'Well, I have not been idle while you have been out.' To avoid replying, Ballista took a drink. Julia continued. 'Someone wants to kill you. They may want to harm your family. I will not let anything happen to my son.' She had never liked the barbarian name that Ballista had insisted their son carried. At times like this, Isangrim always became my son.
'I have hired three ex-gladiators. They will guard the house. One of them will accompany my son whenever he goes out. I suggest you keep Maximus with you.'
Julia spoke with the icy self-possession that came with two hundred years of senatorial birth. The Julii of Nemausus in Gallia Narbonensis had been given that exalted rank by the emperor Claudius. Roman citizenship had come one hundred years earlier still, from Julius Caesar. By contrast, Ballista was very aware that his own entry into the citizen body of Rome had been just eighteen years ago. Although the reason was not made public, the emperor Marcus Clodius Pupienus had given it to the young northerner as a reward for killing Maximinus Thrax. Pupienus had been one of the very few who knew Ballista's role in the desperate coup before the walls of Aquileia. Less than a month after enrolling Ballista in the ranks of the Quirites, Pupienus had taken the secret to his grave.
'That is good,' Ballista said, 'if they are reliable.'
Julia made a sharp, dismissive gesture. 'They are the best. My family has never been mean.'
To hide his annoyance, Ballista turned away, on the pretence of putting his drink down. Money was a delicate subject between them. When in his twenties, on his return from Hibernia, Ballista had been given equestrian status, the emperor Gordian III had included a gift of 400,000 sesterces, the property qualification for that order. To the vast majority of the inhabitants of the imperium, it was wealth beyond the dreams of Croesus. To the daughter of an old senatorial house such as Julia, it was a pittance. Although it was seldom mentioned, much of their lifestyle was funded by his wife.
Ballista unbuckled and took off his sword belt. He reasoned it was just her concern for Isangrim, and even for himself, that was making her so waspish.
'What are you smiling at?' she said testily
'Nothing, nothing at all.' He sat down wearily. 'Who do you think hired him?'
Julia shook her head, as if freshly amazed by her husband's obtuseness. 'Gaius Acilius Glabrio, of course. He hates you for leaving his brother to die in Arete. He has publicly sworn to avenge him. Patricians of Rome keep their oaths.'
'He is not the only enemy I have in Antioch,' Ballista said. 'Valerian has kept Videric at the imperial court as a hostage for the good behaviour of the Borani. There is bloodfeud between us.'
Julia actually snorted with derision. 'Your drunken oaf of a friend said that the attacker told you he had been hired by a eupatrid.'
'Yes,' said Ballista. 'He shouted "The young eupatrid sends you this." Videric's father, Fritigern, is king of the Borani.'
'No one in the imperium would consider the son of some hairy barbarian king well born, a nobleman.' As Julia spoke, Ballista wondered if she realized the implication of her words.
'The sons of Macrianus do not care for me.'
Julia sighed. 'Oh, Quietus and Macrianus the Younger are vicious and repulsive. They both loathe you since the fight at the palace, and they are certainly underhand enough to hire an assassin. They are rich, but they are hardly eupatrids. Their equally repulsive father started out as a mule driver.'
'Acilius Glabrio it is then,' said Ballista. In truth, he was far from convinced. He very much doubted that a hired knifeman from one of the slums of Antioch would be quite as aware as his wife of the subtle distinctions of class among the very rich. The irritation was draining out of him. Even Julia was looking less angry.
The maid stuck her head around the door, announced the bath was ready and ducked out again. Ballista got up and went over to Julia. He put his hand on her shoulder.
'Gods below, you stink.' She wrinkled her nose. 'Sweat and horse. Go and get in the bath.' He turned to go. 'Are you really all right?'
He stopped. 'I am all right.'
She smiled. 'I will come through in a while.' It was Saturnalia, the greatest festival of the Romans and one the hedonistic Antiochenes had taken to heart. Seven days of pleasure, of eating and drinking. Seven days of licence, of open gambling and illicit sex. The normal rules of society were loosened, if not completely inverted. Slaves roamed at will. In some households, they were served by their masters. Everyone relaxed their dignitas and let their guard down at the festival of Saturn.
