Domitius rushed down. ‘What are you saying? This is treason! You will be held accountable for this decision!’
Silva nodded at the praetorians who were with him. ‘Legate Lucius Domitius Aurelian is under arrest for insubordination until further orders. Seize him! And you,’ he said to the soldiers on guard, ‘close that gate.’
The praetorians surrounded Domitius, who was forced to hand over his sword, and they took him away. The soldiers began to pull the heavy gate shut.
Clelia, panting, had just arrived at the guard station and had witnessed the scene. She felt her heart sink. Her husband was out there and knew nothing of what was happening, while in here they were conspiring against him!
She looked around in distress, saw a stableboy leading a horse by the reins and didn’t hesitate for an instant. She ripped her gown from the knee down and gave the boy a hard shove. As he fell to the ground, she leapt on to the horse and spurred him towards the gate.
The horse reared up before the closing gate and his front hoofs struck the wood and pushed it back open. Clelia urged him on and he flew off at a gallop.
The emperor and his guard were close to the ford now and the sham escort was waiting at the river bank. No one had made a move, but a plan was ready. ‘As soon as all the soldiers are on the other side of the river,’ said Metellus, ‘we’ll turn around and race back towards the city. We’ll have enough of an advantage over them to allow us to reach it in safety.’
‘As long as they open the gate for us,’ said Balbus warily. ‘If they received our message, I don’t understand why they haven’t come out to help us.’
He had not finished speaking when Quadratus interrupted him. ‘Look, they must have got it. There is someone coming from the city. But . . . wait . . . it’s a woman!’ he exclaimed.
Metellus turned towards the walls and was dumbfounded. ‘It’s Clelia! It’s my wife!’ he shouted.
The sham escort had already begun to cross the river.
The emperor signalled to Metellus. ‘Go!’
He set off at a gallop; Clelia was hurtling towards him and shouting something. She was nearly halfway between him and the walls of Edessa and was still racing forward. Suddenly Metellus saw something fly up from the walls, in a wide arc: arrows!
Whistling cut through the air. One arrow, then a second, plunged into the ground. The third hit its target and flung Clelia from her horse.
Metellus charged towards her, jumped off his galloping steed and gathered her into his arms. She was still breathing. The arrow had pierced her back and was protruding from her breast. Her dress was soaked with blood.
Metellus clutched her to him, weeping with rage and grief, kissing her wan lips, her forehead, her hair.
‘It’s a trap,’ murmured Clelia. ‘The escort was murdered . . . Silva is . . . is . . . Marcus, please, save yourself . . . Go back to our son . . . He’s all alone . . .’
‘I’ll go to him. I promise.’
Clelia’s head dropped and darkness veiled her eyes. Metellus felt as if he had died with her.
He looked over at the gate of Edessa, which was still obstinately closed, and made out a red cloak fluttering on top of the walls: Silva. It was surely him. Metellus turned towards the ford and saw that the fight was already raging: the emperor was surrounded!
At that sight, Metellus steeled himself and regained his determination and presence of mind. He scattered a handful of dirt over his wife’s body as a symbolic burial, swallowed his tears and leapt on to his horse, spurring him madly towards the banks of the Korsotes river.
He burst between the ranks of the fraudulent escort brandishing two swords, one for each of two Persian warriors, who keeled over into the river as Metellus descended upon the others with dreadful violence. He struck out in every direction, stabbing, piercing, gouging, mangling, splitting bones and skulls, opening the way towards his encircled emperor.
More Persian warriors were arriving from every direction and Metellus realized that he had no more than a few moments in which to open an escape route for Valerian. But when he turned, he saw the emperor being flung from his horse and landing in the water in the middle of a tangle of enemy soldiers.
Metellus gave a yell – ‘Save the emperor!’ – and surged forward like a battering ram: he jumped off his horse and hurled himself bodily against the enemy while rallying his men. ‘Balbus, Quadratus, to me!’
