Lion of the Sun

The awning snapped in the silence.

'Nothing has been spared me,' Quietus complained. 'No disappointment, no treachery, no dishonour, no betrayal. Maeonius Astyanax, Pomponius Bassus, even that weak old fool Theodorus – all traitors. At least Fabius Labeo is discovering the ultimate wages of treachery.'

Quietus suddenly spread his hands wide, palms up. 'And where is the Lion of the Sun this morning? Is he grovelling in the dirt at my feet? Instead, the three of you stand here. Tell me, why did last night's raid end in ignominious failure? What was it if not yet more treachery?'

'No, Dominus.' Ballista was surprised how resolute his voice sounded. 'The Palmyrenes were vigilant. Our men were ill-disciplined. It was bad luck. No treachery.'

'That cannot be.' Quietus was adamant. 'Someone must be held accountable, or the world may think this failure reflects on our own majesty. Our maiestas must be sacrosanct.' His gaze flicked feverishly over the three officers. 'And one of you has already shown himself a traitor.'

The three men stood very still. More Emesene guards appeared from the corners of the yard. The officers were surrounded. There was nothing languid about these easterners. There was the slither of swords being drawn. The Romans stood empty-handed.

Ballista measured the distance to the imperial couch. Five, six paces. A ring of armed guards in the way. He had no weapon. Try to shoulder through, take the wounds. Get to the couch. Grab the ornamental dagger on the emperor's belt. Use it to kill Quietus. Hold the blade to Sampsigeramus's throat. The guards were his men. Bargain for a safe passage.

It was hopeless. Ballista knew he would not get two steps.

'Nothing spared… no betrayal,' Quietus said softly.

The three officers were rigid, waiting.

Quietus thrust out a finger at Jucundus. 'You' – his voice was low – 'you have been comforting my enemies. My enemy's friend is my enemy.'

The centurion knew his life hung on what he said. 'Dominus, I have done no such thing. A malicious informer must have made a false accusation.'

Quietus, quiet as an owl, looked at him.

'Dominus.' The strain showed in Jucundus's voice. 'Dominus, the delator must be in the pay of Odenathus – trying to remove your loyal officers.'

'Not at all,' said Quietus. 'What you did is widely known. You have not even made a secret of it.'

Jucundus was silent.

'You cannot deny taking all manner of comforts into the prison for Ballista.' Quietus smirked like a man who has made a winning throw at dice.

Ballista reacted first. 'But, Dominus,' he exclaimed, 'I am not your enemy. I am one of your Praetorian Prefects. You have entrusted me with the defence of the city.'

'All true now,' Quietus shouted, 'but not true then. Then I thought you were my enemy – that is enough. Jucundus openly succoured a traitor, threatened the gaoler that he better treat the traitor well, betrayed all my trust.' Quietus was almost screaming; flecks of spittle flew from his lips. 'What price loyalty when my wishes are openly mocked?'

Ballista persevered. 'You trust me to command Emesa. Jucundus is one of my most trusted officers.'

'You boast of your loyalty? Well, prove it now. Take a sword and execute the traitor Jucundus.'

A guard stood forward, reversed his sword, held the hilt out towards the Romans.

Ballista did not move.

'Cut him down, or you will die with him.'

A rasp of steel. Quick as a snake, Jucundus had the sword in hand. Its owner leapt back.

The Emesene guards crouched, ready to fight, just waiting for a move or a word of command.

Jucundus changed his grip, thrust the tip of the blade up under his breastbone.

'I will die like a man, not for your amusement.' Jucundus's eyes did not leave Quietus. 'You will die worse. I pray to the gods to be avenged.'

Jucundus threw himself forward. The hilt hit the sand. The blade tore up into his innards. He writhed sideways, groaning in agony.

Ballista found himself on his knees by Jucundus. 'Finish it,' the dying man whispered. Ballista prised the hands loose from the hilt. He twisted the blade, withdrew it, thrust again. Jucundus sighed a great sigh and died.

Ballista got to his feet. The knees of his trousers were soaked in blood. The reeking sword was still in his hand.

The guards hefted their weapons.

Ballista dropped the sword. It thudded on to the stained, fouled sand.

'For I too am dust…,' Quietus mused. 'Life does not forgive weakness… You two return to your duties.'

They recovered their weapons and armour. They left Jucundus's where they lay. Outside, they shouldered the general guilt of the survivor and their own sharper, more specific, individual guilts. They walked. Briefly, they were alone. Ballista put his arm around Castricius's shoulder and talked low and fast into his ear. Castricius turned off to his headquarters above the Palmyra Gate. Ballista walked on to the Tower of Desolation. He climbed the winding staircase. There were six Praetorians on lookout, about all the fighting top could comfortably hold. Ballista told one of them to go and get Calgacus; the freedman was to bring his patronus a papyrus roll, ink and stylus as well as his best, favourite black cloak. Ballista leant forward, settled his elbows on the low parapet and waited.

When Calgacus appeared, Ballista dismissed all the Praetorians.

'Quietus killed Jucundus.' There was no need for preamble.

'I heard.'

'Of the three of us, he was the innocent one. He was gone when I told Castricius to make sure one of the artillery pieces was released early.'

'I know it. But there is nothing to be done about it now.'

'Quietus is building a pyre in the palace.'

'Many men will kill themselves rather than be taken alive – the Romans make a cult of it.' Calgacus shrugged. 'Sooner the fucker is on it the better.'

'It is not just himself he intends to kill,' said Ballista.

Calgacus pursed his lips.

'There was a king of Assyria called Sardanapallus,' said Ballista. 'He was besieged for two years in his capital, Nineveh. When there was no hope, he had every precious thing he owned and everything he had enjoyed collected together. The women and boys he had fucked, all the horses he had ridden – their throats were cut. The bodies and the treasures were burned with him.'

Still Calgacus said nothing.

'Quietus is heaping up his things by the pyre. I think he intends to play the Assyrian. He wants his passing to be marked by an orgy of destruction. He will take many others with him. Quietus is insane.'

'Aye, most likely,' said Calgacus. 'So you have to play the hero again.'

'I am going to fulfil a vow I made some time ago,' Ballista said seriously. Then he laughed. 'And you get to play the hero too.'

'Fucking wonderful,' Calgacus said, without expression.

'Get two quiet horses and some drab clothes. Keep an eye on this tower. When you see me wave this best black cloak from the battlements here, go to the prison. Kill the gaoler and any of his assistants – there is seldom more than one – they do not look like fighters. Ride with the boys and Julia to the Palmyra Gate. Castricius is expecting you. He will let you out through the postern gate. Take them to Haddudad and Odenathus.'

'And you?'

'I am going to play on Quietus's obsession with treachery to get him to come here.'

'And then?'

'Cheer up, sooner or later he will probably kill us all anyway.' Ballista looked out from the Tower of Desolation at the desert and the sown. The strip of tilled land was full of Odenathus's army. In the desert was nothingness, desert absolute.

If you were dressed in just a tunic, with the breeze, it was almost cool up here. Calgacus had helped him strip off his equipment. Though they had done it before, it was hard saying goodbye to the old Caledonian, very hard. Nearly a lifetime of largely unspoken affection. Calgacus had asked him would he not go and see his boys. Ballista would not. He had not the courage for it. Tell them he loved them. Tell her too.