'What can a ferocious barbarian do on his own? He can kill and burn along the frontiers. But he can never strike at the heart of the imperium. And what is the heart of our imperium?' Valerian let the question hang. His gaze steadily traversed the chamber.
'Pax Deorum — the peace between gods and man — Pax Deorum. For over a thousand years we have done our duty by the gods. For over a thousand years the gods have held the imperium safe in their hands. All that has gone wrong in the last generation — the plagues, the usurpers, the mutinous troops, the endless inroads of the barbarians, the death of the emperor Decius, cut down by the savage blades of the Goths, above all, the insufferable arrogance of Shapur the Sassanid, who threatens our empire from the east — all of it has been caused by the sacrilege of these Christians. The arrogant fools claim that only their nameless god exists. The blind fools claim either that our gods do not exist or that they are mere evil daemons. No wonder the gods withdraw from us, turn their favour elsewhere, if we allow such things to be said. No more! The Christians will sacrifice or die!'
There was silence. The emperor's words seemed to echo back from the great beams of the roof.
After due time to deliberate the imperial words, Galerius Maximus, the most senior senator in the consilium, rose to his feet. With stately orotundity, he praised the emperor's piety and wisdom: success in war was in the hands of the gods. War loomed with the Sassanids; if the imperium did not end the Christian atheism, Syria, Egypt, Asia — maybe much more — would be lost to oriental despotism.
Ballista composed his face into what he hoped was a look of reverend attention. In his mind were questions, questions. Why had Valerian chosen him to impose the persecution in Ephesus? True, Christians had betrayed Arete, so Ballista might be thought to have more reason than most to hate them. But why choose a military man with next to no experience of civil government? Why choose an equestrian of barbarian birth? A man who had been out of favour for more than a year? And, more disturbingly, why had Macrianus supported his appointment? The Comes Sacrarum Largitionum was said to be ever more influential with the elderly, ever more indecisive Valerian. Had Macrianus even instigated the appointment? Why? One or both of Macrianus' sons had tried to kill Ballista, he was sure of that. But even setting that aside, whether Macrianus was party to that or not, he had always been an opponent of Ballista at court. What dark, devious game was the sinister, lame one playing?
XIV
Lucius Calpurnius Piso Censorinus, Princeps Peregrinorum, commander of the frumentarii and hence one of the most feared men in the imperium, sighed and put down the children's book. He ran a hand over his face. He was tired, and it was not going well. He rose and went over to the window. Outside, the late-afternoon sun was slanting down through the fruit trees. A patrician Censorinus had been close to had once said to him that the true test of a man's humanitas was his appreciation of a garden. Censorinus made a positive effort to appreciate the patterns of light and shade as the zephyr moved through the orchard between the imperial palace and the hippodrome. He had a retentive memory. He had filed away that opinion and been grateful. Of course, it had not stopped him informing against the patrician.
There was a quiet knock at the door. Unhurriedly, Censorinus checked that the concealed door that led down to the cellars of the palace was shut. Then he returned to his desk, put some papers over the book he had been reading, and said, 'Enter.' The frumentarius who came in was wearing dark civilian clothes. He was an unexceptional-looking man — all the best frumentarii were.
'Marcus Clodius Ballista has chosen you to accompany him to Ephesus as a scribe.'
'Yesh, Dominus.'
'This will be the third time that you have served with him.'
'Yesh, Dominus.'
'I have looked at your reports.' Censorinus vaguely indicated the wall of overflowing pigeonholes behind his desk. 'Your reports from Arete were most uncomplimentary. But those from the Circesium campaign contained much praise.'
The frumentarius, who had been slouching in a commendably unmilitary fashion, drew himself up a little straighter. 'I report things as I shee them.' Censorinus noted that the frumentarius had still not been able to completely lose his North African accent, the occasional 's' still being pronounced as 'sh'.
'What more could one ask?' Censorinus ventured a brief smile. 'In the imperial consilium earlier today Ballista said he knew no more of Christians that what one finds in Tacitus and the younger Pliny.' The Princeps Peregrinorum spoke as if he were often in the habit of reading their works. 'A report indicates that he may have been somewhat economical with the truth. Last year, here in Antioch, he was seen listening to a Christian preacher in the street known as the Jawbone. We expect extra vigilance from you, Hannibal.'
