Now Vollo did briefly consult one of the papers on his desk.
‘Each oracle costs a drachma and two obols. It is not exorbitant, two days’ wages for a labourer. But one source claims that Glycon receives up to eighty thousand requests a year. In the temple grounds are many so-called expounders who for a fee will interpret even the obscurest of the oracles. Each of the expounders pays the oracle for the right to conduct their business. The shrine makes a great deal of money. Yet seemingly not enough.’
Vollo gazed at the door, as if measuring his words.
‘The majority of questions concern mundane things. Is a journey propitious? Will I be healed? Who is the thief? Where has my slave run? Is my wife unfaithful?’
It was coming. Censorinus felt a quickening of excitement.
‘But others asked things more venturesome and dangerous.’ Vollo looked sharply at Censorinus. ‘You understand what questions are likely to be put by men who are rich and very powerful?’
Censorinus nodded. Even the head of the frumentarii was circumspect discussing treason.
‘Such questions the oracle does not send back. The fools who submit them will pay any sum so that they do not become known. They are stored, under lock and key, in the innermost sanctuary. You have a question?’
Censorinus was unpleasantly surprised. He had not thought his face would betray him. ‘Why does the Emperor not openly send soldiers to take the incriminating documents?’
‘A mortal should not interfere with the possessions of the gods.’
‘It is Paphlagonia. In the East the living Emperor has always been worshipped as a god.’
‘Do not try to be too clever.’
This time Censorinus made sure his face was impassive.
‘What else?’
Hades, Vollo was observant.
‘Most of the questions about the Emperor’s health will date to previous reigns.’
‘Treason is a state of mind. If you inquire about the death of any Emperor, you are by nature disloyal.’
Censorinus accepted that.
‘You will travel as Eurybatus, son of Autolycus. You are a slave dealer based on the Quirinal Hill in Rome. You migrated there from the Cottian Alps. A shipment of slaves from Delos has not arrived. You want to know if they are lost at sea, or if your business partner has betrayed you. The duty Centurion will furnish you with money, and assign you two suitable slaves as attendants. If that is all clear, you may leave.’
Censorinus took a breath. ‘May I have the order in writing?’
Vollo actually grinned. ‘No, you may not. In fact you will hand over your identification MILES ARCANA badge to the Centurion.’
‘Sir.’ Censorinus did not salute. Frumentarii never saluted. It was one of the first things about their previous service as normal soldiers that they were required to forget.
‘Censorinus?’
The young frumentarius stopped in the doorway.
‘Use all means necessary to obtain the incriminating documents.’
‘Sir.’
‘And get a copy of Lucian. Read it on the way.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘By the way, how are you getting on with Homer?’
III
The Town of Abonouteichus on the Black Sea
The Ides of May AD236
Without the oracle, Abonouteichus, as most people still called Ionopolis, would have remained a forgotten backwater. Neither the river nor the shingle beaches offered an anchorage secure from the prevailing westerly winds. The oracle had paid for a breakwater. When the wind shifted to the north, as it frequently did, even in summer, the mooring remained unsafe. The town, divided by the river, straggled up two hills. The shrine of Glycon was situated on the eastern prominence. Tall, green mountains rose behind the town, and its territory soon gave way to bare slopes and ravines. The vaunted Roman roads did not reach Abonouteichus. The coast road, and the one into the interior were little better than tracks. Anyone wanting to leave in a hurry had to go by sea.
Censorinus had had more than ample time to study the topography. Despite the inaccessibility of the place, throngs of people came to consult the god Glycon. Most were locals from Paphlogania or the neighbouring Provinces of Galatia, Bithynia-Pontus, or Cappadocia. Yet others had ventured to this remote spot from Rome itself or the far corners of the empire.
