Shapur's voice rang out over the din. 'Valerian, emperor of Rome, with my own hands I take you prisoner.'
Over the Suren's shoulder, Ballista could see the Sassanid cavalry pouring down towards them. A horse reared near by. Successianus was thrown to the ground, among the stamping hooves.
The fingers at his throat were choking Ballista. He could not breathe. His vision was dimming. The Persian cavalry were surging all around them.
'Surrender, my children' – there was a catch in Valerian's voice – 'surrender.'
Ballista ceased to struggle. The Lord Suren released the grip on his throat. The northerner looked up. The emperor caught his eye. Valerian shook his head slightly and spoke with infinite sadness. 'I have been a fool. I doubted your loyalty and ignored your advice. And now it has come to this.' The Sassanids had erected a raised golden throne on the hill opposite the remnants of the Roman army. Seated there, Shapur was shaded by a parasol. The mighty lords of the Sassanid empire flanked him. They were tall men. They stood proud, make-up immaculate, hands resting on the hilts of their long cavalry swords. Above them all, the Drafsh-i-Kavyan cracked in the breeze.
The six Romans stood, dirty, hands bound, waiting under the pitiless sun. Among the nobles, close to the throne, Ballista recognized the Lord Suren. Further away, the jaunty blue clothes, embroidered with delicate four-petal flowers in yellow, of the traitor Anamu. Off to one side stood the Magi and the sacred fires. Ballista noticed with trepidation that the priests of Mazda had set pots to bubble over the flames. The memory of the fate of Roman prisoners at Arete was strong in him. Boiling olive oil tipped into the eyes: a hideous way to die. The northerner fought down a rising feeling of panic.
Shapur held a strung bow in his hands. He pointed it at Valerian. Two clibanarii pushed the old man forward, threw him face down in the dirt, then yanked him to his knees.
'Valerian, once emperor of the Romans, now slave of the house of Sasan, will you tell the remnants of your army cowering on the hill over there to surrender?'
'I will not.'
'A pity. It would spare much suffering.' Shapur spoke reflectively. 'Earlier today, my son, Prince Valash, the joy of Shapur, gave a noble example of the mercy of the house of Sasan when he let depart those who had fought bravely among the legion he had trapped and destroyed. Now, it seems, a different example is needed. That of exemplary cruelty; a sight of what will befall them if they do not come down from the hill.'
Shapur indicated the other prisoners be brought forward. One by one, they were thrown to the ground and their names and rank called out: Successianus the Praetorian Prefect, Cledonius the ab Admissionibus, Aurelian the tribune of the Equites Singulares.
Ballista was shoved forward, his legs kicked out from under him. Although his hands were bound in front, he landed heavily, the wind knocked out of him. A fist in his long hair jerked him savagely up to his knees.
Shapur leaned forward, the bow in his hands. 'This one I know – the butcher of Arete, the ungodly one who defiled sacred fire with the bodies of true believers at Circesium. He will be the one.'
'No!' Turpio yelled.
A moment later, he landed face down next to Ballista. The clibanarii yanked him to his knees.
'He fought you nobly at Arete, defeated your men at Circesium in open battle. A warrior deserves respect!' Turpio roared defiance.
Shapur looked with curiosity at the prodigy of a man that would openly defy the King of Kings to his face. Then his expression changed. He rose. He sprang down from the throne, strode over, grabbed Turpio's right arm. The ornate golden bracelet glittered.
'Where did you get this?' The Sassanid king's voice was soft with menace.
Turpio said nothing.
'You are the one who would have murdered me in my bed, cut my throat as I slept or took my pleasure.'
Shapur stepped back. He called over his shoulder: 'Valash, my son.'
The tall, slim young man in the surcoat emblazoned with big cats came and stood by his father. He rested his hand on his long, straight sword. Shapur pointed at Turpio. 'This one. Do it at the foot of the hill, where all the Romans can bear witness.'
Ballista lurched to his feet. 'No, you bastard, not him!'
Something very hard and heavy hit Ballista on the side of the head. A surge of pain. The earth rushing up. A dull collision. The grains of sand unnaturally clear and large close to his eyes. Darkness.
Epilogue (Spring AD260)
The five thousand or so Romans left on the hill held out for over twenty-four hours. During the night, some tried to break out. Many were killed. Most were herded back to the barren hillside. A small band escaped from the valley. They were pursued north by hordes of Sassanid cavalry. The rest lay down their arms.
The day after the surrender, the prisoners were ordered south. Those incapable of walking were summarily executed. The Persians arranged their prisoners in a parody of a Roman triumph. The imperial attendants were rounded up. The lictors were mounted on camels; their fasces were hung with money bags and some of the more inventive pornography found in the officers' possession. The emperor rode behind them. Publius Licinius Valerian, Pius, Felix, Invictus was mounted on a donkey. He was dressed as a slave, a crown of thorns on his head. His ab Admissionibus Cledonius walked beside him, saying in his ear, 'Remember: you are but mortal.' The remaining soldiers followed their emperor. Loaded with chains, their officers stumbled at their head.
Ballista's ankles were raw and bleeding from his shackles before they left the camp. He trudged across the sand. His boots had been taken. The thorns tore his feet. His mind wandered. He hoped his familia – Calgacus, Maximus and Demetrius – had escaped. The Allfather willing, they might be safe in Samosata by now. And what of Quietus? Would that repulsive youth also be there? Ballista repeated to himself the vow he had made in Ephesus, the vow he had made again on the barren hillside the other day: One day, maybe not soon, but one day, I will kill you.
Ballista's brief moment of optimism, founded on unlikely plans for revenge, was snuffed out by a much darker thought: Julia and the boys far away in Antioch. The idea of never seeing them again. Not to watch Isangrim and Dernhelm grow. Not to discover what sort of men they would become. No! It could not be. Allfather, Death-Blinder, Deep Hood, Fulfiller of Desire, Woden-born as I am, hear my prayer: I will give whatever is necessary, do whatever it takes, but let me return to them – return to them whatever the cost.
A stumble and a shock of pain in his ankles brought Ballista back to the present. He and the other prisoners trudged on across the burnt, bare floor of the valley
As they neared the southern hills, Ballista saw the solitary pike planted stark against the skyline. Halfway up was nailed a man's right arm. It wore an ornate golden bracelet. Impaled on its point was a man's head. Ballista was glad it had been a quick death. No boiling oil. Decapitation. He stopped to take a last look at his friend's face. The quizzical expression had gone. Turpio's face had a look of mild recognition, the look often seen on the dead which can so disturb those left behind to grieve.
A spear point jabbed into Ballista's back. He stumbled on. One of Turpio's favourite poems came into his mind. Don't cry Over the happy dead But weep for those who dread To die.