'Yesh, Dominus.'
After the man had gone, Censorinus remained at his desk. His eyes unfocused, he let his thoughts probe at the appointment of the new Vicarius to the Proconsul of Asia. Although the young patrician Gaius Acilius Glabrio had taken almost all the credit, Ballista had done well at Circesium. The northerner was not without backers at court: the generals Tacitus and Aurelian were close friends of his; the ab Admissionibus Cledonius seemed well disposed; so, too, the praetorian prefect Successianus. But Ballista had been out of the emperor's favour for over a year. He had never before served in a purely civilian post. It had been a big surprise when Macrianus had strongly championed his appointment. Since the fracas in the courtyard on Ballista's return from Arete, the Comes Largitionum had consistently exerted his considerable influence to the detriment of the northerner. It was quite probable that Macrianus' sons, Quietus and Macrianus the Younger, had been behind the three attempts to assassinate Ballista. So why should Macrianus now want Ballista to persecute Christians in Ephesus?
Censorinus felt a small stab of pleasure as his thoughts scouted the mystery. Ferreting out secrets was something he was good at. It was a talent that had taken him a long way. He allowed himself a few moments of self-satisfaction. He had travelled a long path indeed from the dye works in Bononia where he had been brought up. He had escaped from the great stinking vats of stale urine to enlist as a legionary in Legio II Italica in Noricum, up on the Danube. Promotion had followed swiftly. He had quickly been made a speculator. Only four years in the scouts, and he had been commissioned a centurion in the frumentarii. Five years, and a well-timed act of betrayal had brought him command of the imperial secret service. He had no intention of stopping there. Had not the great Marcus Oclatinius Adventus, Princeps Peregrinorum under the divine Septimius Severus, been offered the throne after the murder of Caracalla? Of course, the fool had turned it down.
Yet, as with everything, Censorinus' meteoric rise had had its price. The glow of self-satisfaction died as he moved the papers and reached for the book he had been reading. In the exalted circles that he now inhabited, it was necessary to grasp any allusion to the poetry of Homer. Reluctantly opening the commentary on the Iliad for children, the Princeps Peregrinorum again began to painfully unpack the nearly 16,000 lines of arcane dactylic hexameter verse. The early morning on-shore breeze had almost blown the smell of corruption from the port; almost, but not quite. It was getting on for three years since Ballista had been in Seleuceia in Pieria. He had passed though there on his way to Arete. Some things had changed since then. The collapsed jetty had been rebuilt. The naval ship sheds had been given a lick of paint. There were far more vessels, both warships and merchantmen. It was no longer a backwater. It had a bustle to it. Yet the presence of the imperial court just up the road at Antioch had not changed everything. The wide polygonal harbour was still full of decomposing rubbish. It bobbed and floated up against the docks, entangled the buoys. There was one dead dog there, and any number of deceased rats. Presumably, Ballista thought, the long, dog-legged canal that connected the manmade harbour to the Mediterranean prevented the sea getting in to cleanse it.
The two men were standing on the military dock next to the warship that would take them to Eph
esus. She was called the Venus and, near her ram, boasted a well-rounded figurehead of the goddess, naked. The Venus was a trireme, a long, narrow galley rowed by nearly two hundred men seated on three levels. Crowded and uncomfortable, less than seaworthy in a storm, the Venus was designed with just one purpose in mind: to catch and sink other ships. She was ordered to cruise up the Aegean to Byzantium looking for pirates from the Black Sea — Goths, Borani, Heruli. On her way she was to deliver the new vicarius to the Governor of Asia to Ephesus. From the ship came intermittent barked orders and a steady undercurrent of swearing. Ballista watched the men swarming over her decks, stowing away spare oars, cordage and tackle, and generally getting her ready for sailing. Maximus ran his eye appraisingly over the figurehead.
