'I think it is real. I must do something.'
Julia swept her hand dismissively. The cup, forgotten in her grip, slopped wine on to the coverlet. 'You can do nothing. If you were out of Valerian's favour after Circesium, now you will be in deep disgrace for your complete failure in Ephesus – even if no one comes forward to inform against you.' She stood up, put down the cup and pulled a robe round herself. She walked to the door. She turned. 'I will go to the palace tomorrow and register the birth of our son. If I were you, I would keep well out of the way of the emperor and his court. And well out of mine.' She left.
Ballista did not move. What was it that old Republican senator had said? Given the nature of women, the married state is almost intolerable, but being a bachelor is worse – something on those lines. If it was not for the boys… But Ballista's anger was not deep, little more than a reaction to Julia's. It was slipping away already.
Clearly, no one was going to believe that Macrianus was plotting for his sons to take the throne. Equally, just going uninvited to Valerian and telling him his most trusted friend was going to betray him was not a good idea. Ballista took a drink. He looked at the crumpled bed. He wondered how long Julia's anger would last. Comes Augusti (Spring AD260)
'Who is this with the white crest that leads the army's van?' – Julian, De Caesaribus 313B; quoting Euripides, Phoenissae 120
XXIV
As everyone was ignoring him, Ballista studied the swan. It had been caught down by the river a couple of months earlier, just after the long-awaited announcement of the Persian expedition. The swan had been brought up to the temple of Zeus in the main agora of Antioch. Although its wings had not been clipped, it had not flown away. Instead, it passed its days strutting around the sacred precinct. Zeus had changed into a swan to seduce Leda. That a bird so associated with the king of the gods should make its home in his temple was generally taken as a good omen for the forthcoming war.
Certainly, a good omen was welcome. There had been others; they had all been bad. Up at Daphne, from a clear sky a violent wind had torn down several of the sacred cypress trees – the trees, thought Ballista, which Isangrim had said he would chop down. Although he had not been present, the northerner had been told that, during the last meeting of the emperor's consilium, the huge beams of cedar that supported the palace roof had groaned like souls in torment. At the same moment, in the outer hall, the statue of the deified emperor Trajan, that great conqueror of the east, had dropped the orb which signified mastery of the world. Among the superstitious, there was talk of the birth of a horribly deformed child.
Undoubtedly, the swan was welcome. It was a fine-looking bird. Ballista sadly thought of farmers in the imperium sowing shut the eyelids of swans so that, in their darkness, they would fatten better. As the number of men in the precinct increased, the majestic bird removed itself to behind the open-air altar.
A hand touched Ballista's elbow. He turned to see the close-cropped head of Aurelian. Beyond him was the sardonic face of Turpio. It was good that not everyone had disowned him. It had been a bad nine months since he came back from Ephesus. Until today, no summons had come from the imperial palace. Instead, after a few days, a praetorian had hammered on the door demanding Ballista hand over his letter of appointment as Vicarius to the Governor of Asia. After that, Ballista had been ignored. Julia had persuaded her husband that he should not petition the emperor for permission to leave Antioch and return to their home in Sicily. It was best to keep the lowest of profiles. Following her outburst on his return, Julia's temper had cooled, her practical nature reasserting itself, but a slight strain remained. The worst of it was that she still did not believe that Macrianus the Lame was plotting against Valerian. None of the few that Ballista had told did: not Aurelian nor Turpio, not even Maximus or Calgacus. They all readily accepted what Quietus had said, but they all put it down to the wild temper of a petulant youth. Just as no one would allow a cripple such as Macrianus on the throne, so no one would follow two spoilt brats such as his sons Quietus and Macrianus the Younger if they seized the purple. Besides, Julia added, their father was of the basest origins.
Ballista watched the courtyard filling up with the good and great of the imperium, the high commanders who would travel with Valerian to the east. He wondered why he had been recalled. His friends and familia argued that, at such a time, an experienced commander who had faced the Sassanids in the field was not to be overlooked. He was not so sure. What was it Quietus had said? 'When my father decides your usefulness is at an end, then I will kill you.' Silently, Ballista made a vow. Far from being useful to Macrianus the Lame, he would do everything he could to put a stop to the plot of the sinister Comes Largitionum. The northerner had no great love for Valerian, but he would not stand by and watch the elderly emperor overthrown. There had been too many coups, too many insurrections; they weakened the very fabric of the imperium. And, one day – maybe not on this campaign, maybe not even soon, but one day – he would kill Macrianus' repulsive son Quietus. Allfather, Woden-born as I am, hear my vow.
The booming voice of a herald announced the most sacred Augustus Publius Licinius Valerian, Pontifex Maximus, Pater Patriae, Germanicus Maximus, Invictus, Restitutor Orbis. As the sonorous titles rang out, every man in the precinct performed proskynesis. Stretched out on the ground, Ballista watched the small procession. Valerian looked old, his step infirm. As ever in public these days, he was flanked not just by Successianus, the praetorian prefect, but also by the Comes Largitionum. Click went Macrianus' walking stick; his lame foot dragged; his sound one took a step. Click, drag, step; click, drag, step.
The imperial fire on its small altar was ceremoniously placed in front of the great altar of Zeus. The audience got to their feet. Out of sight, the swan hissed.
Valerian intoned a prayer to Zeus, let the king of the gods look favourably on the expedition, let him hold his hands over the army. The emperor's voice was high, reedy. At one point he seemed to lose his way. He looked to Macrianus. The Comes Largitionum nodded and smiled encouragingly, as one would to a child.
As priests brought fire to the great altar, the swan emerged. Its little black eyes regarded them with suspicion. Then it began to run, its wide wings beating. It took to the air. The front row of dignitaries cowered as it swept over their heads, the wind of its passing ruffling their hair and the folds of their togas.
The swan soared up to the height of the cornice of the temple. Then, stretching out its long neck, it circled the sacred building. As it flew, it sang, a low, mournful warble. After its third circuit, it climbed higher. The spring sunshine played through the feathers at the back of its huge wings. It turned and, following the line of the main street, flew out over the Beroea Gate and away to the east.
As everyone silently watched the dwindling shape, Macrianus seized the moment. He pointed after the swan with his walking stick. 'Behold,' he shouted, his voice resolute, 'a sign! The piety of our beloved emperor is rewarded. The gods approve. Zeus himself leads the way!'
Men cheered. They shook back their togas and applauded. Some prostrated themselves. Others literally jumped for joy. 'Zeus leads the way!' 'Zeus leads the way!'
Amidst the jubilant throng, Ballista stood silent. For sure it looked like a sign from the gods. But a sign of what? The swan, the bird from Zeus' precinct, had flown without them. Of its own choice, it had flown away to the east, away towards Shapur, the King of Kings. Turpio, newly raised to equestrian rank and appointed Praefectus Castrorum of the imperial field army, sat on his horse and looked at his special area of responsibility. The baggage train stretched for miles. On paper, the army was seventy thousand strong, fighting men drawn from all over the imperium. How big the baggage train was, no one knew. Turpio guessed it was at least half as big again. It contained every type of wagon and cart, every breed of draught animal – horses, mules, donkeys, camels – slaves, numberless merchants offering all sorts of goods: drink, food, weapons, glimpses of the future, their own bodies or those of others.