Ballista raised his eyes from reading when Demetrius came into the room. The Greek youth looked worried. He had looked that way since the attack on his kyrios in the charcoal burner's clearing. Forty-seven days of apprehension were taking their toll. This evening he appeared at the end of his tether.
'It is Lucius Domitius Aurelian.' The words tumbled out of Demetrius. 'He is hurt. Badly hurt. A fall from his horse. On his way back from hunting. In the Kerateion district. Near the Daphne Gate. He wants to see you. There is a boy outside to lead us.'
By an act of will, Ballista forced down his rising panic. He put the papyrus roll down on the table next to his couch, carefully placing paperweights to keep it open at the passage he had reached in Lucian's little treatise The Dance.
Ballista followed Demetrius from the room. To avoid thinking about his friend, he forced his thoughts to run over his reading. It was 18 December, the second day of the Saturnalia, so he had decided to read Lucian's work on the festival. He had enjoyed it. But then he had started reading The Dance. He was not enjoying that as much. It was always the way with Lucian. You read one satire and it was splendid. You went straight on to another and it seemed less good. You read three in a row and you were sick of them.
In the lodge were the porter and Cupido, one of the ex-gladiators that Julia had hired. Most of the servants, including Maximus, Calgacus and the other two ex-gladiators, were on leave. It was the Saturnalia, after all. Ballista did not much care for Cupido. He was a large, brutish man, his muscles turned to fat. He was lazy, and he drank. He smelled like the taste of a copper coin carried in the mouth.
When Ballista had put on his boots, buckled up his sword belt and slung a heavy cloak over his shoulders, he saw that Cupido had done the same.
'Demetrius, you stay here. Tell the kyria where I have gone.' At Ballista's words Demetrius started to wrestle his boots off again, hopping on one foot. Ballista smiled at him. 'Keep an eye on the house until I return. Oh, and if you can find a slave that is sober, send him to tell Maximus and Calgacus what has happened. They are in Circe's Island.'
Outside, it was starting to snow, the first tiny flakes fluttering down. The boy that was to guide them was standing in the street, shifting from foot to foot in his anxiety to be off. The door slammed behind them and they heard the bolts shut fast. They started walking, the boy leading the way, the two men following.
It was dark. The lamps had been lit in most porches. Although it was starting to snow harder, there were quite a few gangs of revellers on the streets as they crossed the Epiphania district. The boy called something over his shoulder to Cupido. The ex-gladiator quickened his pace to catch up and snapped harshly at the him. They spoke in Syriac. Ballista, behind, could not understand them.
The snow was falling fast now, big, fat flakes that were starting to settle. Wrapped up in his worry for his friend, Ballista hardly noticed the snow drifting into his face, landing in his hair. Julia was right: Aurelian drank too much. Allfather, let the fool be all right.
They reached the Kerateion district, and the boy started to lead them across it by one narrow alley after another. There was next to no one about now. Of course, the Jews did not celebrate the Saturnalia. If anything, they would double-bolt their doors and sit tight at home, hoping the drunken revelry of their pagan neighbours did not turn to violence.
The boy dropped back next to Ballista. 'Not far now, Kyrios,' he said in Greek. Cupido was marching purposefully a couple of steps ahead. The ex-
gladiator was puffing, his breath visible in the cold air.
At the end of the alley stood two figures in dark cloaks, their shoulders powdered white with snow. They were standing so close together that the high hoods that hid their faces were almost touching, although they did not seem to be talking.
Cupido turned off into a side alley. A moment after, Ballista realized his mistake. As he pushed back his cloak and drew his sword, the boy at his side turned and ran. The blade shone in the light of a lamp. Cupido spun round. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Behind him, Ballista heard the patter of the boy's feet and the crunch of heavy boots in the snow. He swung the blade. Cupido tried to step back. He was too slow. The keen edge of the sword bit deep into his left arm. He screamed. Clutching the wound, he doubled up and crumpled to the ground.
Careful not to slip, Ballista turned — and froze. The two figures were running at him through the snow, swords in hand, dark cloaks billowing out behind. They looked not of this world. Their hoods had slipped back and they had the faces of impossibly beautiful girls. Their long, plaited hair streamed behind them and their faces had an inhuman stillness.