A particularly florid burst of swearing, and a large, domed skull rose up the gangway. A moment later, Calgacus' thin, pinched face appeared. As usual, the Caledonian's muttering was perfectly audible. 'No, no… it's quite all right. You two just stand there and take it easy. No way I need a hand with all your kit and forty fucking attendants to get onboard.' Then, in a somewhat different tone but at exactly the same volume, 'One of the sea-chests is missing, but most of the attendants are in their quarters.'
'Well done,' said Ballista. 'You are not overdoing it, are you?'
Instead of answering, Calgacus gave Ballista a withering stare and turned to stump back on board. 'Ha, fucking ha,' floated behind him.
The Caledonian had been exaggerating wildly. Ballista had tried very hard to keep the numbers down. But Roman ideas of what was fitting had not let him get away with fewer attendants than he had possessed when he was Dux Ripae. So there were six viatores to run messages, four scribae, two praecones to announce him and two haruspices to read the omens in the pecking of chickens and the livers of slaughtered animals. Fourteen in all. Two of them, the North African scribe and a messenger from Gaul, had been with him since he first left Italy for the east. As was his custom, he had appointed Demetrius accensus, to run his staff. Presumably that was where the Greek boy was now.
'Here they come,' said Maximus.
Ballista turned but did not see them. His eyes were drawn upward by the zigzagging alleys and staircases flanked by jumbled houses which climbed towards the acropolis and the stark Doric temple which dominated the city of Seleuceia. Behind were the scarred, grey-white slopes of Mount Pieria.
'No, over there,' said Maximus.
They were much nearer than Ballista had expected. The blue litter was flanked by the two ex-gladiators still employed as household guards. It was carried by eight porters. Ballista felt a flick of irritation. Possibly Julia was reverting to type — the senator's daughter who could not even walk the few minutes down from the house where they had stayed to the dock.
The porters grounded the litter. A hand pulled back the curtain. Ballista stepped over to give his wife a hand. Julia stumbled slightly as she got out. Steadying her, Ballista was surprised by her weight. It did not trouble him. He had always liked his women rounded. He reached in and lifted out his son. He was not in the least surprised by his weight as he swung him through the air. He was well aware that Isangrim was big for six. Ballista kissed him on the forehead and, with a slight grunt of effort, set him on his feet. Allfather, how many more of these partings? Ballista had asked permission for his family to accompany him to Ephesus. Denying it, Valerian had stated that women and children might be upset witnessing the rigours of a determined persecution.
Ballista still had no more idea why he had been chosen than he had had in the consilium. Julia, well-versed in the ways of the court, had not been able to find out either. Even Cledonius professed himself unsure. No one could fathom the warmth with which Macrianus had urged the appointment. Ballista had begun to mistrust the intimacy between his wife and the ab Admissionibus slightly. As they walked along the dock, he put the thought aside. Julia and Cledonius had a shared background, he was married to one of her many second cousins, and they understood the inner circles of the imperium in a way the big northerner knew that he never would.
They reached the ship. It was time to go. Ballista crouched down by his son and hugged him, burying his face in the blond curls. He breathed in the smell of clean skin and hair, willing himself to remember it. He whispered in the native tongue he had been so insistent Isangrim should learn. 'Be brave. Look after your mother.'
As Ballista went to stand, Isangrim held out a hand. The boy unclenched his small fist. Inside, rather crumpled, were two leaves. 'We can put them in our wallets.' His solemn blue eyes looked up at his father. 'We can look at them to remember.' Not trusting himself to speak, Ballista looked down and busied himself putting his leaf away safe.
Ballista drew Julia to him. He kissed her gently on the lips. This time he spoke in Latin. 'Take care. I will be back as soon as I can.'
She leaned close. 'You take care.' Her lips were close to his ear. 'When you come back you will be a father again.'
Ballista felt the strange lurch that all men feel when told that. 'When?'
Julia smiled. 'Towards the end of the year.'
For a moment Ballista nearly said that he would kill the Christians quickly, but stifled the inappropriate and probably ill-omened words. He looked into her eyes. 'Good. Take care,' he said simply.
It was time to go. He turned and walked aboard the ship, his boots ringing hollowly on the gangplank.
