King of Kings wor-2

by Harry Sidebottom

  They ate lunch. Then Ballista and Corvus watched the huntsmen remove the tusks, skin the beast and butcher the meat. Time was passing, and they had set off back. That was when they came across the old man.

  Petitioners were the bane of anyone with power in the imperium. They cropped up wherever you went. You were expected to give them a hearing. There was a story that the emperor Hadrian had been out riding one day when an old woman approached him with a petition. Hadrian said he was too busy. She called out after him, 'Then stop being emperor.' Dutifully, he turned back and gave her a hearing. Ballista preferred the story of Mark Antony. Bothered by several petitioners under similar circumstances, he turned and held out the folds of his toga to catch their petitions. Then he walked to the nearest bridge and threw them all in the river.

  Indicating for the huntsmen to carry on, Ballista and Corvus reined in. The old man got stiffly to his feet. From under his broad-brimmed hat, he mumbled in up-country Greek that he wished to speak to the kyrios alone. Both Ballista and Corvus looked all around, scanning the hillside. When they were sure the old man was alone, the eirenarch walked his horse on.

  The aged petitioner did not speak immediately. He waited until Corvus was well out of earshot. Then he tipped back his hat. He was not nearly as old as Ballista had thought; he was actually quite a young man. He smiled and spoke quietly in good Latin. 'Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista. My dominus the ab Admissionibus Cledonius sends his greetings. He requests that if you must write to him about political matters, you do so only in the most oblique way and that, in future, you only send a letter by the most reliable of carriers. Macrianus has spies everywhere. If they do not intercept the letter, Censorinus' frumentarii probably will. There are fears that the Comes Largitionum and the Princeps Peregrinorum are drawing ever closer. My dominus regrets that he thinks it would be unwise to talk to the emperor about transferring you to the eastern front and that it would be tantamount to suicide to try to denounce Macrianus. He begs that you try nothing of the sort. Valerian comes to trust and rely more and more on the lame one.'

  The man stopped. He looked along the road to where Corvus sat on his horse, waiting. 'Here, you had better take this.' He handed over the papyrus roll and turned to go. Ballista untied and unrolled it. It was blank. He looked after the man. The hillside was bare; the messenger had vanished. Ballista studied the slope carefully. There the man was, moving inconspicuously up a narrow gully. He was good at fieldcraft. But not that good. Alone in his room in the palace, the North African scribe began to write. To Lucius Calpurnius Piso Censorinus, Princeps Peregrinorum, Commander of the Frumentarii. Written at Ephesus, ten days before the ides of March, the anniversary of the accession of the divine emperors Marcus Antoninus and Lucius Verus, in the Consulship of Aemilianus and Bassus. Dominus, I write to inform you of the lamentable state of affairs in Ephesus.

  With regard to the schemes of Macrianus, rumours abound. But it is true that still no hard evidence has emerged.

  As for Marcus Clodius Ballista himself, I have informed you how at first he applied himself diligently to the apprehension and trial of the atheists, and how at the original executions he even went so far as to seize a bow from one of his guards and shoot three of the criminals dead with his own hand. Happily, this despicable demagoguery failed to bring him the popular acclaim he sought.

  Ballista ordered another round of executions to be held at the munera which marked the opening day of the Saturnalia. Organized by the vicarius himself, from the outset it was the poorest of spectacles. In the morning there were few beasts, next to none exotic. At lunchtime, only three Christians had been killed, in the most uninventive ways, when an atheist of equestrian rank called Aulus Valerius Festus was brought into the arena. The crowd democratically clamoured for this arch-criminal to suffer exemplary punishment. The answer Ballista gave via a herald was so haughty as to befit an emperor. When the first stones flew, he was at a loss, not knowing what to do. When a riot erupted, he fled the stadium, his face twitching with terror. The latter I can swear to; I was standing behind him and I saw him clearly as he passed. Back in the palace, sunk in a barbarian stupor, it was two hours before he ordered in the troops. By then the majority of the rioters had dispersed. Those that remained easily avoided the auxiliary archers, except for a handful too drunk to run. None of the ringleaders was apprehended.