The two centurions flanked him like a couple of mastiffs. They rose up like towers on either side of him, their shields striking down anyone who dared approach, their swords impaling all assailants. They mowed the enemy down, trampling the fallen or nailing them with the bottom edges of their shields. Valerian defended himself tenaciously, but he had to fight against the swirling river current as he was fending off enemy blows. He lost his balance and was about to be cut down by a Persian who had just lifted his javelin when Metellus appeared behind his attacker and lopped off both his arms with two lightning-fast swipes, then pushed him into the current like an uprooted tree trunk. He moved in at the emperor’s side. With Balbus and Quadratus providing cover, he had Valerian mount his horse and then smashed the flat of his sword against the animal’s rear. The thoroughbred raced off towards the city.
Valerian rode at breakneck speed, conscious that his men were sacrificing themselves to save his life; he was determined to call out all the forces in Edessa to rush to their aid and make the Persian pay for his deceitfulness. But a squad of enemy horsemen emerged unexpectedly from the gorge to his right, in which the river flowed, then fanned out to the west, cutting him off from the city.
He wrenched his horse in the opposite direction, thinking that he could reach one of the Roman outposts on the road to Nisibi, but a line of infantry appeared before him all at once, as if vomited up by the earth, and barred his way.
Valerian did not slow down for an instant. He pushed his horse into a formidable leap and flew over the line of foot soldiers. He landed on the other side and spurred his mount on ever faster, convinced that he was safe, imaging how he would avenge the blood of his valorous combatants but his thoughts were suddenly cut short at the sight of an immense array of cavalry and infantry rising from the line of hills in front of him. Shapur himself was at the centre of the fluttering purple standards which unfolded over an enormous front, closing off every passage and every road.
The emperor of the Romans understood that he had no way out and turned back towards the ford to die with his sword in hand beside his men, to end a blameless life with an honourable death. But, just as he was about to throw himself into the battle still raging at the ford, the trumpets blared and the Persian soldiers withdrew, leaving the Romans alone at the centre of a circle of armed men.
Panting with exhaustion and dripping with blood, the soldiers of the little squad prepared to receive their emperor, who had not succeeded in saving himself.
Marcus Metellus Aquila emerged from the river and drew his men up along the bank to face their destiny.
2
SHAPUR TOUCHED THE HORSE’S flanks with his heels and advanced unhurriedly towards the small group of Romans.
Valerian motioned for his men to stay where they were and went forward alone, on foot, towards his adversary. The Persian wore finely embroidered semi-transparent silken trousers and his long moustache was curled upwards. The elaborate mitre on his head was adorned with ostrich feathers and the sword hanging at his side was sheathed in gem-encrusted gold. The Roman was covered with mud and dust, his breastplate disjointed and his tunic torn. Deep cuts on his arms and legs oozed blood.
Shapur made a gesture and two of his guards ran over to the emperor of the Romans and shoved him to the ground, forcing him to his knees.
Metellus rushed forward, shouting, ‘Leave him alone, you cowards! Fight me, you barbarian, if you’ve got the guts! Get off that horse! I’ll pull off those feathers and make you swallow them, you bastard, you son of a whore!’
But a net soared over his head and snared him like
a lion in a trap. The others were surrounded and disarmed.
Shapur barely gave them a glance. He nodded to his men and went off, passing between the files of soldiers, towards the camp he had left before dawn.
Through the mesh of the netting that imprisoned him, Metellus noticed a strange figure: a man, or maybe a boy, given his slight physique, dressed in a style of clothing he had never seen. His face was hidden by a black scarf that left only his eyes uncovered: long, slanting eyes of a deep black colour. They exchanged a fleeting, intense look before the mysterious person melted away into Shapur’s retinue.
The prisoners were dragged to a tumbledown hut and shackled hand and foot, one after another, beginning with Valerian. Metellus looked at his chained emperor and could not hold back his tears. They were then bound to one another and lined up behind Balbus, the centurion; he was tied to the saddle of the last of the horsemen who would be taking them to their destiny. There were ten of them, besides the emperor and Commander Metellus: the two centurions, Aelius Quadratus and Sergius Balbus, a ranking optio named Antoninus Salustius and seven legionaries: Lucianus, Severus, Rufus, Septimius, Publius, Aemilius and Martianus.