XV
The theatre of Ephesus can be seen from miles out at sea. The Venus came out of the early morning mist and there it was, directly ahead, its marble cladding gleaming white, its geometrical simplicity drawing the eye from the architectural complexity that surrounded it.
It had been an unexceptional and unhurried voyage. As was the preferred way with oared warships, each night they had moored, for the crew to eat and sleep ashore. Only when crossing from mainland Syria to Cyprus, then later from that island to Rhodes, had they been forced to sail in cramped discomfort through the hours of darkness. They had lingered for several days in New Paphos, the provincial capital of Cyprus, and again in the decorous city of Rhodes.
Ballista was in no hurry to reach Ephesus. It was not that he had any grave doubts about the rightness of persecuting Christians. As Valerian had said, they were dangerous atheists, and their continued existence threatened Roman defeat in the coming war with the Sassanids. Ballista himself had found out that the members of the cult were not to be trusted. Yet it was not the same as a military command. To be a vicarius, deputizing for the governor of an unarmed province and chasing civilians, was a different matter entirely — no matter how vile and depraved the civilians, no matter how very deserving of persecution — from being a Dux on a wild frontier, commanding troops and facing a daring enemy in arms.
And there was what Julia had said. No matter how settled, how emotionally and financially capable, how ready one was, it took some getting used to the idea. Ballista wondered if he had the capacity to love another child as he loved Isangrim.
All in all, the northerner had been glad to be on the boat. It was a time out of time. Soothed by the ever repeated, hypnotic rhythms of life on a warship, he felt urgency, even responsibility itself, slip away. He was rather like a boy unexpectedly released from school.
Ballista had given out that their stay on Cyprus was in order to honour the senatorial governor — having taken his hospitality on the voyage east, it would be a terrible snub not to visit him on the return.
At least one member of Ballista's familia was delighted. All his young life Demetrius had wanted to see the ancient shrine of Aphrodite at Old Paphos. Although it was just down the coast from the seat of the Roman governor in the new city, the pressing urgency of their mission to Arete three years earlier — everyone continuously crying, 'No time to lose' — had prevented him up until now.
This time, Demetrius had had a whole day; more than enough time to ride there, study the antiquities, worship the goddess, consult her oracle, and return. Ballista had let himself be persuaded to g
o as well. Actually, the cloak of religion was welcome; the governor, although well meaning, was a crushing bore, much given to lengthy expositions on the genealogy of the Roman elite and the size and location of their land holdings — 'Your wife's family, my dear Vicarius, of course must be kinsmen of the Julii Liciniani, who have such broad estates in Cisalpine Gaul up near the lakes around Sermio.' The governor was far too well mannered to give any hint that he had noticed the barbarian origins of his guest, yet it had been a relief to escape from him.
Ballista and Demetrius had ridden alone, leaving Maximus and the others to their own devices. Cyprus was a quiet province, far from any enemies and with no great reputation for bandits, and it was almost two years since the three assassination attempts many miles away on the mainland at Antioch. Ballista was certain in the knowledge that his would-be killers had been hired by Quietus and Macrianus the Younger but still had no idea why they had not tried again. And, confusing matters further, he did not understand why their father, the powerful Macrianus the Lame had wanted him sent to Ephesus. Certainly he did not like the feeling of being an ordinarius, a pawn, in a game of latrunculi, robbers — moved here and there across the board with no idea of his role in the game.
The Cyprian plain sloping up from the sea to the parched-looking brown foothills was green even in August. The road east had been empty, the only sounds the clop of their horses' hooves and birdsong. 'Where Aphrodite treads,' Demetrius quoted, 'grasses and flowers spring up, doves and sparrows fly around her head.'
When they reached the sanctuary, Demetrius had loved everything about it: the cult object of the black stone fallen from heaven, the open-air altar on which no rain ever fell and where a sacred fire burned for ever, the glitter and antiquity of the many offerings. Demetrius happily paid his money and went to wait for a private oracle. Less keen on gods, even those he had grown up with, Ballista had found some shade and looked at the sun sparkling on the sea a couple of miles away.
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