Numbers continued to fall. Desertions continued. Day by day, furtive figures slipped out of the postern gates or over the wall and away. Far from stemming the flow, the arrival of the enemy cavalry increased it. The Palmyrenes welcomed the deserters with open arms.
It was not just the rank and file who were abandoning the regime of Quietus. The sometime Praetorian Prefect Maeonius Astyanax had never returned from his embassy to Palmyra. Astyanax, the great amicus of Quietus's father, now was said to ride close to the right hand of the Lion of the Sun.
Then there was the governor of Cappadocia, Pomponius Bassus, the man who was meant to raise a great barbarian army of Iberians, Albanians, Alani to sweep down the Euphrates and save the day. For some time, no message had come from him. Now it was almost certain he had gone over to Gallienus.
It was surely a sign that even Theodorus, the elderly, hesitant governor of unarmed Cyprus, had sent messengers west openly repudiating Quietus.
A more visible proof yet was Fabius Labeo. Two nights earlier, the governor of Syria Coele had been apprehended inconspicuously leaving by the Apamea Gate. Few senators were much good at being inconspicuous. The two silver-mounted carriages and three wagons necessary to move his essentials and maintain the governor's dignitas had rather taken the clandestine edge off Labeo's movements. With tears running down his face, he had maintained he had been leaving to levy troops in his provincial capital of Antioch. Even Quietus had not believed it. Fabius Labeo now resided in a metal cage hanging over the Apamea Gate. No one was to give him food or water, on pain of joining him. It was generally agreed that the punishment, if novel and possibly un-Roman, did show a certain poetic justice.
'Ready, Dominus?' The Praetorian's head popped up through the trapdoor.
Down below, Rutilus and Castricius were waiting. It was the appointed time to make their daily report to Quietus. Three senior centurions from the Praetorians, including Jucundus, fell in behind as they set off across town for the palace. Apart from occasional trips to the temple of Elagabalus, Quietus never left the palace now.
The officers did not talk as they marched. As soldiers did, Castricius twirled the end of his belt. The metal fitting at the tip thrummed through the air. It was good that he was here. Ballista would have liked to talk to him, but not in front of the centurions, any one of whom, even Jucundus, could be an informer. And there was Rutilus – a good officer, but he had never given any sign he was other than completely loyal to the house of Macrianus.
At the gates of the palace, the Roman officers were brought up short. There was not a single Praetorian to be seen. On duty instead was the royal guard of Sampsigeramus. They could not have formed a greater contrast to the Romans in their plain white un-dress tunics and dark trousers. The Emesenes owned a lack of uniformity that was magnificent and colourful – saffron, blinding white, delicate rose; embroidered with flowers, striped and hemmed. Some had put down their spiked helmets and inlaid shields. Most leant back against the walls, a few with their eyes shut against the glare. Off to the right, a couple had gone further. They sat, heads drooping, with their arms around their drawn-up knees.
Not all were so somnambulant. Their commander may have eased his feet out of his sandals, but his eyes were watchful. He admitted the Roman officers with pursed, contemptuous lips.
They went down one long, cool corridor after another. Now and then, windows opened on to well-watered, shady gardens where caged birds sang. It was hard to believe that the vanguard of the besieging army was not a mile from this profound peace.
A final corridor, and they were at the door of the women's rooms. The guards here had taken lethargy further. A scatter of slippers. Five pairs of naked feet. The warriors lay on a richly patterned carpet. The bottom step of a flight of three served as their pillow. At the top, their leader reclined against a doubled-over cushion. He spoke in Aramaic. One of his men got up and drifted through the door.
Awake, but supine, the guards regarded the Romans with insolent eyes. Behind the easterners, the door was opened. The Emesenes rose to their feet. Their gorgeous silks and languid movements suggested something of the inhabitants of the women's quarters. They followed the Romans up the steps and through the door.
The inside of the women's quarters of the palace of the king of Emesa would have confirmed every prejudice against the Orient of every stern Roman moralist of old. Cincinnatus would have fled back to his plough. Cato the Censor would have had apoplexy.
The room was bathed in a lurid red light. There was an almost overpowering smell of perfume and wine. The emperor Quietus lay on a couch. The priest-king reclined against his chest. Both men were half naked. Quietus absent-mindedly toyed with Sampsigeramus's hair. On another couch, the emperor's cousin Macer lay on his back unconscious. An equally comatose girl lay across him.
In the gloom at the rear of the room was an enormous bed. Girls moved in the shadows behind it. Four more slept on it. They were naked apart from the odd wisp of material, limbs sprawled in abandonment. Another girl had collapsed and lay with the crushed flowers and spilt wine on the floor.
Ballista started to make the daily report. It was a carefully worded thing, keeping to the official line and troop numbers. Even so, Quietus clearly was not interested. He quickly interrupted.
'It is written in the stars that this is a turning point for us. The gods turn their anger on the camel herder of Palmyra. The storm howls around Odenathus's impious ears.'
Ballista broke the ensuing silence. 'Dominus, the storm is unlikely to delay the Palmyrenes for long, not more than a day.'
'They say Odenathus has a beautiful wife.' Quietus's voice was reflective. 'I will enjoy her when he is defeated.'
Sampsigeramus giggled knowingly.
Rutilus spoke. 'Dominus, Odenathus will be here by dusk tomorrow.'
Quietus ignored him.
'We will form a new legion.' Suddenly the emperor sat up, full of manic energy. 'Legio XXXI Macriana Victrix. Its symbol will be the symbol of my family, the image of Alexander the Great. My father always said that those who wear the likeness of the Macedonian are aided in all they do. It will be the same with the legion. After its first victory, we will add the title "Invictus". Rutilus, conscript men from Emesa, and make up the numbers with drafts from the existing legions.'
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,' said Rutilus.
Quietus looked momentarily downcast. 'Treachery all around me. Maeonius Astyanax – my father trusted him. Now Pomponius Bassus – he will lead no army down the Euphrates.'
With no warning, the emperor brightened. 'But it is of no account, none at all. My Princeps Peregrinorum has arranged everything.' He looked over to where Macer lay, stunned by alcohol. The emperor laughed fondly. 'Before he took his deserved rest – otium must always follow negotium, it is the ancestral Roman way – my beloved cousin sent envoys bearing princely gifts to the leader of the Arab confederation of the deep desert. Jadhima of the Tanukh will ride at the head of his horde. The Arabs will fall on Odenathus, scatter his army like chaff on the threshing floor.'
The news was received in silence. The officers tried not to give away their feelings. The idea that any confederation of Arabs could ever come out of the desert and defeat a regular army in open battle was too ridiculous for words.
Rutilus tried again. 'Dominus, our scouts say the storm will blow out quickly. Odenathus will be here by dusk tomorrow.'