It was not just the press of numbers that created the delays. The procedures of the oracle moved with a divine stateliness. The fee of a drachma and two obols having been paid, the question had to be written – scribes could be hired in the shrine by the illiterate – and sealed before being handed to a clerk. Once it was submitted, the inquirer had to attend the temple at the prescribed hours every morning to hear if the god had answered. For most, the wait was lengthy. On the journey Censorinus had read Lucian. It had been a struggle, but his Greek was much improved by the effort, and the prose was easier than the poetry of Homer. The satirist claimed the time taken by the oracle allowed for the removal of the seals, the reading of the requests – including any translation necessary from Celtic or Syriac or some such – the framing of a suitably obscure answer, and the unobtrusive resealing of the document.
Censorinus suspected there was another reason for the tardiness that Lucian had not mentioned. The town was full of boarding houses and accommodation to rent. Much of the property was owned by the shrine. Where it was not, the landlords, along with the proprietors of the many bars and brothels, doubtless made donations to the temple. Foretelling the future turned a good profit. Perhaps, as Censorinus had once heard a philosopher in Rome claim, it really was an age of anxiety.
‘Health and great joy, sir.’
Censorinus returned the formal greeting to one of the other men trudging up the hill to the shrine. The waiting had been long and expensive. Censorinus had been in Abonouteichus for over a month. Yet it had not been unenjoyable. The imperial purse was paying. Censorinus had hired a small villa at the edge of town. The two slaves Vollo had provided took care of all domestic duties. The local wines were not good, but those imported from Bithynia were better. The Black Sea was famous for seafood. Mullet, tunny, anchovies; Censorinus had not stinted himself. And there were the prostitutes. It was surprising how many were pale girls with high cheekbones from the barbarian tribes north of the sea.
All in all, it was good being Eurybatus, son of Autolycus, a well-heeled dealer in slaves. As befitted a successful merchant, he had taken the wintry journey from distant Raetia sedately, and in whatever comfort offered. For discretion, vehicles and horses could not be demanded from the imperial post houses. Instead Censorinus had hired a warm private carriage drawn by two horses. In it he had travelled along the military frontier road as far as Viminacium, then down the great highways through Naissus, Serdica, and Philippolopolis to Byzantium. There had been decent lodgings for almost every night. Most of the inns let the slaves make their beds in the straw of the stables. Sometimes, if it was particularly cold, Censorinus had allowed them to sleep on the floor of his room. At Byzantium they had waited for the opening of the sailing season.
Byzantium was a wonderful city, full of all the delights known to man. Censorinus had indulged himself freely. At times he thought his two slaves disapproved. He had wondered whether to give one of them a good thrashing as an example. But they were both big, strong men, with a composure unusual in those of servile status. Besides, he knew he would need their loyalty and discretion when he reached the goal of his mission.
In Byzantium Censorinus had consulted a Sophist, one of those flashy public speakers who claimed to know everything about everything. Had any famous men of old carried the name Eurybatus son of Autolycus? It was the sort of question that delighted the Sophist, allowing him to parade his arcane knowledge. Indeed, there had been several called Eurybatus, although none had that patronymic. There was Eurybatus of Argos, an athlete, victor in the pentathlon at the Nemean games, who had fought in the war against the Athenians. Three times he had triumphed i
n single combats, before being himself killed in the fourth. The fame of the others was of the kind most men would not welcome. Eurybatus, the herald of Odysseus, was ‘round-shouldered, swarthy, and curly headed’. The defects of the others were of character not physique. A Eurybatus of Ephesus had betrayed Croesus of Lydia to his enemy Cyrus the Persian for money. The final Eurybatus was a thief from Aegina, notorious for his ability to scale walls with climbing irons and sponges. As for Autolycus, there had been just one, and no man had ever rivalled his expertise in deception and theft.
Censorinus was delighted. The creation of Eurybatus son of Autolycus revealed the erudition and sly wit of Vollo. Both were qualities to be emulated. Censorinus indeed liked being Eurybatus the slave dealer.
