'Is it wise to chop down trees from a sacred grove?' A low muttering of concurrence greeted Rutilus's question. Soldiers were ever superstitious, especially when about to fight. This needed careful handling.
'The god will not hold it against us. It is our enemies – it is Sampsigeramus and his accomplices who have defiled the temple of Elagabalus. They have turned the god's house into a fortress. They have thrown down the sacred images from the roof.' Ballista raised his voice, made it ring. 'The great god Elagabalus offers us his sacred conifers. Elagabalus, Sol Invictus, calls on us to cleanse his house. Elagabalus, the unconquered sun, calls on us to drive out and punish the impious.'
Waiting frays the nerves. It seemed to take an eternity for the various bodies of men to get to their stations, for the huge tree trunks to be manhandled back, their branches lopped off and ends sharpened. Ballista's leg throbbed and stiffened. He felt slightly sick with hunger. His temper was getting short.
A messenger puffed into view. It took him a moment to spot the new emperor slumped against the wall.
'Dominus, the prefect Castricius sent me. Your wife and sons passed over to the lines of Odenathus some time ago, before… before he heard that you had been acclaimed emperor.'
Ballista leapt up. His leg almost gave way as he lunged forward. He folded the messenger in a bearhug, slapping him hard on the back, kissing his cheeks. When released, the man reeled back, quite unsettled by all this imperial affection.
They were safe. Haddudad would make sure of it. Of course, Odenathus now had them, but they had survived – that was all that mattered.
'All ready, Dominus.'
Once more into the arrow storm. But it was different this time. The only Emesenes to be seen were on the roof of the temple. Being shot at by five hundred bowmen from two sides, they mainly kept their heads down.
Encased in their shields like overlapping tiles, the two bodies of legionaries lumbered towards the temple. Inside each testudo, soldiers grunted and swore at the ungainly weight of the improvised battering rams.
They passed the great altar – one of the fires had gone out – and struggled on. Overhead, the fletchings of hundreds of arrows snapped through the air. There was the occasional thump as an Emesene arrowhead hit a shield.
They were at the steps. Holding together, hauling the tree trunk, shuffling up the steps. Ballista fought down the urges to peer upwards, to cower down, to try to get free and run to safety.
A terrible crash. Thank the gods, off to the right. The statue had hit the other testudo. Poor bastards – but thank the gods it was them.
Sheltered under the jutting-out pediment, the legionaries broke out of the testudo. No arrow or falling statue could get them here. They readied themselves. One, two, three… now. Those with the ram swung it into the doors. A hollow boom. Plaster falling from the door frame. The doors shivered, but still stood.
The other testudo reached the shelter. Its legionaries shook themselves into order. Five of their contubernales lay twisted and broken on the steps.
One, two, three… The two rams struck as one. The doors were massive. But their thickness was ornamental. If the god had foreseen this, the architect had not. A splintering, rending sound. The bolts and bars gave. The doors swung inward. The temple was open.
Arrows like disturbed hornets flew out at the faces of the legionaries. A man near Ballista staggered drunkenly, clawing at the shaft protruding from his neck.
Before the second volley, the legionaries charged into the cavernous gloom. They set about their grim work. Blades chopped and slashed. The air was close, thick with incense and the smell of blood.
A line of flickering candle-holders on the floor; beyond, the golden statue of an eagle, and beyond that again, dominating all, the great mass of the black stone loomed up. Huge, dense, pitiless, the top of it lost in the rafters. In front, light silks against the stone's gross negritude, Sampsigeramus.
As Ballista kicked one of the candle-holders out of the way, his right leg gave out. He crashed to the floor. A movement in the choking air. Ballista scrambled, crab-wise, ungainly. The Emesene guardsman's blade sparked off the marble.
The easterner recovered his sword, raised it, came on again. On his arse, leather soles of his boots slipping, Ballista scrambled backwards. He raised his sword. His left hand was empty; somehow, his shield had gone. The Emesene struck. Ballista parried. The Emesene rolled their blades wide. With the advantages of height and weight, the easterner forced Ballista's out of his grip. The heavy spatha skittered away across the floor.
Ballista grabbed a big metal amphora. He swung it round to shield himself. The jar was unexpectedly heavy. It was full; liquid slopped out. The easterner chopped down. A clang of broken metal, the blade cut through the amphora, embedded itself. More liquid sloshed out – it was blood, the detritus of some sacrifice. Holding the handles tight, Ballista twisted the jar, twisted his body, put all his weight into it. They all went sideways – Ballista, the amphora, the sword, the Emesene. They landed hard in a tangle. Hands and feet skidding in the gore, Ballista scrabbled on top of his opponent. Grabbing his hair, he smashed the man's face down into the marble, again and again, in a frenzy. At first the Emesene struggled. Then he did not.
Ballista took the easterner's sword. He crawled over to a pillar and used it to pull himself to his feet. Blood slick on the marble, the dead Emesene, and, lolling out of the top of the ruined amphora, the dismembered arm of a child.
Ballista hobbled over to retrieve his own sword. He felt sick. Obviously, Sampsigeramus had stopped at nothing to try to ensure the support of his ancestral god. The sacrifice of a child had probably seemed a reasonable price to pay for his own survival.
The fighting boomed and swung through the monumental obscurity of the temple. The footfalls of the fighters echoed back as if from an age away.
Sampsigeramus still stood in front of his god. There were fewer guardsmen with him. One lunged at Ballista. The northerner took the blow on the sword in his left hand, severed the man's arm with the one in his right. The guard reeled away; Ballista limped forward.
Sampsigeramus saw him coming. He backed away. Nowhere to go. The stone was behind him. He was screaming incoherently.
The priest-king held his sword in front of him. With a savage blow, Ballista smashed it from his hand. It went spinning into the darkness.
Sampsigeramus turned. With hooked fingers and scrabbling toes, he tried to climb the side of the great black stone. There was no miracle. The smooth stone resisted his efforts.
Ballista dropped the alien sword from his left hand. He gripped the hilt of his own weapon in two hands, steadied himself and swung. The blade bit into flesh, sinew and bone. Sampsigeramus's head jerked sideways, almost severed. The killer of children, the would-be emperor, slid slowly down the side of his god. The blood that pumped so freely ran down the side of the dark stone. Deep in the shiny blackness of the god, the enigmatic markings rippled and moved.
The sunshine was blinding after the shady corridors of the palace. Ballista stood blinking, letting his eyes grow accustomed to it. A grey horse was led out, its trappings purple and gold.