Aurelian had paced about, fuming at the disrespect being exhibited to the maiestas of the Roman people. Quietus took it all with surprising equanimity. Ballista, as nothing could be done, had settled down to wait. He was rereading the Anabasis of Xenophon, the classic text about fighting easterners, when out of the blue the summons finally came. Aurelian was all for making Shapur wait, paying him back in kind. Both Ballista and Quietus thought it unwise.
After hurriedly changing into their best uniforms and getting the diplomatic gifts together, they were led out of camp towards a place on the bank of the Scirtos river where parasols shaded a high, elaborate throne, from which the King of Kings could survey the siege.
As he trudged across the plain, Ballista studied the scene. Edessa was in a good state of defence. The orchards and inns outside the city had been torn down to deny cover to the attackers. A dry wadi fronted well-built double walls. To the south was a high citadel topped with the columns of a temple or palace. Rush mats to deaden the impact of missiles hung from the walls. The gates had been blocked with large stones. Where the Scirtos river emerged from the town, the watergates were protected by solid-looking metalwork.
Ballista knew there were ample springs of fresh water within the walls. But the attackers had to depend on the river, and that ran through the town. If he had been in charge, he would have found a way to poison the water before it flowed out to the camp of the enemy on the plain. Again, he would not have sealed the gates, making it impossible to sally out. He thought the situation demonstrated a lack of initiative on the part of the defenders. But, looking outside the walls, he saw no artillery and no evidence of a siege mound or mines. The attackers appeared to be no more active than the besieged. The whole affair had more the feel of a blockade than a closely pressed siege.
'Who comes before the divine, virtuous, powerful Shapur, King of Aryans and non-Aryans, King of Kings?' At the herald's question the Romans performed proskynesis, full length in the dust and, possibly carefully placed, horse droppings.
Ballista stood. He spoke in Persian. 'We are envoys from the virtuous, peace-loving Valerian, emperor of the Romans. This is Lucius Domitius Aurelian and Titus Fulvius Iunius Quietus. I am Marcus Clodius Ballista.'
As the silence lengthened, Ballista looked at the tableau in front of him. He had seen Shapur many times at Arete, but never this close. The Sassanid king was a tall, powerfully built man in vigorous middle age. He had a full, black beard and wore the dress of a horseman: short, purple tunic and white trousers. On his head was a high golden crown. Huge pearls hung from his ears. His eyes were lined with kohl. Across his lap lay a strung bow.
The King of Kings was flanked on one side by the great men of his empire. Tall, armed men, bright, embroidered surcoats over gleaming armour, each had a long, straight cavalry sword at his left hip. The men on the other side were equally gorgeously costumed but unarmed. These were the magi, the priests of Mazda. High above them all floated the Drafsh-i-Kavyan, the battle standard of the house of Sasan. A line of ten terrifyingly big elephants, carrying turrets full of armed men, formed the backdrop.
Suddenly, first one then another, Ballista recognized two of the men flanking Shapur. Among the warriors, dressed in Persian fashion, was a man with a long face with eyes that were too wide, and which matched the turned-down corners of his mouth. Ballista had last seen that distinctive face at the Horns of Ammon. It was no great surprise that Anamu, sometime leading man of the city of Arete and consummate survivor, had risen high in the service of the Sassanid king.
The other man was a total surprise. Ballista looked carefully: the tall, thin figure; the bushy beard and hair; the dark eyes that regarded him with no evident recognition. No, he was not mistaken. There, among the high priests of the Sassanid empire, stood the Persian boy who had once gone by the name of Bagoas and had once been the slave of Ballista, bought in the marketplace of Delos. At times, the northerner thought, it is a very small world – small, complicated and dangerous.
Another group of envoys was ushered forward. They were clad in eastern costume. They stopped next to the Romans and performed proskynesis. Again, the herald demanded identification.
'I am Verodes. I am the envoy of Odenathus, Lord of Tadmor, King of Palmyra.'
Shapur plucked the string of his bow. He had an air of supreme indifference. He looked at the Romans, then turned to the newcomer. 'What does Odenathus want?'
The envoy from Palmyra smiled a courtly smile. 'My Lord wants for nothing except to be admitted into the warmth of the friendship of the King of Kings. He brings gifts suitable to your majesty.' Verodes clapped his hands, and servants came forward. First, bales of silk were spread then piles of spices heaped. Finally, a magnificent white stallion was led forth. The mingled scent of spices and horse filled the air.
With no emotion, Shapur took an arrow from the quiver that hung from his throne. No one moved. Shapur notched it, drew and aimed straight at the chest of the envoy from Palmyra. As he released, he altered the angle of the arrow. The bright feathers on its shaft quivered in the neck of the horse. The stallion threw up its head. It started to rear. Its legs gave way, and it collapsed. Its muscles trembled for some moments, and it was still. The dark blood pooled out.
Shapur pointed with the bow at the other gifts. 'Throw these baubles in the river.' Men rushed to do his biding. 'Tell Odenaethus that if he wishes the King of Kings to smile on him, to send no more slaves with trinkets suitable to win the favours of a whore but to come with his hands in chains, throw himself at our feet, let him prostrate himself and beg for our mercy. Now go!'
With all the dignity they could muster, Verodes and the other Palmyrenes hurriedly performed proskynesis and left.
Ballista could feel the anger radiating off Aurelian. The northerner himself was not angry – if anything, he felt a grudging admiration at the way it had been stage-managed. The Roman ambassadors had been kept waiting to witness one of Rome's chief allies in the east trying to change sides. In a superb display of power, Shapur had rejected the offer. He had neatly undermined all trust between Odenathus and the Romans and at the same time demonstrated the supreme confidence he felt in his own power.
Shapur pointed the bow at Ballista. 'And you?' He spoke now in Greek. 'What does your kyrios want?'
'He wants a truce, Kyrios.'
Shapur smiled. 'Does he? Even as we speak, Mazda strikes down the ungodly. Plague rages through the Roman army in Samosata. Why should we grant a truce?'
'My lord, the fortune of war is unknowable. Many have found war against the emperors of the Romans a terrible thing.'
Shapur laughed. 'The house of Sasan has always found it a thing of unalloyed joy, a bringer of exquisite pleasure.' He gestured, and a short, fat man dressed in an approximation of the martial costume of a Roman emperor scurried forth. Shapur clicked his fingers and Mariades, his tame pretender to the throne of the Caesars, dropped on all fours. Shapur swung his boots on to the back of his living footstool.
'I take it you bring tribute? The usual gold and silver plate finely embossed with lying images of easterners grovelling at the feet of Romans?'