Yet he wished Vollo had not made him relinquish the MILES ARCANA badge which identified him as a frumentarius. He understood why it had been done. If the mission failed, and Censorinus was captured, it would have been an embarrassment to the imperial authorities for one of their agents to be discovered attempting to steal from a temple. But with the badge escape from Abonouteichus would have been easy. All Censorinus need have done was flourish the thing, and the captain of any ship would have given him passage at a moment’s notice. As it was, he had been forced to give his slaves money and time to hang around bars on the dockside, telling them to keep track of all vessels intending to weigh anchor.
The outer wall of the sanctuary loomed ahead. Censorinus stopped and looked it over, even though by now he knew the concentric layout of the complex off by heart. A low, roughly circular wall enclosed an area of fruit trees and gardens. By day a pleasant spot to stroll, at night it was locked and patrolled by a watchman. Inside was a taller, rectangular wall. Buildings – offices and accommodation for the temple staff – abutted the inside. Finally, at the highest point, the temple of Glycon stood on its own. After dark, the shrine and all the buildings within the inner wall were said to be shuttered, and the space was rumoured to be guarded by creatures more fearsome than mere man. Of the temple itself, three sides were blank, but broad steps ascended at the front to a platform bordered by columns. There was a window, too narrow for a man to fit through, from which the oracular responses were given. It was flanked by two doorways, which led into whatever corridors and rooms lay hidden within. The stout doors were kept closed, and only the chief priests were ever admitted to the dwelling of the serpent Glycon, where they alone communed directly with the deity.
At other oracular shrines it was the custom for pilgrims to sleep in the holy place, so that the god could communicate with them via their dreams. This had turned out not to be the practice at Abonouteichus. In the shrine of Glycon a lone priest made his bed in the inner sanctum every night to receive the words of the god. At first the discovery had disheartened Censorinus. Incubation would have provided nocturnal access to the site. But on reflection, as he went about his clandestine business, there would have been the danger of discovery by other pilgrims. As it was, once he had broken in, there would be complete seclusion, except for a single, slumbering priest.
Censorinus made his way through the two gates to the courtyard in front of the shrine. As always at this hour, there was a crowd of men from all races across the known world. Censorinus joined them. They stood looking at a fire, near to which were stationed several priests. The daily ceremony was about to start.
‘If any atheist or Christian or Epicurean has come to spy upon the sacred rites, let him be off.’
Censorinus did not recognise the priest who spoke. The shrine had a large priesthood.
‘Let those who believe in the god remain, under the blessings of heaven.’
‘Out with the Christians!’ the priests said in refrain. Censorinus had made a point to talk to one of them, an elderly man, on several occasions.
‘Out with the Epicureans!’ the multitude chanted.
The priest who was leading the ritual had a book in his hand. He went close to the pit where burning faggots of fig trees gave off a pleasant aroma.
‘Burn with fire, I command you, the creed of a purblind dotard!’
As he said the words, the priest threw the writings of Epicurus into the flames.
‘Burn with fire!’ the throng intoned.
Epicureans doubted the reality of the gods. If they did exist, they had no interest in humanity. Such views were anathema to the cult of Glycon. From the beginning, the oracle had waged war on those who held them. Censorinus was unconvinced of the wisdom of the campaign. Epicureanism was a philosophy for the rich and leisured. All the pilgrims who came to the shrine had some money, but the majority were not from the wealthy elite. The daily book burnings served to remind them that alternative views were available. And where were the endless copies of the works of Epicurus obtained? In more than one way the oracle might be thought to propagate the very philosophy it abhorred.
‘Biton, son of Aristarchus.’
After the book burning, the lucky ones whose questions were to be answered were called up by name.
As the officiating priest went up the steps with the first petitioner, Censorinus worked his way through the multitude to the old priest that he knew.
‘The blessings of Glycon upon you,’ said the priest.
‘And upon you, holy father.’ Censorinus blew a kiss from his fingertips as a sign of respect for the priest.
