading, it would be a barren existence for him. And his boys – there could be no certainty they would join him. And being without them would be far worse than losing all the books in the world. Twenty-three winters in the imperium had changed him. The boys had changed him.
Ballista felt hungry. He called down for a Praetorian to bring him some bread and cheese, some ham as well. After the soldier had gone, he realized ham might be difficult in a town where the natives appeared not to eat pork. Still, Roman soldiers had never been renowned for their sensitivities to other cultures.
No sooner had the food arrived, ham and all, than the cavalcade of Quietus appeared in the street below. The emperor was dressed in eastern costume and attended by twenty gorgeously caparisoned Emesene cavalrymen.
Ballista was eating when the Praetorian brought a couple of the local troopers up. The latter searched the northerner with as much impertinence as they could muster. They took away his food, fingered his cloak and writing materials suspiciously, and peered around the minuscule fighting area for anywhere a concealed weapon might lurk. When satisfied, one of them went back down the stairs. Neither the other nor the Praetorian took their eyes off Ballista.
It took some time for the emperor to climb to the top of the tower. When he emerged, he was out of breath, leaning on the arm of an easterner. Another Praetorian followed.
There was barely room for Ballista to perform proskynesis.
Quietus shook himself free of the trooper. The four armed men wedged themselves close together at the top of the steps. It gave just a little room to the emperor and his Praetorian Prefect.
‘Get up.’ Quietus’s voice was peevish. ‘This had better be true.’
As Ballista got to his feet, he picked up the scrap of papyrus and the stylus. ‘It could not be more so, Dominus.’ He handed over the curling papyrus.
Quietus unrolled it and read. ‘Your messenger said this was shot over the wall tied to an arrow. It is the identity of the unit that wishes to come over to us.’
‘The first unit that wishes to throw itself on your clementia. There will be others,’ said Ballista. ‘It makes sense that it is Legio III Felix. A vexillatio of the unit is already serving you.’
‘And you arranged a signal to confirm this with the archer?’
‘I am to wave a black cloak from this tower. If a similar cloak is waved from the siege lines below, Legio III will come into the city by the Palmyrene Gate tonight.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it.’
Ballista reached down and gathered the cloak in his left hand. He lifted it high above his head. Making quite sure it could be seen from inside as well as outside the city, he waved it vigorously.
‘From where in their lines will they answer?’ Quietus was leaning on the parapet, gazing out.
‘I do not know, Dominus.’ Ballista put the cloak down. ‘We must watch and wait.’
‘There! There it is!’ Quietus was pointing, all his attention on the enemy outside.
Do not think, just act.
Ballista stabbed the stylus into the emperor’s neck. Quietus, howling, tried to turn, hands reaching up for the wound. Ballista withdrew the stylus, dropped it. He heard movement behind him. He grabbed the emperor, one hand clutching the embroidered front of Quietus’s tunic, the other at his crotch. Blood was flowing down both of them. Ballista hauled him up the battlements, pushed him backwards. Quietus’s hands clawed. One locked in Ballista’s hair, the other scratched at his face. More violent movements at the stairhead, out of sight. Ballista pushed Quietus out over the crenellations. Only the emperor’s legs were still in the tower.
Ballista let go.
Quietus’s pouched little eyes were wide in realization and fear, filthy little mouth open in a despairing scream.
Ballista felt pain as a handful of his hair was torn out.
Quietus fell, arms and legs flailing hopelessly as he scraped down the sheer stone wall and on to the hard, unforgiving rocks below.
No noise behind Ballista. He had not been attacked. He turned slowly. He was unarmed. He had even dropped the stylus.
The two Praetorians faced him. Swords drawn.
A pool of blood flowed out from where one of the easterners lay. It began to drip and then run over the top step. The other Emesene was nowhere to be seen.
Ballista looked at the Praetorians. One of them had a distinctive angular face, a huge hooked nose.
The Praetorians looked at each other, then back at Ballista.
As one, they reversed swords, held the hilts out, and shouted.
‘Ave Caesar! Ave Imperator Marcus Clodius Ballista Augustus!’