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.