by Unknown
After his mount had had a drink – not too much – Ballista put the bucket back where he had found it. He had been there a long time now, and no one had come. He reached out and touched the earth crust of the stack. It was hot, crumbly and dry under his palm – far too dry. He walked around the stack. There was a circular depression about a foot across in its side. Inside, some of the charcoal must have slumped down, taking its covering of the earth crust with it. So far, the cave-in was still black, but invisible cracks must have opened, for the smoke issuing from the nearest vent was no longer white but blue. The air had got into the stack and, inside, the wood was burning.
A man walked into the clearing. He was carrying an axe slightly awkwardly over his shoulder. ‘Welcome to my home, Kyrios,’ he said. His tunic had a damp stain on the front but, otherwise, was clean. His hands were also clean. On the back of the right one was a jagged scar.
‘Good day, woodsman, how are things?’ Ballista asked politely. The man looked round the terrace, he studied the stack, and said that, the gods be thanked, things could be worse. Ballista said that he had some wine – would the charcoal burner care to share some? The man said he would.
Ballista turned away. He paused for a moment then turned back. The broad blade of the axe glittered wickedly as it arced through the air. It was coming down vertically, straight at the northerner’s head. Ballista hurled himself backwards, losing his balance. The heavy axe hummed just past him and embedded itself in the hard-packed soil. Ballista landed on his arse. His boots skidding wildly on the loose topsoil, he scrabbled backwards to his feet. As he tugged his sword from its scabbard, the other retrieved his axe from the ground.
‘The young eupatrid sends you this.’ The man laughed. He swung the axe horizontally, low, at ankle level. Ballista leapt back. He felt the wind of the heavy blade’s passing.
Now, while his opponent was off balance momentarily, was Ballista’s chance. He lunged forward, weight coming down through his bent right knee, left leg straight behind him, blade flashing out towards his enemy’s guts. Now it was the axeman’s turn to scramble backwards.
The initial flurry over, the two circled each other, knees slightly bent, moving on the balls of their feet. Ballista’s eyes never left his assailant’s blade. The northerner had the hilt of his own weapon in a two-handed grip, the long, shimmering line of the blade pointing up at the man’s throat. Ballista’s eyes never left the blade of the axe. They moved slowly, intent on their work. The laughter had died out of the man.
Ballista stamped his right foot, as if advancing. The man flinched. Stepping forward on his left foot, Ballista made a one-handed cut from left to right to the head. As the axe came up to block, Ballista pulled the blow, let his arm swing through and out to the right, then chopped diagonally back in, down towards the man’s left thigh. Just in time, the man shifted his grip, sliding his right hand along the haft, and got the axe down in the way. Ballista’s blade bit a chunk of wood out of the handle between where the man’s hands now clasped it, at the base and below the head.
Without warning, the man rammed the blunt top of the axehead into Ballista’s shoulder as if it were a spear. The northerner staggered back. The axeman followed, gripping his weapon by the base, raising it over his head to strike. Still off balance, Ballista twisted his body and thrust wildly. The very tip of his blade caught the man’s right shoulder. The man howled and took a couple of paces back.
They resumed their cautious circling. Though the wound could not be deep, blood was seeping down the axeman’s tunic.
Ballista was taken completely by surprise when the man suddenly threw the axe. Stumbling back, he awkwardly fended the heavy thing away from his face, the handle catching him a painful blow on the forearm.
The man was running now. He had gained a few paces’ headstart. Ballista set off after him. The man was unencumbered by a sword and fear lent wings to his feet. Already, as they plunged into a path from the clearing, he was drawing away. They ran on. Branches whipped at their faces. The man disappeared around a bend. The path here was very overgrown. Ballista could not remember if the man had been wearing a blade on his belt. The northerner skidded to a halt. Cautiously, ready for ambush, he edged round the bend. The path stretched away into the distance. The man was nowhere in sight. Blade at the ready, Ballista turned slowly, scanning the trees. Birds sang. Then, from above, came the sound of a horse’s hooves. Ballista caught a glimpse of the man’s tunic through the foliage. Then he was gone. The drumming of the hooves was receding.
Ballista turned back and found the charcoal burner. He was just off the path. Neatly chopped staves of wood were scattered all around him. He lay on his back, his tunic deeply stained, his sightless eyes to the sky, his blackened hands clutching a ghastly wound to his neck. Ballista cleaned and sheathed his sword. He was out of breath. He leant forward, hands on knees, panting. The sweat was cooling on his back. Someone had just tried to kill him. Who? ‘The young eupatrid sends you this.’ What young nobleman would pay to see him dead? Ballista stood up, went over and closed the charcoal burner’s eyes. He put a small coin in the man’s mouth to pay the ferryman.
VI
Ballista walked between the marble columns that flanked the door of his house. It was late. He was tired. It had been a long, long day. He glanced down at the grotesque mosaic of the improbably endowed hunchback. Possibly it had done its job, had averted the evil eye. The axeman in the charcoal burner’s clearing had failed. Ballista was still alive. It had only been that morning, but it seemed half a lifetime away.
Coming into the courtyard, he paused beside the pool. Its waters were green in the lamplight. With his left hand, Ballista scooped up some water and bathed his eyes. His right shoulder hurt like hell. Blinking the water out of his eyes, he went on into the house.
Julia was waiting for him. Her face, mask-like, gave nothing away as she spoke the formal words of welcome then told her maid to get the dominus a drink and prepare him a bath and food. She stood very straight and still as her maid served the drink. She did not speak again until the servant had left the room.
‘It is very late.’ Her voice was tight, angry.
‘I thought I should report the attempt to Censorinus and the frumentarii straight away. Otherwise it might look suspicious, as if I had something to hide, as if I were fighting a private war or something. Then Censorinus suggested I go on to the headquarters of the Epimeletai ton Phylon in the agora. The earlier the local police came to hear of it, the more chance of them catching him.’ Ballista stemmed his defensive flow of words. ‘I asked Aurelian to tell you I was all right.’
‘Oh yes,’ Julia snapped. ‘Your friend turned up eventually. Some time after lunch. He was so drunk it was a miracle he did not fall off his horse and kill himself. The Danubian peasant said your shoulder was wounded.’
‘It’s nothing, just bruised.’ It always irritated Ballista that she did not like his friend, let alone that she despised his origins.
‘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.