The Caspian Gates

XIII

Gallienus thought he had overdone the poison that morning. He had been awake well before dawn. As he had been with Demetrius in the night, he had not sacrificed to the gods. Instead he had decided to go riding. While the horses were being tacked up, he had drunk some milk and eaten a little bread and fruit. With something in his stomach, he had gone to the one thing he had that was completely private. Unfastening the triple locks of the chest, he had poured out and taken a little of every poison that nature and human ingenuity provided.

Perhaps he had been careless. He had felt fine on horseback. There had been a low mist covering the Pannonian plain, the lights of Sirmium dim and haloed in the distance. Gallienus had galloped hard. His favourite hunter, Spoletium, easily outpaced the mount of Freki the Alamann, the commander of his recently created barbarian inner bodyguard. Gallienus had taken only Freki out with him. Sometimes it was good to be alone, or as near as could be for an emperor.

After a time, the sun had come up in splendour, lighting a wide blue sky with just a few high, dappled clouds. The Savus river shone, broad and placid, on the horizon. When Freki caught up, they had ridden back.

Now Gallienus did not feel so good. Sitting on the high imperial throne in the apse of the basilica in the palatium, he felt sick. He must have been careless. It had been ten years since his elevation to the purple. Every morning of those ten years, he had taken the poisons. His body was well used to it, his immunity strong. Emperors had died in many untimely ways but, since the time of Claudius, over two hundred years earlier, none had died by poison.

The low imperial altar with the sacred fire was in front of him. The incense burning there and the smell of horse and sweat coming off his riding clothes added to the nausea. There was nothing to be done. He would have to endure the consilium.

A formal speech was in progress. The man speaking was Nummius Faustinianus. Gallienus had immortalized Faustinianus by granting him the signal honour of being the emperor’s colleague as the first pair of consuls to take office that year. Forever it would be known as the year in which Gallienus, for the fifth time, and Faustinianus were consuls.

The theme of the oration, as far as Gallienus’s discomfort – and, it must be said, boredom – allowed him to listen, was the excellent state of the imperium. The rhetoric put it all down to the manifest virtues of the most noble emperor: Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus; more fortunate than Augustus, better than Trajan.

If only such was the case in an age of iron and rust, thought Gallienus. He considered the true, harsh practicalities of the empire. The situation was stable in the centre of the imperium. The Danube frontier and its hinterland were under control. After four revolts in two years – Ingenuus, Regalianus, Piso and Valens – no further usurpations appeared to be imminent. Clementius Silvius, the governor of the provinces of the Panonnias, both Superior and Inferior; Aelius Aelianus, the prefect of Legio II Adiutrix: and Aelius Restutus, the governor of Noricum, had all been waiting dutifully for Gallienus in Sirmium. Claudius Natalianus had also arrived from his province of Moesia Inferior. Neither Veteranus of Dacia nor Valentinus of Moesia Superior had attended. Both pleaded the need for vigilance against the Goths from the Black Sea. In the latter instance at least, Gallienus knew this to be true. Apart from the Goths, the trans-Danubian barbarians were quiet, if only temporarily. Up the great river to the west, incursions were discouraged by the strong arm of Attalus of the Marcomanni. The ties were close between this German client king and the Roman emperor; Attalus was the father of Gallienus’s mistress Pippa.

There seemed nothing particular to cause concern in Rome. The plebs were not rioting more than usual, nor the senate scheming. The elderly and noble Nummius Ceionius Albinus was prefect of the city. He ought to be loyal to the dynasty. He had been a friend of Gallienus’s father, for what that was worth. A less formal but more efficacious eye was kept on the seven hills by Gallienus’s brother Licinius.

In Africa, there was talk of strange apparitions in the Atlas mountains, whispers of tribal insurrection, the movements of peoples, incursions of nomads from the south. Faraxen, the native rebel – was he dead or not? There were rumours of a cave below a distant peak, where his disembodied head sang the old songs and talked of new things. Always something new out of Africa. Nothing here that should be beyond the capabilities of Cornelius Octavianus. As the Dux of all the African limes, he, aided by Decianus, the governor of Numidia, had dealt splendidly the previous year with the Roman pretender Celsus. And there was Gallienus’s female cousin Galliena: the real mover behind the suppression of Celsus. As competent as any man, she was the emperor’s eyes and ears in Africa. It was Galliena that had thought to turn a large raiding party of Franks against Celsus. Now, settled on the late usurper’s estates, the German war band was a useful force against both indigenous unrest and over-ambitious Romans.