They walked the whole day under the scorching sun without eating or drinking; they were not allowed to stop until after sunset. They were given bread and dates, and a little water. As night fell they lay down among the rocks to rest, without even a rag to protect them from the bitter cold.
The emperor had not said a word since he had been forced to kneel before his enemy, and he was huddled in a lonely heap now, his back to a rock.
Metellus was overcome by his wife’s death, which he still refused to accept, and tortured by the thought that he might not see his son ever again. He had never in his whole life found himself in a state so near desperation. And yet the sight of his emperor – a man who had dedicated his whole life to the service of his state and his people, who had fought with incredible bravery despite his years and who had been unbearably humiliated by the enemy – made him lay aside his own grief and pity the man’s abasement.
He went to comfort him. ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Caesar. You put your life at risk in the hopes of achieving peace. Fate betrayed us. It could have happened to anyone.’
Valerian slowly turned his head towards him and raised his shackled arms and bleeding wrists. ‘Do you really believe that it was adverse fortune that brought this about?’
Metellus did not answer.
‘Do you think they didn’t see us from the walls of Edessa?’
‘I think they saw us, Caesar.’
‘And did you wonder why no one came to our aid? Why the cavalry wasn’t sent out to defend us?’
‘I can’t explain it,’ replied Metellus. ‘But I’m certain they must have been forced into making such a choice.’
‘I think instead that someone deliberately decided to abandon us to our fate, and that that someone was sure he would never have to account for his decision,’ said Valerian darkly.
‘You mustn’t let your thoughts run away with you, Caesar,’ reasoned Metellus. ‘When we lost contact, we also lost the ability to understand the sequence of events. Anything may have happened. Perhaps it was evident from the top of the guard towers that rescue would have been impossible. Someone may have decided not to risk sending out exhausted, malnourished troops in a hopeless endeavour. But I’m convinced, Caesar, that they have a plan. Mark my words, they’ll show up and free us in a matter of days. I know Lucius Domitius: he’s a man who fears nothing and nobody. If he didn’t come out – for reasons we cannot imagine – it means that the sortie has merely been put off. He could reappear at any time, trust me. He could be behind those rocks down there, see?’
Valerian stared at him with a look full of dismay. His face, hollowed out by strain and hardship, was a mask of stone. ‘There’s no one behind those rocks, Commander. No one. And no one will come looking for us. That’s why I asked you to stay behind.’
Metellus bowed his head, wounded by those words. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Because the command of the fortress was in the hands of Cassius Silva.’
‘I know what you’re saying. I didn’t want to mention him, because I know he is a personal friend of your son Gallienus, but you see, Clelia, my wife, before she died, said his name.’ His eyes misted as he pronounced his wife’s name. The wound was too fresh, his pain too great, to control his emotions.
‘Your wife,’ sighed Valerian, ‘sacrificed herself to save us. Uselessly. If the gods heed me and allow our return, I swear that I will raise a monument to her, like the ones to the ancient heroines of our history, to perpetuate her memory and her fame. Unfortunately, in our current state we are slaves without names. And thus we are destined to remain. Silva abandoned us to our fate, and perhaps did even worse . . . I cannot convince myself even now that my own son, Gallienus, schemed with the Persians to arrange this wretched encounter.’
Metellus fell silent. What could he say to a man who just a few hours earlier was lord of half the world, and who was now at the complete mercy of a cruel, duplicitous enemy? A man burdened with chains, tormented by the cold and by his wounds, but above all by the suspicion of the most atrocious betrayal, that of his own son?
It was Valerian who broke the silence, as if he felt guilty for frustrating the attempt of that generous soldier to alleviate his pain and his humiliation. ‘You must miss her terribly.’
‘I would have preferred to die than to live without her,’ replied Metellus. ‘We fell in love when we were little more than children, and we ran away together to avoid the marriages that our families had decided for each of us.’