Ballista stood leaden-footed. His heart shrinking inside him, he stared at the apparitions. They had the faces of statues of goddesses, or the masks of heroines from the stage. Masks! He was a fool — they were wearing masks, dancers' masks from the pantomime.
Having recovered from the shock, Ballista hurled himself forward into the path of the man to his right. He swung hard at the man's head. The mask jerked back as the man raised his sword. Dropping on to one knee, Ballista altered the angle of his blow down into the man's thigh. There was a spray of red blood against the white of the snow, a muffled scream from behind the mouthless mask. The man fell.
Ballista quickly got to his feet. His remaining assailant was blocking the way he had come. He looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, there were two more masked men moving up the alley behind him. There were several doors, a couple of them with small porches, but not a single window opening on to the alley. The screams had not encouraged any door to open. A good spot for an ambush.
Ballista backed to the left-hand side of the alley, to the nearest porch. He tried the door. It was bolted. He hammered on it with the hilt of his sword. The sound echoed back dully and the door stayed shut.
The three men were closing in now. Ballista stepped out into the alley and sidled along until the porch would impede an attack from his left and the wall of the house covered his back. The men were fanning out, as far as possible, surrounding him. The one in the centre was directing them. He wore the face of a miserable old woman, heavily lined and pouchy-eyed. There was a jagged scar on his right hand.
'A long way from your charcoal stack, brother.' As he spoke, Ballista lunged forward, his sword seeking the man's chest. At the last moment, a clumsy but effective parry turned the point of the northerner's blade. Without pause, Ballista took two short steps to his right and unleashed a downward cut. The man there leapt backwards. A movement in the corner of his eye, and Ballista swivelled. Automatically, his sword came down across his body. A clash of steel and the assassin's blade was forced wide.
The snow was still falling. It formed a golden corona around the lamps. Weird shadows flickered about the alley as the four men danced their macabre, rhythmic dance: feint, probe, lunge, block, cut. Ballista fought doggedly. His mind was blank. After years of training and experience, the memory in the muscle was keeping the man-killing steel from his body. But he knew that if he made one slip, it would all be over.
The masked men gave a little ground. A man on horseback rode into Ballista's view. He had a drawn sword in his hand. Unlike those of the the others, the mounted man's mask was metal, the silver face of a beautiful youth, lips and eyebrows gilded, an expensive, full-face cavalry parade helmet.
The horse stopped. It stamped in the snow. The impassive silver face regarded the frozen tableau of the fighters.
'Finish him. Get in close and finish the barbarian filth, you cowards.' Through the thin mouthpiece, the Latin sounded strange, unrecognizably distorted.
The pantomime masks closed in on Ballista. Faces immobile but eyes wild, long plaits swinging as the swords flashed. They had not the skill of the northerner and they were encumbered by the masks, but there were three of them. A flurry of blows, sparks flying. Ballista was driven back against the wall. No room to move. Off balance, parrying a heavy blow, Ballista was driven to his knees. A sword knocked chunks of plaster from the wall next to his ear.
And then the masks were receding. Ballista scrambled upright, getting the sword out in front, securing some space. Snow deadens sound, but Ballista could half-hear something off to his left, beyond the porch, out of sight. The eyes behind the masks seemed to be flicking glances in that direction. Ballista got his breathing right, waiting for his opportunity. It never came. The face of the beautiful girl and that of the harridan looked in at the swordsman with the scar on his hand. The mask of the miserable old woman jerked. And all three were running off to the right, their boots kicking up flurries of snow.
The horseman looked down at Ballista. The silver face remained unmoving, but the eyes behind it were full of hate. He pulled the reins and walked his horse after the others, the way Ballista had come.
At the entrance to the alley, the masked man Ballista had cut down had risen to his feet. His leg was pouring blood. The horseman stopped. He held out his hand. A silver ring with the portrait of Alexander the Great glittered. The wounded man stumbled painfully across, his useless left leg dragging. He put up a hand to be helped up on to the horse. The horseman leaned out and gripped the proffered arm with his left hand. A glittering arc of steel, and the blade in the horseman's right hand crashed down on to the man's exposed head. There was a sickening sound like stepping on rotten fruit. Fountaining blood, the man fell away.
