The hanging fell behind them and they were plunged into almost complete darkness. They stood still, just listening to their own breathing.
With no warning, the inner hangings were pulled back and Ballista was momentarily blinded by the rush of light. Squinting, he peered into the audience chamber of Imperator Caesar Publius Licinius Valerianus Augustus, Pontifex Maximus, Pater Patriae, Germanicus Maximus, Invictus, Restitutor Orbis.
As befitted his role as mediator between mankind and the gods, the emperor Valerian appeared suspended in mid-air. He was bathed in bright sunlight from the windows of the great apse where he sat. His toga gleamed painfully white and rays flashed from the golden wreath on his head. The emperor's face was immobile. His gaze was fixed on the distance, over the heads of mere mortals, far beyond the confines of the palace. As the Romans deemed right, the emperor looked as remote as a statue.
As Ballista's eyes adjusted, he saw the low altar where the sacred fire burned at the foot of the steps up to the throne. He took in the Praetorian Prefect, Successianus, standing at the right shoulder of the emperor, the row of secretaries behind his left.
Cledonius touched Ballista's elbow and they set off to walk slowly the length of the long audience chamber. In front of the pillars on either side sat the members of the consilium, a dozen or so of the great men of the empire, as still and quiet as cowed schoolboys. Out of the corner of his eye Ballista saw the sons of Macrianus glowering. The face of their father, longer schooled in the ways of the court, was expressionless. Near them, Ballista saw another man he thought that he recognized. The artfully curled hair and beard, the supercilious expression reminded him of someone. In his fatigue the recognition remained tantalizingly out of reach.
They stopped just short of the sacred fire.
'Marcus Clodius Ballista, Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome.' The voice of the ab Admissionibus was reverent but carried well.
Valerian remained motionless, his gaze still far away.
At a sign from Cledonius, Ballista advanced to the foot of the steps and performed proskynesis, adoration. Hoping that his reluctance was not evident, the northerner lowered himself to his knees then prostrated himself full length on the floor.
Still Valerian did not look at him. But after a while the emperor held out one of his hands. Ballista got to his feet and, bowing, kissed the proffered heavy gold ring, set with a gem cut with an image of an eagle.
At last the emperor looked down at the man in front of him. The thin, delicate leaves of the golden wreath rustled.
'Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista, carissime Dux Ripae, my dear Commander of the Riverbanks.'
Ballista looked up at the emperor. There was the prominent chin, the fleshy cheeks and neck. Now the sparse, carefully groomed moustache and whiskers framed a mouth that was set, eyes that contained no warmth. The word carissime was never more of a formality.
The emperor looked at Ballista. The northerner looked back at the emperor. A Roman would have looked away, would have respectfully dropped his eyes. Ballista was buggered if he was going to look away. Motes of dust moved lazily in the sunlight.
At length the elderly emperor nodded, as if to confirm something to himself, and spoke.
'Marcus Clodius Ballista, tell the sacred consilium the things that have happened to you and the things that you have done. Take the floor.'
Ballista carefully walked a few steps backwards, stopping just beyond the low altar of the imperial fire. Cledonius had melted into the background. Ballista was alone in the middle of the chamber. He was very aware of the members of the consilium seated on either side, but he kept his gaze and all his attention on the old man on the elevated throne.
What has happened to me! No one knows better than you what has happened to me. You and your son betrayed me. Gave me false promises and sent me to my death. You bastard! Ballista swayed slightly. He was light-headed. He knew that he had to control himself. He started to talk.
'Last autumn, following the mandata, instructions, given to me by the emperors Valerian and Gallienus, I travelled to the city of Arete on the Euphrates River. I arrived thirteen days before the kalends of December. The seasonal rains began the next day. Over the winter I readied the defences of the city. The Sassanid Persians came in April when there was grass for their horses and no more rain to dampen their bows. They were led by Shapur, the King of Kings, in person.'
A faint rustle like a shiver ran through the consilium at the mention of the great enemy of Rome, the eastern barbarian who had the audacity to claim equality with the Roman master of the world.
'The Sassanids assaulted the walls first with siege towers, then with a huge ram. We threw them back both times. Many of Shapur's men died. The plain before the city was a charnel house.'
Ballista paused, fighting his weariness to put his memories in order.
'The Sassanids built a siege ramp to overtop our walls. We collapsed it. They undermined a stretch of the city wall and one of the towers, but our earth banks held the defences upright.'
Ballista took a deep breath.
'Shapur ordered one final assault. It failed like the others. Then… then, that night, the city was betrayed.'
There was an audible intake of breath from the consilium. Even the emperor involuntarily leaned forward. Ballista did not wait for the inevitable question.
'Christians. The Christians were the traitors.'
There was a low babble of voices. Valerian shot a significant look at one of his advisors – which one? Macrianus possibly? – then again nodded as if something had been confirmed to him.
The rising murmur of voices ceased like a lamp snuffed out as a silentarius stepped into view.
The emperor sat back on his throne, recomposing himself into a suitably dignified immobility. After a time he spoke.
'The city fell, and you are here.' The imperial voice was neutral.
Ballista felt a hot jet of anger rising in himself. 'With a few companions, I cut my way out of the city. Nothing in my mandata said that I had to die there.'
Valerian betrayed no response, but on either side the members of the consilium grew even stiller. Ballista was tired and he was angry, but he knew that he had to be very careful or his words would yet see him executed. Everyone waited for the emperor's next words. The emperor's will was law. There was no appeal from his verdict. As a Roman citizen, Ballista would have the advantage of being beheaded and not nailed to a cross.
'Our nature is merciful. We are filled with clementia, clemency. Let no one think that we would ever order one of our subjects to his death. We are not an oriental despot like Shapur the Persian, intent on enslaving the world, but the bulwark and embodiment of libertas, freedom.' A mutter of assent ran round the consilium. 'Who has a question for the Dux Ripae?' Valerian gestured.
Ballista half-turned. The man rising to speak was the one who had looked familiar as Ballista entered the audience chamber. That long, artfully curled hair, a short, neatly barbered beard, with at its bottom a ruff of hair teased out – Allfather, if I were not so tired, I would be able to place this man.
'What happened to my brother?'
Ballista stared stupidly. His mind was blank.
'My brother, the commander of the legionary detachment in Arete, my brother, Marcus Acilius Glabrio.'
Memories flooded into Ballista. He wondered how to say what he had to say.
'My brother?' The voice was tense, impatient.
'Your brother… your brother died a hero's death. The Persians were catching us. With one other, your brother said he would delay them. He said that, like Horatius, he would hold the bridge. None of us would have got away without his sacrifice. He died a death worthy of a patrician family of Rome, worthy of the Acilii Glabriones. A hero.'