Harry Sidebottom: King of Kings

'Let this be a lesson to you.' The youth waded forward, ready to punch again. Ballista crouched, one hand to his temple. He turned slowly, as if dazed, to face his attacker.

When the youth came close enough Ballista lashed out a straight right, hard and fast to the crotch. The youth doubled up, both hands clasping his balls. He tottered three steps backwards. The toga was a ceremonial costume, its very impracticality its point. Romans wore it on special formal days when they were neither doing physical work nor fighting. Now the youth's toga caught round his legs. He sat down hard.

Ballista straightened up and turned to Macrianus.

'Macrianus, it is me, Marcus Clodius Ballista, the Dux Ripae. You must take me with you into the consilium.'

Macrianus had stopped. He stared into Ballista's eyes. Something more than recognition, some guarded calculation, as if he had never expected to see Ballista again, played across his face.

'It is vital that I talk to the emperor.' Ballista heard men running, hobnailed boots pounding, others scrabbling out of the way. He kept his eyes on those of Macrianus. A small smile began to spread across the face of the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum.

Ballista was knocked sideways and crashed violently to the ground as the praetorian tackled him. The guardsman rolled off Ballista and got to his feet. Another praetorian arrived. He punched the butt of his spear into Ballista's back. Despite the sickening surge of pain, the northerner tried to get to his feet.

A blow to the head stopped Ballista. Another to the stomach dropped him to his knees. He covered his head as a flurry of spear butts rained down on his arms and shoulders.

'That's it. Beat the barbarian pig. He threatened the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum and attacked my brother Quietus. Beat him senseless, then throw the dog out into the street,' the other young man was shouting.

Ballista was curled up into a ball, the paving slabs gritty under his cheek as he tried to cover himself. After a short time the beating stopped. Ballista heard Macrianus' voice.

'My son, Macrianus the Younger, is right. Now throw him out into the street.'

Strong hands grabbed the northerner and began to drag him to the outer gate. Ballista twisted his head, and got a blow round the ear for his pains. But he saw Macrianus and his two sons resuming their rudely interrupted progress to the imperial consilium.

'Macrianus, you cunt, you know that I am the Dux Ripae.' Although he must have heard, the Count of the Largess did not pause. Click, drag, step. He vanished up the steps and into the inner gate.

Almost gently, one of the guardsmen punched Ballista in the side of the head.

'Keep a civil tongue in your head when talking to the nobility, you barbarian fucker.'

Ballista ceased to struggle. He let his head loll. The toecaps of his boots were dragging on the ground. Expensive boots — that will do them no good, he thought inconsequentially.

'Halt.' The voice was one accustomed to being obeyed. The praetorians halted. 'Let me see him.'

The guardsmen let go of Ballista, who collapsed onto the flagstones.

'Put him on his feet, so that I can see him.'

The rough hands that grasped Ballista were almost solicitous as they manoeuvred him to his feet. Seeing the northerner sway, two of the praetorians supported his arms.

A long, thin face swam into Ballista's view. It came very close, the big eyes squinting. Ballista thought it was strange: he was so light-headed with fatigue that he felt no real pain. His forehead tickled as blood ran down from a cut on his hairline. He tried to wipe it away with his left hand, but only succeeded in smearing it over more of his face.

'Gods below, is it really you, Ballista, under all that filth?'

Ballista stared back at the man. The long, thin face was oddly asymmetrical. It looked familiar.

'Cledonius, it has been a long time.' Ballista smiled. It hardly hurt at all. Although not a close friend, Cledonius, the ab Admissionibus, had long been something of an ally of Ballista's at the imperial court.

'What in Hades has happened to you?' Cledonius sounded genuinely concerned.

'You mean before the praetorians beat me?'

Cledonius rounded on the praetorians. 'On whose authority did you do this?'

The praetorians came to attention. 'The order came from the Count of the Largess, Dominus.'