  The next day, the vicarius posted an edict suspending the execution of Christians as a threat to public order. At the same time he sent reports to the emperor and to the Governor of Asia justifying this measure. Since then, he has discouraged any attempts to seek out more members of this revolting sect. He has postponed the trial of those already in custody. The persecution has come to a halt.

  There is no obvious explanation for the change in the attitude of Ballista. It goes without saying that northern barbarians are incapable of any consistency. One moment buoyed up with false pride and confidence, they think they can take on the world. The next they are sunk in the deepest despair and will attempt nothing.

  It is noteworthy that Ballista now shuns the zealous Flavius Damianus, instead heeding the dilatory local police chief, the eirenarch Corvus. There is a story that the latter was censured by the then governor some years ago for letting seven well-known young Christian men of Ephesus disappear as if the earth had swallowed them alive during the glorious persecution under the divine emperor Decius.

  It is on record that Ballista entered the prison just off the civic agora only accompanied by two of his slaves, and there he talked most amicably with some of the Christian prisoners. What they said is not known.

  For the last two months, Ballista has largely withdrawn from the sight of the public. He ventures out of the palace only to hunt — animals rather than atheists — or, in the fashion of Nero, he goes down to the docks dressed as a labourer to drink with common men in low bars, with only his bodyguard Maximus for company. Men of quality are seldom invited to his table, and likewise it is most infrequent that he dines in the houses of the well born.

  It is my sad duty to report that Ballista is neglecting, indeed has failed in the sacred mission entrusted to him by our most noble emperor Valerian. Dominus, if I may be so bold as to make a recommendation? Ballista must be removed from the office of vicarius.

  Dominus, you write that over the years my reports on Marcus Clodius Ballista have blown hot and cold — I can only repeat rather than try to rival the appositeness of your allusion to the divine poetry of Homer: indeed, sometimes I have praised him as the blind poet did Diomedes and sometimes execrated him as Thersites was in the Iliad. In answer I would remind you of what I said when you were gracious enough to grant me an interview in Antioch before this mission. Consistency must take second place to truthfulness. My loyalty to you and to the emperors means that I must always seek to inform you correctly, even if at times I appear to change my song. As the ink dried, the frumentarius known as Hannibal read the letter over. Unthinkingly, he rubbed his ribcage, where the rock had hit him during the riot. It might be he had again slightly overdone the northern barbarian references but, overall, he was happy with it. Suggesting a course of action was a risk. Frumentarii were merely meant to report. But Censorinus was said to be a man who rewarded initiative. Had not the Princeps Peregrinorum himself once been a humble frumentarius? The right words at the right moment could lift a man high.

  The North African signed the report. He reached for his seal: MILES ARCANUS. He would post this report most urgent. It should travel along the cursus publicus at over a hundred miles a day, twice the normal speed. Marcus Clodius Ballista's time as the Vicarius of the Governor of Asia was numbered.

  XXII

  I keep my vows, thought Ballista. He had kept the vows he had made outside that filthy prison.

  He had done the best he could for the Christian woman. Her property, of course, had been confiscated, so Ballista had arranged for she and her son to live on a small, out-of-the-way estate owned by her estranged husband on the island o
f Samos. Her pagan husband had not been keen on the arrangement — he had wanted his son removed from the atheist influence of the mother — but Ballista had persuaded him: a very young boy needed his mother, and the enmity of a man such as Ballista was not to be entered into lightly.

  And the bigger vow — he had kept that too. Maximus and Calgacus had organized the riot to perfection. There were no loose ends. The toughs that Maximus had hired to play the entourage to his Saturnalian king were long gone back to Isauria. The head of the theatre factio had no idea that the ugly old man who had paid him so much money was in the familia of Ballista. The riot and the threat to public order had provided the excuse needed to suspend the execution of Christians. Corvus had not been part of the plot, but he had needed no persuasion that his Men of the Watch would be better employed guarding against the increasing threat of northern pirates such as the Borani.