The man in the silver mask turned to look at Ballista. The light of the lamps shone on the mask of the beautiful youth. His arm came up. The bloodied sword pointed at the northerner. Then he kicked his boots into the horse's flanks and was gone.
Ballista leant back against the wall. He was drenched in sweat, limbs trembling with fatigue. Blood dripped into the slush at his feet. For the first time, he noticed four or five minor defensive wounds on his forearms.
The noise was getting louder: the sound of men pounding through the snow. Ballista pushed himself away from the wall and raised his sword again. My enemy's enemy is my friend. But you can never be sure.
A flood of torchlight, and Demetrius appeared. He had one of the Superintendents of the Tribes with him. They were backed by half a dozen Club Bearers of the watch. Ballista lowered his sword and embraced Demetrius, their faces together. 'Thank you, boy. How?'
'I knew something was wrong. Cupido never volunteers for anything.' Demetrius' face was earnest. 'I disobeyed you, Kyrios. I went out and found a party of the watch, led them to the Jewish quarter.'
'You showed initiative. It is lucky one of us kept his wits about him.'
Ballista released Demetrius and went over to where Cupido lay. The ex-gladiator was not moving. Covering him with his sword, Ballista searched him for concealed weapons. 'A doctor,' Cupido moaned.
Ballista looked at the wounded arm. He was fast bleeding to death. 'Who hired you?'
'Doctor…' The stale copper-coin smell mingled with that of fresh blood.
'Who hired you?'
'A man in a bar. I do not know his name. The one wearing the old-woman mask. Scar on his hand.'
Ballista looked down at him, considering.
'I need a doctor,' Cupido whimpered again.
'Too late, brother.' Ballista lined the sword up and thrust it down into the man's throat. It was finished. The snow was turning to sleet.
VII
It was early, the second hour of an overcast, gloomy day. The black clouds piling up over Mount Silpius threatened rain. It seemed to have rained every day since the attack in the alley. From the
second day of the Saturnalia, 18 December, to six days before the ides of January: twenty-four days, calculated Ballista, counting inclusively, as everyone did. Twenty-four days since the third attempt to kill him and, despite both the municipal Epimeletai ton Phylon and the imperial frumentarii scouring the city, there was no trace of the would-be assassins.
The dead assassin's mask, the beauty of its young girl's face marred by the blood soaked into the linen, had been no help. There were more than thirty theatrical mask makers in Antioch. Unsurprisingly, none admitted it was their work. And no one had come forward to claim the body.
There was little to go on. Three hired swords: two faceless men and a nondescript man with a scar on his hand — a nondescript man who in the charcoal burner's clearing had shouted, 'The young eupatrid sends you this' — in a city of more than a quarter of a million people.
The identity of the young eupatrid on the horse was still a mystery. The type of cavalry parade mask he had worn was very expensive, but they were readily available all over the imperium. It need not even have been made by a silversmith in Antioch. The horseman had spoken Latin. But his voice had been so distorted as to be unrecognizable.
One thing, however, had struck Ballista. The silver-masked horseman had called him a barbarian. That would come naturally to Acilius Glabrio, or the sons of Macrianus, yet surely it was unlikely that Videric, the son of Fritigern, King of the Borani, would call him a barbarian — unless he had become thoroughly romanized in his months as a diplomatic hostage. Or unless he had said it deliberately to throw suspicion elsewhere.
There was so little to go on; still, the northerner had hoped that something would have turned up before he had to leave.
Ballista sat on Pale Horse outside the Beroea Gate, waiting. He looked up at the nearest window in the great, square, projecting towers of the gate. The bright lamps inside made a halo of golden hair low down in the window. Higher and less distinct, slightly behind the boy, was the dark hair of his mother. Ballista had said he would leave Maximus to protect them, but Julia would not hear of it. She had pointed out that while someone had three times tried to kill Ballista, there had been no attempt on his family. She had stated firmly that the two remaining ex-gladiators would be enough protection while Ballista was away. The northerner felt some guilt at his relief that he would have the familiar presence of his Hibernian bodyguard at his side. He waved, and saw the light blur of his wife's and son's hands waving back.
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