If the central body of the imperium was not in bad shape, the same could not be said for the west. There was no man Gallienus hated more than Postumus, no man he was more determined to kill. Two years earlier, on the Rhine, while governor of Lower Germany, Postumus had made a sordid attempt to embezzle money. Detected, Postumus had broken his sacred oath to his emperor. He had had his portraits fixed to the standards of Legio XXX Ulpia Victrix, had declared himself Augustus. The provinces of Germany and Gaul had joined him. Offered pardon, Postumus had replied with sanctimonious justifications, impertinent accusations.

At that time, Saloninus, the son of Gallienus, had been living on the Rhine in the town of Colonia Agrippinensis. Although no more than a boy, policy had dictated that Saloninus be declared Caesar, heir to the throne, and sent to show the imperial presence in the north. Postumus had besieged Colonia Agrippinensis. The inhabitants had bought their safety by handing over Gallienus’s son. Saloninus’s youth had not moved Postumus to pity. Gallienus’s golden, beautiful boy had been beheaded. It was said his body had been denied burial. Barred from Hades, his soul would wander; alone, cold and despairing.

Gallienus had prayed to Hercules for revenge. Hercules had answered: Postumus would be struck down, his rebellion come to nothing. But the ways of the gods can be slow. Gallienus knew he should try not to be impatient – what can time mean to the immortal? Gallienus could trust the word of Hercules. The god would deliver what he had promised; he was Gallienus’s special friend. But it was hard. Over the last few months, far from withering, Postumus’s Gallic empire – an evil empire founded on deceit, sacrilege and child murder – had grown.

Postumus and his cronies had the presumption to appoint consuls, as if Postumus were a real emperor and they actually held Rome. The two appointed for this year told a tale. Aemilianus and Titus Destricius Juba: both senators, ex-consuls, once supposed friends of Gallienus’s father. Both now rewarded for their treachery. Aemilianus, governor of Hispania Tarraconensis, had organized the defection of Spain to the rebels. Juba had done the same with Britain.

Despite Gallienus’s relentless diplomacy and the outlay of precious reserves of coin, the senatorial governors of the provinces of Spain and Britain had deserted. The moral was clear: the senate was not to be trusted, the senators hated their lawful emperor, the man to whom they had sworn the sacramentum.

Diplomacy, even had it been successful, was far from the emperor’s favoured option; it could only ever have been a stopgap. From the first, Gallienus had wanted direct military action; invasion leading to the – preferably slow and agonizing – death of the Batavian bastard Postumus. Again and again, however, something had got in the way.

The previous year, Gallienus had assembled at Mediolanum the largest field army straitened circumstances had allowed. But then the majority of it had to be marched east to fight the Macriani. Once Macrianus, father and son, were dead, Gallienus had crossed the Alps. It had been late in the season, but the campaign had begun well enough. Then the defection of the governor of Raetia, Simplicinus Genialis, had forced Gallienus to retrace his steps to guard Italy.

It was much the same this year. First there was Byzantium. The city was strategically important. It was both the best crossing between Europe and Asia, and it dominated the sea route linking the Aegean and the Black Sea. More important still, its continued defiance acted as an encouragement to any considering revolt. Gallienus’s hand had been forced. He had had no choice but to go there himself.

Now there was Egypt. Mussius Aemilianus, the governor, first had gone over to the Macriani. Then, after their defeat at Serdica, even though Quietus had still been alive in Syria, Mussius had declared himself emperor. Egypt provided most of the grain which gave the plebs of Rome the first element of bread and circuses. Without it, the plebs urbana would riot; the eternal city would burn, and the weakness of the regime would be evident. Egypt had to be regained.

Gallienus had written to Odenathus, his corrector in the east, ordering him to crush the pretender. The Lion of the Sun had replied he could not. Shapur the Sassanid, although he faced rebellion from some of his own subjects somewhere near the Caspian Sea, posed too potent a threat to allow Odenathus to spare the troops to conquer Egypt. Besides, Odenathus had nowhere near enough ships, and a fleet was essential to bring Egypt back into the fold.

At Gallienus’s word, warships had been gathered from the fleets at Misenum and Ravenna, and transports from the whole of Italy and Sicily. Again the majority of the field army had to be sent away. The expedition was entrusted to Theodotus and Domitianus, two of the best of the protectores. The former, as an Egyptian, knew the country well. They were ordered to rendezvous on Cyprus with the squadron of Venerianus once the latter had chased the Goths into the Black Sea. From there the force would proceed to Caesarea Maritima on the coast of Syria Palestina, collect what men Odenathus could give them, and then to Egypt.

Gallienus knew that, even if all went as well as it could, the Egyptian expedition could not return to Italy in time to cross the Alps before the autumn snows blocked the passes. Another year, and still Postumus would remain unpunished.

