Harry Sidebottom - King of Kings

Valerian laboriously stood up. The consilium was over. The night had not improved. The rain still fell. Thunder rolled around the hills across the river to the north. That was good: few men would venture out on such a night.

Deep in the dark of the overhang of a tent, Ballista and Maximus waited for the watch to pass. Then, faces blackened, dark clad, they slipped like ghosts on the Lemuria, the festival of the dead, from one tent to another.

Things became more dangerous as they drew nearer to the imperial pavilion. The tents of the courtiers had guards in front of them.

A dog sensed their approach. Hackles up, it came closer. It barked once. Maximus produced some of the air-dried beef he always seemed to have on him. He tossed a piece to the dog, who sniffed it with profound suspicion, then ate it. It came closer. The Hibernian fed it again. He fussed its ears. He threw another piece of meat out into the rain. The dog trotted after it. The two men moved on.

In the lee of the emperor's quarters, they came to the right tent. There was a praetorian sheltering under the entrance. Hands and knees in the mud, they slipped under the guy ropes and worked their way around to the back.

They waited, listening. Nothing could be heard but the falling rain, the distant thunder. Ballista unsheathed a knife. About two feet up, he pushed it through the taut side of the tent. He stopped to listen. Nothing. He slit the material down to the ground. Then, holding where he had cut, he made another slit parallel to the ground. He pulled back the flap. He put his head through into the darkness and listened. Nothing but the rain on the canvas — then, below that, the sound of a man snoring.

Gripping the blade in his teeth, Ballista wriggled into the tent. From outside, Maximus pulled the flap shut. Ballista waited, stilling his breathing. A little light shone through the inner wall from a lamp in the outer chamber. Gradually, Ballista began to make out his surroundings: a campaign chest, a folding chair, a stand for armour and, in the centre of the room, a bed.

Slowly, slowly, feeling with a hand for anything on the floor, he crept across to the bed. The man in it stirred in his sleep. Ballista stood motionless. The rain beat down on the roof. The man coughed, then began to snore again.

Ballista rose up. There was the white blur of a face against the pillow. Ballista put one hand over the man's mouth. With the other he brought up the knife. As the man woke, big eyes wide with fright, Ballista showed him the knife. Automatically, the man tried to lurch upwards. Ballista pushed him down, then put the point of the knife to his throat.

'Shout for the guard and you die.'

The man lay still. Ballista could feel the other's's heart beating. 'I just need to talk. I am going to take my hand away. Do not shout or I will kill you.'

The man nodded slightly. Ballista uncovered his mouth.

Cledonius sucked in air. 'What the fuck are you doing? Creeping in here like a fucking ghost. I nearly died of fright.' There was an edge of panic in the hissing, whispered voice of the ab Admissionibus.

'Quietly, amicus.' Ballista smiled. 'You seemed reluctant to talk to me earlier.' If anything, the asymmetrical face on the pillow looked more frightened. Ballista conspicuously did not sheathe the knife.

'Macrianus is leading the army into a trap. He intends to depose Valerian and replace him on the throne with his own sons.' Ballista talked low and fast. 'You have the right of admission to the emperor. You must talk to him, warn him.'

Cledonius rubbed a hand over his jaw. 'The gods know you may well be right, but there is no proof. Anyway, even if there were, it would do no good. Valerian relies on Macrianus in everything. And now it is far too dangerous. Macrianus has completely won over Censorinus. If any of the few loyal men left near the emperor — me, Successianus, the young Italian Aurelian, who commands the Equites Singulares — if any of us try to warn the emperor, Censorinus will unleash the frumentarii on us and we will be killed on a trumped-up charge of maiestas.'

Ballista put the knife away. He leaned forward. 'Let me talk to the emperor. All you need do is get me in to see him on my own. I have served him for a long time. Seven years ago I fought for him at Spoletium when he crushed the rebel Aemilianus and took the throne. Valerian trusted me once. Maybe he will listen now.'

Cledonius smiled sadly. 'It would do no good. You would be killed, then the rest of the loyal men. We would all die for nothing.'

'Then what can we do?'

Cledonius grimaced. 'Do our duty. Watch and wait. Pray to the gods for salvation. Hope Macrianus makes a mistake.'

'Allfather, this is not right,' Ballista said vehemently. 'We are being led like lambs to the slaughter. There must be something we can do.'

'Watch and wait.'

'Doing nothing goes against the grain. But if there is nothing else?'

'Nothing else.'

Ballista walked back the way he had come. 'I am sorry I woke you like that.'

'I would rather this than you spoke to me in public.'

Ballista slipped out into the wet night.

By midday, it was as if the equinoctial storm had never happened. The south wind had pushed away the clouds, leaving a perfect blue sky. Every puddle had been swallowed by the parched, yellow-grey soil. With the sun and wind, soon the high plain before them would be as dry and dusty as before.

Ballista and Turpio sat side by side on the ground, watching the last of the baggage train emerge from the marching camp. It had been a hectic day so far. At dawn, Valerian had ordered the army to march light: all except essential baggage was to be left in camp to be taken back over the remaining bridges and be left safely in Samosata with the forces still there under the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, Macrianus. All morning, Ballista and Turpio had worked, deciding what was to go and what stay, their deliberations continually interrupted by messengers from officers demanding that their own possessions must travel with the field army.

'This is madness,' said Ballista. Turpio, toying with his Persian bracelet, gave an eloquent shrug, as if to say, What else can one expect in this world? 'Not to march in a hollow square' — Ballista shook his head — 'it invites disaster.' Convinced by Anamu and Quietus that the way to Edessa was unsuitable for the Sassanid cavalry, who anyway were on the verge of retreat, Valerian had commanded the army to advance in column. At the head rode half the cavalry, under Pomponius Bassus. The infantry came next, under Valerian himself, with Quietus close to his side. They were followed by the other half of the cavalry, under Maeonius Astyanax. The baggage brought up the rear.

'Time to go,' Turpio said. Ballista, whose clandestine nocturnal visit to Cledonius had left him no time to sleep, climbed wearily into the saddle. His familia — Maximus, Calgacus and Demetrius — fell in behind. They cantered down to take up again the frustrating task of trying to keep the non-combatants in order.

Valerian, no doubt urged on by Quietus, from the outset pushed the army hard. Soon the baggage train was moving down a road flanked by stragglers from the fighting units. From the rear, the way back to the north was seen to be already dotted with deserters from the standards heading back to the Euphrates. Worryingly, no orders had been given to post guards to stop them.

After about two hours' hard marching, word was passed down for the army to halt, for an overdue meal. In keeping with the feverish sense of urgency emanating from the emperor's staff, the men were ordered not to leave their posts but to eat and drink standing by the banks of a small, nameless stream. Even so, the command to move on came before most had finished.