Harry Sidebottom - King of Kings

'I am Videric, son of Fritigern, the King of the Borani. I am my father's ambassador to the Romans.'

There was a silence. Ballista pulled himself up to his not inconsiderable full height.

'I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the Warleader of the Angles. The Romans know me as Marcus Clodius Ballista.'

The look on Videric's face changed to something very different. Automatically, his hand went to his hip, where the hilt of his sword should rest. It was not there. Like Ballista's, like all other weapons, it had been taken by the praetorians on the front gate.

Two other Borani came up and flanked Videric. The three warriors glowered. They looked much alike: big powerful men, long fair hair to their shoulders, a surfeit of gold rings on their arms.

'You bastard,' Videric spat. Ballista stood his ground. 'You fucking bastard.'

Ballista looked at the three angry men. He had sent his own men, his bodyguard Maximus and the others, to the barracks. He was alone. Yet there was little immediate to worry about. The praetorians did not encourage those waiting in the hope of seeing the emperor to fight among themselves.

'Last year in the Aegean, two longboats of Borani warriors, and you only spared about a dozen to sell as slaves.' Videric's face was very pale.

'Men die in war. It happens.' Ballista kept his voice neutral.

'You shot them down when they could not resist.'

'They would not surrender.'

Videric stepped forward. One of the other Borani put a hand on his arm to restrain him. Videric gave Ballista a look of complete contempt. 'And that is why we Borani are here to collect our tribute from the Romans. While you…' Words failed him for a moment. Then he laughed, a harsh snort. 'While you wait like a slave for your orders. Maybe your Roman master will see you after he has handed his gold to us.'

'I live in hope,' Ballista replied.

'One day we will meet again where there are no Roman guardsmen to protect you. There is a bloodfeud between us.'

'As I said, I always live in hope.' Ballista turned his back on them and walked away to the centre of the great courtyard. Wherever you go, old enemies will find you.

A deep metallic boom rang out from the inner gate. Ballista turned. Around him all conversation died as almost everyone turned and gazed up at the gate. High up on the second storey was a gilded statue of a naked man. In his right hand the statue held a tall stake. Nine large golden spheres were suspended at the top of the stake; three more rested at the bottom. Despite his fatigue, Ballista found the mechanical water clock caught his attention. Obviously, one of the spheres slid down at the start of each of the twelve hours of daylight. It was the third hour. Conventionally, this was when the salutatio, the time for receiving visitors, ended and the courts began to sit. The autocratic powers of the emperors had long ago blurred such distinctions.

As the reverberations died away a low hum of talk returned. The water clock was new. It had not been there a year earlier. The engineer in Ballista made a mental note to find out how it worked. He looked away, scanning the courtyard. The great fortress-like walls with their embedded Corinthian columns dwarfed the crowd. The Borani were near the inner gate, still gawping up open-mouthed. Ballista moved away towards the outer gate.

A small group of peasants, thin men in much-patched tunics, shifted to one side as Ballista sat on the ground. The big northerner settled himself to wait. His elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, he shut his eyes. The sun was warm on his back. The peasants started talking softly in a language Ballista did not know. He thought it was Syriac.

His mind drifted. Once again he saw the flames engulf the city, the strong south wind pull long streamers of fire into the night sky, the eruption of sparks as a roof gave way. Once again he saw the city of Arete die. The city that he had been charged to defend.

Inexorably, Ballista's thoughts turned to the nightmare flight from Arete. The hellish, relentless pursuit through the desert. His sword slicing into Titus' guts. The trooper gasping out his life breath. The vicious fight at the Horns of Ammon. Then two days crossing the mountains. Hunched in the saddle, sharp, gnawing hunger driving out all other thoughts. Their staggering journey from one brackish watering hole to another.

Ballista's thoughts moved on. Down from the mountains at last. The first Roman-held village. Clean water, food, a bath, the news that the emperor Valerian had set up his court in Antioch. Then on down a broad Roman highway to the caravan city of Palmyra. And there he had left Bathshiba. Left her and Haddudad. It had been a hurried, tense parting for the three of them, with much left unsaid. There had been little time to say anything, and Ballista had lacked the words. He had not known what he wanted to say.

The rest of the journey had been physically easy. Good Roman roads all the way. West from Palmyra to the next great caravan city of Emesa. Then north up the lush valley of the Orontes River. Ballista again felt the motion of the horse under him as they plodded through the water-meadows towards Antioch, towards the imperial court and the report that he must give today. The city fell. The Sassanid Persians took it. I failed. Click, drag, step. Click, drag, step.

The sounds jerked Ballista awake.

From under the arch of the outer gate came Macrianus. Click went his walking stick, his lame foot dragged, and his sound one took a step. Click, drag, step. The crowds parted as he moved into the courtyard. He was followed at a couple of paces by two other men in togas. In all bar one respect they were younger images of himself; the same long, straight nose, the receding chin, the pouches under the eyes. But the sons of Macrianus walked easily. There was a lithe, confident swagger in their step. Ballista had never seen the sons before, but he had met Macrianus once or twice.

Marcus Fulvius Macrianus may have been old and lame, and his low birth was widely known, but he was not to be taken lightly. As Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, Count of the Sacred Largess, as well as being in charge of clothing the court, the army and the civil service — the imperial dye works answered to him — he controlled all the money taxes in the imperium, the gold and silver mines, the mints that produced the coinage and, most potent of all, he paid both the regular cash salaries of soldiers and officials and the not infrequent donatives to the military. As Praefectus Annonae, Prefect of the Grain Supply, he fed the city of Rome and the imperial court. He had agents and depots in every province of the imperium. More to the point, he had the ear of the emperors.

Macrianus had risen high. Now he shone in the sunlight, his toga gleaming white, the golden head of Alexander the Great which topped his walking stick flashing. Click, drag, step. Neither he nor his sons looked right or left as they made their way towards the inner gate and the imperial consilium.

Ballista hauled himself stiffly to his feet.

'Ave, Comes. Ave, Marcus Fulvius Macrianus.'

Click, drag, step. The lame man paid no attention.

'Macrianus.' Ballista stepped forward.

'Out of the way, you filthy barbarian. How dare you address the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae.' The contempt in the son's tone was not feigned.

Ballista ignored him. 'Macrianus, I need to talk to you.'

'Speak when you are spoken to, you piece of barbarian shit.' The youth was closing on Ballista.

'Macrianus, it is me.'

The lame man did not break his slow progress, but he looked at the long-haired, dirty barbarian who was speaking to him. There was no immediate recognition on his face.

'Macrianus, it is me, Ballista, the Dux Ripae. I have news of the Sassanids…' The blow to the left side of his head cut off Ballista's words. He staggered a few steps to his right.