Indeed, there was another grave concern. With most of the imperial forces committed to the east, Postumus, despite his worthless, weasel words about remaining content with what he held, might think to invade Italy. At Mediolanum, the protectores Tacitus, Claudius and Camsisoleus had a pitifully inadequate number of soldiers. It was vital that Gallienus and the cavalry with him reached the north Italian plain as soon as possible.

Nummius Faustinianus was evidently nearing the end of his oration. Some weighty-sounding words on the theme of imperial virtues – virtus , clementia, iustitia and pietas: the ones inscribed on the golden shield which hung in front of the palatium – and it was done.

The comites shook back their cloaks. Urbane applause, nothing to concern the silentarii of the court, echoed around the high chamber.

Gallienus thanked his fellow consul: measured words, suitable to imperial dignitas. Now it was time for Gallienus to issue the orders he had formulated earlier while riding through the countryside of Pannonia.

‘Our Princeps Peregrinorum Rufinus has brought us news of troubling developments to the east of the Black Sea in Colchis and the Caucasus mountains.’

The emperor’s words, as was only right, were received with the hushed silence of anticipation, even awe.

‘The frumentarii stationed in those parts have sent reports that the agents of Shapur have been active. With bribes and false promises, the so-called King of Kings is attempting to subvert the loyalty to Rome of the rulers of Abasgia and the kings of Suania, Iberia and Albania. The peaks where once Prometheus suffered for humanity might seem far away, but the gaze of an emperor, like that of the sun, takes in the whole world.’

The comites quietly murmured their assent.

‘The plots of the treacherous Persian tyrant must be thwarted. Our magnanimity will not let the inhabitants of those distant places be corrupted. A mission will be sent. It will give gifts to those in power deserving of them. Furthermore, it will give them security against the barbarians of the north, against the Alani and other bloodthirsty Scythians. The walls and towers blocking the passes of the Caucasus are said to be in bad condition. The mission will repair the Caspian Gates.

‘The most noble ex-consul Felix will head the mission. He will go personally to the rulers of Abasgia. Under his command, Marcus Clodius Ballista will go to the king of Suania; Marcus Aurelius Rutilus to the king of Iberia, and Gaius Aurelius Castricius to the king of Albania.’

Gallienus smiled regally. ‘Unfortunately, soldiers cannot be spared to accompany them. Yet four more suitable men of virtus could not be found in the wide sweep of our imperium. We can be sure they will not fail. Their mandata will be issued today. They will meet at Byzantium as soon as the gods allow. A trireme will be waiting to convey them.’

The assembled men of power prostrated themselves. Gallienus held out the ring bearing the imperial seal. One by one the comites kissed it, and backed out of the audience chamber.

The consilium was over. Time for a bath and lunch. Gallienus was feeling better. He was extremely pleased with what he had decreed. The problems of the Caucasus had been addressed. More than that, four difficult men had been removed to a place where they could do no harm. No one was ever likely to raise a revolt and threaten the central power from such a remote spot. And Gallienus had kept his word to Demetrius. After lunch, the youth, doubtless, would find pleasing ways to express the depth of his gratitude.

Excursus

(The Caucasus, Spring, AD262)

Away with feminine fears, Dress up your mind like your own cruel home. -Seneca, Medea 42-3

The ox is wreathed; the end is near, the sacrificer to hand.

The young woman considered the oracle. It had been proclaimed about something quite other, a long time ago, in a distant land. It had come into her mind unbidden. Yet it might not prove totally inapposite. Philip of Macedon had taken the Persians for the ox; himself for the sacrificer. Delphic obscurity had confounded him: the Persians had no part of it; Philip’s role was the opposite.

The afternoon breeze from the Black Sea had brought its customary showers and vapours up to Suania. They had softened the outlines but somehow magnified the bulk of the Croucasis mountains above. It was warm enough, but all those waiting were damp through and through.

The procession came into sight around a turn in the track. The ox was pulling its sledge stolidly up the hill. It was led by the old priestess, her women attending her. More women walked behind. There was music. The only man in the procession rode the sledge. He wore a garland of spring flowers on his head; more were twined around his limbs. He looked serene – they often did, at this stage.

The young woman looked away from the approaching procession and at the trees bordering the track: mainly beech, but also birch, maple, alder and pine. Until her all too brief time away, she had never really noticed the thick woods of her childhood in Suania. Since she had been back, more than six years of disappointment and frustration, the endless trees oppressed her.

The procession passed, heading out to the centre of the broad upland meadow where the crowd waited. These rites of Selene were a recent innovation. The man was a temple slave of the goddess. He had vanished. A year ago to the day, he had been found in the high forests, wandering, frenzied, uttering prophesies. The old priestess and her helpers had taken him in their charge, binding him in the sacred fetters lest he hurt himself. Throughout the year they had tended him, bringing him the choicest delicacies, bathing him, putting out for his rest the softest mattress and coverings, taking care of all his animal needs.