  Ballista had kept his vows, but it had come at a price. For nearly four months, Ballista had felt like a prisoner himself. Every time he stepped out of the palace he had been assailed by demands from the pagan populace to bring out the Christians — 'Throw them to the lion!', 'Nail the atheists up!', 'Burn them!' Ballista could have ignored that but, on one of his first trips out after posting up the edict suspending the executions, something else had happened. The northerner had been walking down to the Harbour Gymnasium when three more wild-eyed young men had rushed at him. As one, they had yelled, 'I am a Christian and I want to die.' He had had no choice but to arrest them. Now they were languishing in the most unsalubrious gaol near the stadium. Since then, apart from the occasional unavoidable official duty, he had only ventured out of the palace to go hunting up-country with Corvus or, heavily disguised, to go drinking in waterfront bars with Maximus.

  Ballista had kept his vows, had put himself and his friends at terrible risk, but for what? What good would it do in the long run? It did not change anything. If anything, his successor would be all the keener to press the persecution with the utmost cruelty. Still, a man has to have a code to live by. And Ballista was not quite finished in Ephesus yet.

  He was standing in the shade on the terrace of the palace of the proconsul. The view which usually made his soul sing — the mountains, the sea, the river and the plain, and the mountains again — was completely ignored. Far, far below him was a ship. It looked smaller than one of Isangrim's toys. It was blue. The distance was much too great to make out the figurehead, but he knew it was the imperial trireme the Providentia. For five days, since the message had been delivered overland by the cursus publicus, he had been waiting for it and the man it carried. At sunrise, he had watched the morning sea breeze waft it into the port of Ephesus.

  At moments like this, Ballista thought that his whole life, all thirty-seven winters of it, could be measured by moments waiting to meet someone he did not want to meet: time running too fast in the hall of his father, waiting for the Roman centurion who would escort him as a hostage into the imperium; time dragging, Ballista desperate for it to be over, in the camp before Aquileia, before the fatal interview with the emperor Maximinus Thrax; the hurried moments that preceded him being dragged before the man who would have been High King of Hibernia…

  'A creaking bow, a yawning wolf, a croaking raven' — the words of Calgacus broke into Ballista's recollections — 'the tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake, a bride's pillow talk.'

  'My thoughts entirely,' Ballista said dryly.

  The old Caledonian gave him a sharp glance. 'You know what I mean. Do not be a fool.'

  'I know what you mean.' Ballista smiled. 'A sword with a hairline, a playful bear, the sons of kings — I have not forgotten the words of the Allfather, the things that should not be trusted. Woden knows, as a child I had to listen to you recite them often enough.'

  Calgacus leaned on the balustrade next to him. 'More fucking use than that Latin your father had you learn.'

  'Maybe.'

  'Are you sure you want to do this last thing?'

  Ballista nodded.

  'It makes the riot look like child's play. If we are caught, it is a maiestas trial for us. The family and friends of a convicted traitor suffer too.'

  'When I was a child, you taught me a man must have a code to live by,' said Ballista.

  'You have heart, boy, I will always give you that.'

  'Then you taught me well.'

  'Oh aye. You are as stubborn as your father. Anyway, Demetrius has paid off your official staff.' Calgacus smiled. 'He seemed upset to be parted from that North African, Hannibal, the one he is always talking to about the gods. Anyway, all the staff stay here in the palace. They do not know a thing. If it all works out, the others will meet us tonight at the fountain opposite the entrance to the Harbour Baths.'

  'Good,' said Ballista. 'Is the man here yet?'

  'Aye. Now, remember: say nothing, or as little as you can. "Three angry words are three too many if spoken to a bad man." ' Calgacus continued quietly, 'Whatever he says, keep your temper — no matter what he says. Do that and it will be fine.'

  'Where is he?'

  'I left him to wait a little outside.' Calgacus straightened up. 'Ready?'

  'Ready.'

  'As I said, Keep your temper and it will be fine.' Calgacus left.

