King of Kings

by Unknown

  After what seemed an age, Cledonius reappeared. This time the ab Admissionibus went to the chair where the other equestrian sat. In a few moments the purple curtains closed behind them, too, and Ballista and the two remaining senators were left in the cloying near-darkness. Although both the other men were silent, their faces expressionless, Ballista could sense their annoyance. An image came into his mind of senators long ago waiting on the Italian mainland opposite Capri, forced to petition the sinister equestrian praetorian prefect Sejanus for permission to cross over to the island to see the emperor Tiberius. The rule of the emperors was difficult for senators. For centuries, while Rome was a Republic, they had been the masters. When the first emperor Augustus had reintroduced monarchy, things had changed. In the new order, the ‘restored’ Republic, the senators remained the highest social class, but now they had a master. Power now came with access to the emperor, and the emperor could call anyone he wished to his side. It was no longer to do just with the social hierarchy. Nowadays, senators sat in the gloom of the imperial vestibule and watched their social inferiors being admitted before themselves. Cledonius’ face was now peering down at Ballista. Lost in his own thoughts, the notherner had not noticed him come back into the room. Cledonius was leaning close, softly saying something. Ballista did not hear the words. It did not matter, their meaning was plain – come with me. He scrutinized the other’s face, trying to read it in the gloom. It was hopeless. The best-trained physiognomist in the empire would have learnt nothing. The ab Admissionibus presented the same inscrutable face to a man he was ushering in for the emperor to shower with gold and one he was leading to his death. As he stood up, Ballista wondered about the secret passages that must run from the imperial audience hall, down which the condemned would be manhandled. He stopped himself. It was always best not to think about what might happen down in the cellars of an imperial palace.

  Cledonius turned away, expecting Ballista to follow. He did not instantly do so. Instead he put his commission down on his chair and used both hands to smooth out the voluminous folds of his toga. Picking up the codicil, he noticed the smear of his sweaty hands on the ivory and gold. Not quite as brave as you hoped, he thought to himself. He did not look at the two seated senators as he followed Cledonius across the vestibule. There was no need, he could feel their animosity pressing hard on his back: not just an equestrian, but a barbarian to boot.

  Beyond the double hangings of heavy royal purple, the imperial audience chamber looked just as it had over a year earlier. Light blazed through the windows of the great apse. There was the emperor on his elevated throne, golden radiate crown glinting. Behind his left shoulder were the bank of secretaries, behind his right Successianus the Praetorian Prefect. At the foot of the steps, the sacred fire burned on its low altar. There were just four togate figures primly seated near the fire: a small, intimate consilium.

  The ritual played out as all the times before: the long walk down the silent room, the introduction by the ab Admissionibus, Ballista’s face close to the cool marble floor for the proskynesis, the hand with the heavy ring held out to be kissed, the taste of the jewel and metal, the cold, formal words of welcome from the gods’ vice-regent on earth.

  Ballista stood just by the sacred flame. Covertly, he checked the seated members of the consilium. There were the Comes Largitionum Macrianus the Lame and the Princeps Peregrinorum Censorinus, one in charge of imperial finances, the other the spymaster controlling the frumentarii. Both were sinister in their different ways. The other two were senators unknown to Ballista. While he recognized one of these senators from having been seated outside, there was no sign of the equestrian Cledonius had shown in.

  At length, the prominent chin of the emperor lowered. He looked full at Ballista. The corners of the imperial mouth were up-turned, but Valerian was not smiling.

  ‘Marcus Clodius Ballista, last year, five days before the ides of March, you received a written imperial order signed by me and addressed specifically to you, which ordered you to oversee that every soldier in the army you then commanded as Dux Ripae was to make sacrifice to the natural gods. You were ordered to implement this immediately on receipt of the order.’

  ‘Yes, Dominus.’

  ‘You did not see fit to administer this oath until the kalends of April, twenty-two days later.’ Valerian paused as one of the senators began to cough. When the man did not stop, Valerian started to speak again, louder than before. ‘During that interval there were…’ he consulted a document ‘… some twenty soldiers who left the standards without permission. One of these deserters came into the hands of the frumentarii. After some… persuasion’ – the emperor nodded benignly at Censorinus – ‘this deserter confessed that the reason for his flight was that he was a Christian. Quite possibly the same reason motivated the others. Your dilatoriness allowed these enemies of the gods and man to escape.’

