Calling for the Dalmatians to follow, Ballista ran to the chariot. An Arab spun his horse, jabbed his spear. Ballista sidestepped, caught the shaft in his left hand and tugged. The rider was yanked forward, half out of the saddle. Ballista brought his sword down on his skull. It cracked like the shell of a snail. Blood and brains splashed hot in Ballista's face.
Ducking under the hooves of the rearing horse, Ballista vaulted up into the chariot. Wrestling with the reins, the Arab did not see him coming. Ballista thrust the point of his sword into the driver's back. He twisted the blade, withdrew it, the man screamed and toppled out sideways. The battle-trained pale grey horses stood motionless.
Ballista turned. He was alone. The Dalmatian cavalrymen were gone, swallowed up in the melee. The northerner was surrounded by four mounted raiders. They would fight now. They wanted revenge for their slaughtered kinsmen. For a few moments, the five men and eight horses were a still point in the eye of the storm.
Ballista sensed as much as saw the Arab over his left shoulder throw his spear. He swivelled and, gripping his sword two-handed, batted the missile away, inches from his face. He spun through 360 degrees. The other three did not move.
The one who had thrown his spear unslung his bow. He pulled an arrow from his quiver. He grinned. The others were grinning, their teeth very white in their long, dark beards. The bowman notched the arrow. He drew the bow. One of the others laughed.
Out of the confusion, a Dalmatian soldier launched himself at the bow-armed Arab. With no fuss, the raider shot him through the chest. The soldier staggered back. Hands clutching uselessly at the black-feathered shaft, he fell.
There was a surge of noise. Another tent-dweller galloped up. In a high, urgent voice, he yelled at the men facing Ballista. They hesitated. The newcomer yelled again, turning his own horse back the way they had come. Reluctantly, the others booted their mounts and, shouting over their shoulders what were threats in any language, raced after him.
A small body of cavalry headed by Turpio appeared from the left and thundered after the raiders. There was little likelihood it would catch them.
All around Ballista was utter chaos: dead and dying men and beasts; clouds of dust; deafening noise. Up on the bridge proper, Valerian's war horse was rearing and plunging. The groom hanging on its back was incapable of controlling the maddened stallion. There was a vicious crimson gash along the animal's flank. A stable lad ran to try to grab its bridle. With a wild eye, the charger span away on its hind legs. It bucked. Reared up again. And then, almost too quickly to be comprehended, it jumped clean over the parapet.
With a resounding splash, horse and groom vanished beneath the waters of the Marsyas.
XXV
Almost all the men arriving at the imperial headquarters in Samosata had either neatly sewn little bags of herbs or perfume-drenched rolls of material wedged in their ears and pushed up their noses. They were very frightened. Some of those invited to the emperor's consilium actually rattled, they wore so many protective amulets.
Turpio had been no more concerned than most when it started. A couple of days after the army had crossed the Marsyas river, the camp dogs had started dying. No one had given it much thought. As they marched north, the turquoise waters of the Euphrates on their right, the strangely flat-topped grey cliffs to their left and again on the other side of the river, it spread to the baggage animals. By the time they were following the great river to the east, some of the Moorish light cavalry were complaining of an eye infection. Within twenty-four hours, those affected were so disorientated they seemed not to recognize their closest companions. They began to vomit and suffer uncontrollable diarrhoea. Then the dreadful pustules appeared. Men from other units began to be struck down, too. The line of march was marked by hastily dug graves. By the time the army reached Samosata, no one talked of anything else. Plague is a terrible thing. The first part of the prediction of Appian, the Christian martyr of Ephesus, had come true.
Turpio paused for a moment to get his breath back after the steep climb to the citadel. In front of him was the residence of the Roman governor of the province of Commagene, which Valerian had taken over as his campaign headquarters. Once, it had been the palace of the independent kings of Commagene. It was a strange building, made of diamond-patterned small blocks of limestone. Over the gate was a newly cut inscription: 'Phoebus, the unshorn god, keep off the plague's dark onset.'
Turpio took a deep breath and moved on. His nose and ears were unplugged, but that was not because he was unafraid. Coming up through the town, he had hurriedly walked a block out of his way when he heard the bells of the libitinarii, the carriers-out of the dead, in the street ahead. He was very scared. But he had always had a particularly acute sense of smell. Strong-smelling herbs or perfume in his nostrils, or even in his ears, would have been insufferable.
The throne and dais at the end of the basilica were unoccupied so far. Below them, the consilium was filling up. One man was standing with a space around him. Turpio hesitated. A man of prudence might not choose to stand with Ballista. The loss of the imperial charger under the waters of the Marsyas had deepened the impression that the northerner was out of imperial favour.
Turpio walked over and stood next to Ballista. They nodded to each other. Now the plague had struck, no one embraced. Turpio ignored the covert glances of the others. When Turpio and Ballista first met, the northerner could have had him executed for corruption. Instead, Ballista had promoted him, had given him his trust. Now Turpio knew it was his turn to show fides, good faith. Besides, Turpio liked the man. The big northerner had never asked how it was that Turpio had come to be blackmailed. Not that Turpio would have told him; that secret would go to the grave with him. But it was good of the man not to ask.
The basilica was hung everywhere with swags of laurel, that sure preventative of plague. Its pervasive odour formed the base to a riot of other scents. Turpio felt slightly nauseous. The Danubian Aurelian joined Turpio and Ballista. Since Tacitus had been posted to the west, they were the only two that stood with the northerner.
A herald announced the emperor Valerian. The principes, the leading men of the imperium, dipped their faces to the floor in respect. Turpio noticed that the floor had not been properly swept. There were no charms or sweet-smelling prophylactics on the person of Valerian. His courage had never been in question. But he looked old and frail. As he made his way down the aisle, he held the arm of Macrianus. Click-drag-step. Click-drag-step. It would take little imagination, thought Turpio, to see it as an omen: the aged seeking support from the infirm.
When the imperial party had ascended the dais, the members of the consilium rose to their feet and shouted ritual acclamations of good health that went on a long time.
Eventually, Valerian cleared his throat and began to speak in a voice that seemed to struggle for breath. 'Far-shooting Phoebus Apollo has sent his plague arrows amongst us. Rumours run through the camp. Some talk of the past. A hundred years ago. A shadowy temple in Babylonia. A golden casket wrenched open by Roman soldiers. An evil released on the imperium. Superstitious nonsense!' He paused. 'Some talk of the present. Criminals at dead of night. Flitting through the dark. Poisoned needles in hand. Bringing death to the unsuspecting. All nonsense! Superstitious nonsense!