  The easy, confident step of Quietus paradoxically reminded Ballista of the lameness of the young man's father, Macrianus the elder: the sinister click of the walking stick, the drag of the withered leg, the firm step of the sound one, click, drag, step. Quietus halted about five paces from Ballista. Belatedly, Quietus' entourage scurried out and took up station behind him. In the front rank, Flavius Damianus did not try to hide his delight. The faces of both the eirenarch Corvus and Gaius Valerius Festus, the brother of the Christian prisoner Aulus, were inscrutable.

  Quietus half turned to assure himself that his audience was in place. Then he turned back to Ballista.

  'A sword with a hairline, a playful bear, the sons of kings' — things not to trust, thought Ballista.

  'Marcus Clodius Ballista, it is with the utmost sadness that I have to inform you that your term as Vicarius to the Proconsul of Asia is over.' From a fold in his elegant toga, Quietus produced a purple, sealed document. 'I have here your orders to return without delay to the imperial palace at Antioch. His sacred majesty Valerian wishes to speak to you.' There was a significant pause. 'No doubt he wishes personally to see that you receive your just recompense for the way you carried out his instructions to purge Ephesus of the atheists.'

  'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' Ballista intoned the ritual words without emphasis.

  Quietus smiled and produced another document. He flourished it above his head. The ivory and gold case caught in a shaft of spring sunshine. 'Our sacred emperors Valerian and Gallienus and the noble Caesar Saloninus have seen fit to honour me with the post of Vicarius. It is with humility and some trepidation that now I take the burden from your shoulders.' Everything about Quietus belied his words.

  'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,' Ballista repeated.

  Again turning to his entourage, Quietus spoke with what he imagined was patrician amiability. 'My friends, it is fitting that Marcus Clodius Ballista and I speak alone, if you allow.' There was an almost unseemly rush to clear the terrace. In moments, only Calgacus remained, standing by the door. A minute nod from Ballista, and the Caledonian followed the others.

  Quietus stepped over to Ballista, next to the balustrade. He looked down the steep slope to the theatre, savouring the moment. Then he swung round, bringing his face very close to Ballista's. He spoke fast and angrily. 'You arrogant barbarian piece of shit. Did you really think something like you could attack me, insult my father, in the courtyard of the imperial palace? Demean the dignitas of our family in front of a hundred witnesses? Did you think we might forget or forgive? To a true Roman, dignitas is more than life itself. We always attain ultio, revenge. It is our birthright.'

&n
bsp; When Ballista said nothing, Quietus turned, this time letting his gaze roam over the city of Ephesus spread out below them, the city over which he now had power of life and death. Ballista watched him. With one finger, Quietus smoothed his hair. A ring bearing an image of Alexander the Great flashed.

  Not deigning to look at the northerner, Quietus continued in a calmer voice. 'My father was annoyed when he discovered I had hired that assassin in Antioch. He said you would be more use to us alive than dead.' He smirked. 'I admit that when my father first told me how he intended to use you in Ephesus, I thought that, for once, he might be mistaken. If there is one thing you northern barbarians are said to be good at, it is massacring women and children, those who cannot resist. I thought you might do well persecuting the Christian scum.' He smiled; a self-satisfied smile. 'But my father is a deep thinker. He knew you had delayed implementing the oath to your army before Circesium so that the Christians in the ranks could escape. He had you followed in Antioch. You were seen in the Street of the Jawbone listening to their weak and treasonous drivel of "Thou shalt not kill." '

  Quietus laughed. 'You see, my father realized that, while your sort can kill in hot blood, in the irrational fury of the moment, you could never understand the cold, slow process of true Roman severitas. No matter that you dress in a toga, learn Latin, marry a Roman wife, no matter what civilized titles you are given, you will never be a Roman. You will always remain what you were — an ignorant herdsman from the forests of barbaricum; a northern barbarian weakened by an irrational sentimentality.'

  Leaning back against the balustrade, Quietus again looked into Ballista's eyes. 'My father was right. You did not have the stomach for persecution, you lacked the disciplina. Despite doing all you could to hinder the investigations of that useful fool Flavius Damianus, the prisons are full of Christians. Yet you could not bring yourself to kill them. My father sent you here to fail, and you have. Your failure opened the way for my appointment.'