‘I understand,’ said the emperor, ‘and I know that there is nothing that can soothe such a loss. But we must call on our courage and face our destiny like true soldiers of Rome. We must not give our jailers the satisfaction of seeing us beaten, the pleasure of seeing us humiliated.’
Metellus nodded wearily. ‘There’s one more thing that torments me, that gives me no peace.’
‘What is it?’ asked Valerian.
‘The thought of my son, Titus. What will become of him? Who will protect him? I fear that Lucius Domitius no longer holds any power within the walls of Edessa, otherwise he would have come out for us. My wife is gone. I am powerless to protect the person who is dearest to me in all the world. Just think, I gave him my word that I would be back before nightfall. And I’ve never broken a promise to him, never in his whole life.’
‘That promise was expressing a hope, my friend,’ replied the emperor, ‘and the fulfilment of our hopes never depends fully on us. But think of it as an oath. The oath of a just man reaches the throne of the gods.
‘See that soldier?’ he asked, pointing at a young, curly-haired legionary. ‘He has just made the sign of the cross. He’s making a vow as well. He’s praying to his Christian god to save us all and bring us back home. They say he’s a powerful god, more powerful than our own. I fear that Jupiter is too tired and too disappointed to do much, after watching the foolishness of men from up on his throne for so many centuries.’
Metellus looked at the soldier: his name was Aemilius and he was from his legion. A good boy, born in Messina, skilled with a sword, a fast runner, an excellent swimmer and no sluggard. Best to have men of courage with him in times of misfortune. He walked over to him. ‘How’s it going, soldier?’
‘Well, Commander, given the circumstances.’
That’s what I like to hear. We must always consider that it could have gone worse. We’re alive, we’re all together, we’re with our emperor. We’re the centre of the world, remember that, as long as Caesar is alive and with us.’
Septimius pushed up on his elbows. ‘Our men will come to free us, won’t they, Commander?’
‘I do hope so, but we can’t be certain. We are in enemy territory and our best units are back in Edessa, under siege. Where are you from?’ he asked, noting the youth’s blond hair and blue eyes.
&nb
sp; ‘From Condate, in Gaul.’
‘They should send men like you to the northern front. You suffer the heat, and burn with this sun.’
‘Well, I’ve got used to it, sir, but . . . yes, I’d like to go back to my own parts when this mess is over with.’
‘My hopes lie in Lucius Domitius Aurelian. If he’s given the chance, he’ll stop at nothing to liberate us and the emperor.’
‘Sword-in-Hand?’ said Martianus, a legionary from the Seventh Ferrata. ‘There’s a man for you. I’ve never seen a soldier like him. He won’t forget us, you can be sure of it. He never forgets his men. I’ve seen him risk his own skin more than once to bring in a wounded man, or even a dead one.’
Neither Balbus nor Quadratus, the two centurions, said a word. They were past their youth, and had seen it all; they’d learned that it was no use cherishing false hopes in life. They lay apart from the others, their heads leaning on a stone as if asleep, but Metellus knew well that they were wide awake and that nothing that was said would escape them.
‘Stay close,’ Metellus urged his men, ‘one next to another, so you keep warm. It’s going to get damn cold tonight and those bastards certainly won’t be giving us any covers.’
‘I’d rather hold some pretty girl – one of those little whores from Antioch with their firm tits – than snuggle up to a centurion! But I guess you can’t have everything in life,’ quipped Martianus.
‘I’ve heard of worse fates!’ Metellus smiled. ‘Anyway, it’s better to joke about things than to lose heart. Because from now on we can only count on ourselves. We must survive, men, survive at any cost. This, for the time being, is our only goal. None of us will be abandoned to his destiny; each one of us can count on the help of all the others. Together we can make it, believe me.
‘I want you to know something: we’re part of the imperial guard now and now, as never before, we must hold fast to our commitment and to our oath of loyalty to Caesar. No one will be allowed to go anywhere unless the emperor can come with us. Is that clear? Any attempt to do so will be punished as desertion and I myself will pronounce judgement and execute the sentence.’ He snapped tight the chains that bound his hands.