‘Your turn will come, perhaps not today, but when the god wills.’
‘I have no doubt, Father.’
‘You still look troubled.’ The priest had snow white hair, a kindly demeanour.
‘There is another question that I would ask the god.’
‘Then you must present it to the clerks.’
‘It is a matter of delicacy, great delicacy.’
‘The god never betrays a confidence.’
‘Of course not.’ Censorinus hesitated. ‘Yet I would feel safer if I could entrust it to you. I would be happy to pay a higher fee, perhaps five drachmas.’
A strong interest, more than simple avarice, kindled in the old man’s bright blue eyes. ‘Glycon always listens to those who are true at heart.’
Censorinus handed over the money with the rolled petition. The papyrus was sealed with an image of Hermes, the patron of thieves and tricksters. Censorinus thought Vollo would have been pleased with that touch.
‘Father, I must ask, is there no danger of anyone indiscreet reading the question? Such documents are kept safe?’
The aged priest smiled reassuringly, like a fond relative. ‘Questions of such sensitivity are stored in the inner sanctum itself. Yours will not leave my possession. Tonight it is my duty to sleep in the shrine. Your request will not leave my possession. If Glycon is so minded, you will have your answer tomorrow.’
‘You are very kind.’ Censorinus bowed, blew another kiss, and melded back into the throng.
It could be that he had gone too far. The question about the missing slaves with which Vollo had equipped him, like the disguise of Eurybatus, had been designed to attract no attention. Telling a priest that the new question was delicate, talking of danger if anyone indiscreet read it, did the opposite. But a frumentarius must use initiative. Censorinus had needed to be certain where the documents that he had come to purloin were kept. Now he knew. And with the elderly priest on duty, there could be no better opportunity than tonight.
Censorinus had brought most things he might need secreted in his baggage: ropes, two grappling hooks, iron spikes, thin metal picks, a leather bag, burnt cork, black clothing, a tiny lantern with a flint and steel, and a carefully stoppered jar containing a paste of pounded tree-frog and viper mixed with the calyx of white poppy. All he had to do now was purchase a flask of water, some honey, and a dormouse or two.
A disturbance up on the platform cut off Censorinus’ inventory.
‘To the ravens!’ Not muffled by the window, the voice from within the shrine seemed amplified.
‘There is some mistake.’
‘Drive him out! Deny him fire
and water!’
‘But I am no atheist …’
‘The god makes no mistakes.’
The petitioner turned, held out his hands, like an orator appealing to a jury. Met with hostile silence, he stood for a moment, before letting his arms drop to his sides. Head down, he began to descend the steps.
The crowd parted before him. Those at the front put their thumbs between their fingers, or spat on their own chests to ward off evil. No one wanted to be polluted even by his gaze. Those at the back hissed, some called out curses. The threat of violence gathered, like tension in the air before a thunderstorm. Step by step the outcast walked. All it would take was one blow to unleash chaos.
At last the man reached the gate. He passed through without looking back. He was lucky, Censorinus thought. Some denounced by the oracle had been stoned by the faithful.
The priest summoned another petitioner to the platform. The crowd stirred. The charge in the atmosphere dissipated.
Safety was not assured outside the sanctuary. Lucian claimed that the shrine had bribed the crew of the boat on which he departed to dispose of him by throwing him overboard mid-voyage. Only the conscience of the captain had saved the writer.
A merchantman, the Chresmos, was leaving the next day before first light to catch the last of the off-shore breeze. Censorinus would go aboard as she weighed anchor. Despite his arrival at the last moment, a fat purse should ensure a passage with no questions asked. Once at sea, Censorinus would have his slaves keep watch turn by turn when he slept. It paid to be cautious.
If, of course, he was still free to exercise caution tomorrow.
IV
The Town of Abonouteichus on the Black Sea
Smoke & Mirrors Page 2