  ‘Dominus, we were fighting for our lives then. It may be that these men ran to try to seek safety.’

  ‘Are you a Christian?’ The question was sharp and unexpected.

  ‘No, Dominus.’

  ‘Are you sympathetic towards Christians?’

  ‘No, Dominus.’

  ‘What do you know about this deadly superstition?’

  ‘Very little, Dominus. What I can remember reading in Tacitus and the younger Pliny. Like the latter, I have never been present at the trial of one. All I know is that they lost your sacred majesty Arete, and your army many good men.’

  Valerian paused. Ballista thought he saw the emperor’s eyes flick towards Censorinus. The Princeps Peregrinorum did not respond. The senator’s coughing had subsided. It was very quiet in the audience chamber.

  A new voice spoke. ‘Dominus, if I may?’ It was Macrianus. He rose carefully to his feet, favouring his lame leg. ‘Dux Ripae, what are your feelings towards this cult?’

  ‘I think they are fools and traitors,’ Ballista replied.

  ‘Because some of them betrayed the city of Arete?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you think about persecuting them?’

  ‘It is a thoroughly good idea.’

  ‘Would you be happy to persecute them yourself?’

  ‘Delighted.’ As Ballista spoke, Macrianus smiled a big smile and cumbrously sat down.

  The emperor spoke. ‘Your words please the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae, and they please our sacred majesty.’ Valerian paused to allow time for Ballista to duck his head in acknowledgement of the imperial favour.

  ‘This degraded and disgusting superstition, which preys on the weak and the ignorant – women, children, slaves and the feebleminded – has spread like a plague through the imperium. And the reason, I am sad to say, has been the complacency and inertia of the emperors. Time and again, our loyal subjects have risen up and demanded the sacrilegious Christians be thrown to the beasts. Some have been, but not enough, not nearly enough. Persecution has been local and sporadic. Only our predecessor, the emperor Decius, attempted to stamp out these scum empire-wide. His untimely death, the death of a hero, sword in hand against the Goths at Abrittus, brought an end to his commendable initiative.’

  Valerian sat brooding for some moments.

  ‘Our edict of last year has been widely ignored or flouted. This cannot continue. Our patience is at an end.’ The heavy face turned to survey the whole room. ‘We have drafted a new edict. It will be imposed across all the imperium, both here in the east, and in the west, where my son Gallienus commands. It will have the full weight of the law and the swords of the army behind it. There are three areas especially where we are led to believe these evil-doers swarm like flies: Africa, Hispania, and the Provincia of Asia.

  ‘That is why I am sending Galerius Maximus’ – he pointed at the senator whom Ballista had seen outside, the one who had had the terrible coughing fit, ‘to govern Africa Proconsularis.’ Again, the imperial finger pointed, ‘Aemilianus here will go to Hispania Citerior.

  ‘Th
e case is different in the Provincia of Asia. There, the pro-consular governor, Nicomachus Julianus, already has much on his hands. Any day, the barbarians from the Black Sea – the Goths, the Borani, the Heruli, whatever the Scythians call themselves now – may strike again from the water. I have issued mandata ordering the governor to make it his especial duty to see to the safety of his province, to see to the defences of the coast, the islands, and the cities.’ Again the imperial hand pointed. ‘Which is why I am appointing you, Marcus Clodius Ballista, his deputy. Your brief is to travel to the provincial capital Ephesus and see to the rigorous – the most rigorous – persecution of the Christians. Of course it is an exceptional honour for an equestrian to act as vicarius to a pro-consular governor, let alone that of the Provincia of Asia.’ There was a carefully judged pause, just the right length to give Ballista time to bow his head in thanks.

  ‘Let no one think that this is a matter of anything other than the greatest importance. The rapacious barbarians who surround us – Sassanids to the east, Moors and Blemmyes to the south, Goths, Sarmatians, Alamanni, Vandals, Franks, Saxons in the north – only pose a threat because of these sacrilegious Christians.’ The imperial chin lifted, Valerian’s voice rang out in fine oratorical style.

  ‘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, Cen
sorinus’ 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 Ephesus. 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.