Cledonius' face gave nothing away. Life in the palace did not encourage wearing your heart on your sleeve. He turned back to Ballista.

'The last I heard, you were Dux Ripae.' Cledonius opened his mouth to say something else but stopped. Ballista could almost see the thoughts running through the other man's mind. You were appointed Dux Ripae. You were ordered to defend the city of Arete from the Sassanids. You are here hundreds of miles away in Antioch, wounded, covered in dirt. The city has fallen. You have failed.

'We had better clean you up a bit. Then you can tell the emperor what happened.' The look on Cledonius' face now was not all that different from that which had been on Macrianus' earlier: closed, careful calculation. At an autocrat's court, advance knowledge could be turned to advantage, but close association with some newsbringers could also be dangerous.

Cledonius made a courtly gesture with his arm. The two praetorians let go of Ballista and, together, he and Cledonius set off across the courtyard. The crowds parted. Although his head ached and his shoulders and back were stiff, Ballista found that he could walk quite normally. As they neared the inner gate he saw the three Borani warriors scowling. At the steps the silentarii moved aside. The praetorians saluted and swung back the great doors.

Cledonius and Ballista walked through into another courtyard. This one was long and narrow compared with what had gone before. A colonnade of free-standing Corinthian columns linked by arches ran down either side. The doors shut behind them. It was quiet and almost deserted. Their footsteps echoed as they walked. Statues of deified emperors of the past looked down at them. At the far end was the third gate, a relatively modest affair only three or four times the height of a man set in the middle of four more Corinthian columns.

Another squad of praetorians saluted and opened the doors. Cledonius and Ballista passed from the sunlight through into the near-darkness of the imperial vestibule. They stopped, letting their eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. Dark, rich, purple hangings seemed to absorb what little light was shed by two rows of golden lamps. The air was heavy with incense.

A fat eunuch approached, his hands decorously hidden in his robes. Ballista was not sure if it was the one he had seen before. Cledonius spoke quietly and the eunuch waddled away.

'Wait here,' Cledonius said. 'The eunuch will bring you some water and towels. Wash the blood off your face. I will come and get you.' With no further ado the ab Admissionibus went on through the hangings at the far end, leaving Ballista alone.

The eunuch returned. Ballista cleaned his face. Wetting his hands, he pushed back his long blond hair. It lay lank on his shoulders. He slapped some of the dust from his tunic and trousers. Most of his body ached. He needed to sleep. It was very quiet in the vestibule. Four praetorians stood to attention. Now and then court functionaries crossed the room with silent, purposeful tread.

Ballista wondered if, at the very limit of his hearing, was the sound of distant hammering. At last, after the endless ride, here he was. Time to make his report. The city fell. The Sassanid Persians took it. I failed. Then the worm of suspicion was back in his mind. I failed, as you always knew I would. Men sent on suicide missions can not expect to be welcomed as heroes if they return.

Ballista knew that he had done what he had been sent to do. The imperium was being attacked on all sides; its forces were stretched beyond breaking point. North Africa was ablaze with a native revolt led by a charismatic warrior called Faraxen. In the west Valerian's son and co-emperor Gallienus had based himself at Viminacium in a desperate attempt to hold back beyond the Rhine and Danube the hordes of the north — the Franks, Alamanni, Carpi, Iuthungi, Danubian Goths and many other peoples. Valerian himself had come east to Antioch to try to repel both the barbarians from the Black Sea, the Heruli, Borani, Black Sea Goths and what most saw as the greatest threat of all, the Sassanids from beyond the Euphrates. Yes, Ballista had done what he had been sent to do. He had held up Shapur, the Persian King of Kings, for a whole campaigning season. Through the spring and summer, and into the autumn, the great Sassanid horde had sat before the walls of the city of Arete. They had sweated, laboured and died in their thousands, their every assault thrown back in bloody ruin. Ballista had bought the Romans a year's grace.