The young woman’s mother had imported the rites from her native Albania, changing them as she did so, appointing the aged priestess. Her mother had been strong. If only she were still alive. Then things would have been different these last six years and more – very different – and the young woman knew she would not have been forced to such desperate measures.

In the middle of the meadow, Polemo, king of Suania, sat on a high throne. He was resplendent in white: cloak and turban, both shot through with golden thread, studded with jewels. There was a large crowd below him, the majority of the three hundred councillors of the synedrion, many leading warriors. The young woman saw her three surviving brothers, standing tall and straight. The youngest turned and smiled. The scar on his cheek added to his presence. There was a man – one who did what his heart told him; no remorse, no compunction. If he had not been her brother… if they had belonged to another dynasty, the Ptolemies, say, of ancient Egypt… he could have been the true partner of her greatness.

The young woman was mounted. Half a dozen of her own armed retainers on horseback around her, she sat apart. She was a priestess herself, but of a different, darker goddess. There was no place in this ritual for any women, except those who served the moon goddess Selene. Certainly no place for one dedicated to the bitch goddess, triple-faced Hecate.

The ox was taken from its traces. The crowd shifted to encircle the participants. Sat on her horse, the young woman had a good view of all, could easily see over the heads of the men. The old priestess raised her hands to the heavens, invoked Selene, daughter of the Titans, chariot driver, lover of Endymion. Two men stepped forward. Quick as a swallow, one stunned the ox with a blow from the back of an axe. The other slashed the razor-sharp edge of the sacred lance deep down one side of the beast’s neck. The ox threw its head up. Blood pumped on to the grass. The men jumped back. In its agony, the ox paddled around in a tight, stamping circle. Its windpipe severed, it blew pink, frothy arterial blood from its nostrils and mouth. The beast collapsed. The attendants moved in again. They finished it off, rolled it on to its side, slit its belly and – plunging their arms in – drew out the ropes of intestines for divination. The aged priestess bent over the steaming coils. She considered them quietly. Then she announced all was propitious.

The next sacrifice still stood calmly. At this point, some of them began to fear, even to try and break free. Usually, however, the drugs kept them docile, as the goddess wished. The young woman knew all about drugs, every root and potion in Suania and beyond.

Gently, the young slave was led to the middle. His garland of flowers had slipped a little, but he was not struggling. He looked at the body of the ox, at the blood soaking into the lush green turf, with what appeared to be mild curiosity. The crowd was hushed, expectant. Unlike the young woman, they did not notice the two horsemen ride out of the trees.

The crone again raised her hands to the heavens, and began to call on the moon goddess in all her many names and sonorous titles.

The young woman watched one of the horsemen pass his reins to his companion and dismount. Despite the warmth of the spring afternoon, he was wearing a voluminous fur cloak. He walked, with a strange lack of urgency, to behind where her three brothers stood.

The old priestess finished. A man stood forward. The point of the sacred lance was still crimson. Now the victim seemed to become aware of his position. He raised his hands in a confused, placating gesture. It had no effect. The spear point took him in the stomach. He doubled up around it. His hands clawed at the shaft. He fell, screaming. The crowd leant forward, engrossed. In every dying twitch and gasp the will of the goddess was being revealed.

The late arrival stood for a moment behind the three brothers. Only the young woman paid him any attention. He pushed back his cloak. The naked steel was in his hand. He steadied himself. Three short, quick steps. He rammed the wicked sword into the unprotected back. Another voice screaming in agony.

The stabbed man fell to his knees. The tip of the blade protruded from his stomach. The murderer, hands empty, stepped back. Distracted by the writhing agony of another, those around were slow to understand. Only the youngest brother reacted. He spun around, drawing his sword. The killer took a step back, as if surprised. The youngest brother brought his blade up. The killer turned and started to run. He made just three or four steps before retribution found him. A wild, swinging blow. It caught him on the side of the head, half severing his jaw. Blood and teeth sprayed. He went down. The youngest brother was on him, blade chopping.

‘There!’ The young woman pointed. ‘The accomplice, do not let him escape. Kill him!’

Her retinue of armed men booted their horses. The accomplice sawed his reins, dragged his horse’s head around. All too late. The others were all about him. He toppled to the ground in a red mist, already hacked beyond salvation.

The young woman looked over at her youngest brother. He was standing over the assassin. Sword dripping, covered in gore; he was panting. No longer the least of four boys sat at a teacher’s feet, she thought. Now her youngest brother was a man. He had come a long way in the last two years – they both had. Sealed and countersealed in blood, she said to herself. The oracle drifted back into her mind. The ox is wreathed; the end is near, the sacrificer to hand.