King of Kings

by Unknown

  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 of 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 fittin
g 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.’

  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.’

  Quietus turned the ring bearing Alexander’s likeness on his finger. ‘I will not fail. The cells will be empty soon enough. I will kill the Christians in droves, and in the most diverting ways. While I triumph here in Ephesus, you must run back to Antioch in disgrace, like a dog with its tail between its legs, dreading the beating you will surely get.’

  Complacently, the young Roman turned in his hands the gilded ivory of his letter of appointment. ‘If I were you, I would run back as fast as you can to Antioch. Now that hot-looking wife of yours has whelped another half-breed barbarian bastard, she looks more than ready for fucking again. I am sure the whore will find any number of men to fill her cunt while you are away. If I were there myself…’

  Forcing himself not to move, anger choking his words, Ballista stared at Quietus – at his weak chin, the pouched eyes, the lascivious mouth. Momentarily, the northerner had a vision – grabbing the voluminous folds of that fucking Roman toga, heaving the venomous little bastard off his feet; one heave and he was over the balustrade, pouched little eyes wide in realization and fear, filthy little mouth open in a despairing scream, arms and legs flailing hopelessly as he scrapped and smashed down the rocky slope and on to the hard, unforgiving stone seats of the theatre.

  Ballista mastered himself. Three angry words are three too many if spoken to a bad man. Lose control now and it would be the end – of him, of his familia, and of the last bold stroke he would pull as he left Ephesus.

  Ballista stepped very close. His voice was very low. ‘One day, not today, maybe not soon, but one day, I will kill you.’

  Involuntarily, Quietus took a step back. Then his fury brought him up sharp. ‘Oh no, you barbarian bastard, one day I will kill you,’ he spat. ‘When my father decides your usefulness is at an end. Then I will kill you. I will not need assassins. I will just order your death.’

  Ballista laughed in his face.

  Quietus’ face flushed with rage. ‘Laugh while you can, you barbarian cunt. Our beloved emperor Valerian is old. He is a fool. He relies on my father. Valerian’s life hangs by a thread. And when that is cut…’

  Ballista laughed again. ‘Valerian has a son. No one would follow a cripple like your father if he seized the throne.’

  Now Quietus laughed. ‘Gallienus is far away on the Rhine. The east will welcome the dawn of a new golden age when my brother and I are invested in the purple.’

  Ballista was shocked. ‘Your father is malevolent, but you are mad. When I tell…’

  ‘Tell who you like,’ Quietus crowed. ‘No one will believe you.’

  A couple of things surprised the telones as he stood in the lamplight outside the customs house on the quay. But it did not show. A customs official of the city of Ephesus, beloved home of great Artemis, had to deploy tact when dealing with the coming and going of the officials of the imperium.

  It was not in the least surprising that the ex-vicarius should sneak away like a thief in the night, and on the very day his successor arrived. He had not done well. Not one incestuous atheist had been burnt for months. Soft-hearted, some said. Barbarians were like women or children, soft-hearted, not fit for man’s work. Others whispered worse things. Conversion. The big barbarian had been seen going into the prisons, talking to the atheists alone. It was all too easy to imagine – there, in the gloom, the Christian preachers whispering their seductive, empty platitudes into the witless, childlike ears of a barbarian. Was it not always the children and the women they preyed on first? Whatever, the ex-vicarius had not done well. He had not even managed to punish anyone for that disgraceful riot in the stadium, and that breaking out at the Saturnalia too.

  No, what the telones found worthy of comment lay in two other, lesser areas. He had a prosaic mind, filled as it was day to day with bills of landing and counting amphorae. This ship, the aptly named Tyche, The Fortune. It must have cost an emperor’s ransom to hire the big 400-tonner. She was enormous. Gods below, when she had come in laden with grain from Egypt, there had barely been enough water under her keel at the jetty. Why squander money when the ex-vicarius could have travelled overland for free with the cursus publicus? Still, there was no explaining the whims of rich barbarians, or high Roman officials either, come to that.

  And then there was the staff. The telones had been on duty that day last year when the ex-vicarius had arrived. Seventeenth day of August it had been, the festival of the Portunalia. And a serious nuisance too, him turning up on the day of the dock-hands’ traditional holiday. The telones had a good memory, it was vital in his line of work. Not like most of the young men these days, hardly remember their own names, buggered if they were going to work on the Portunalia. But he had been there that night, keeping the drunks away from the official reception, standing at a respectful distance, listening to what he could hear of the speeches. Flavius Damianus, now there was a proper eupatrid: loved his Polis, openhanded, honoured the gods, could make a fine speech, maybe not as fluent as they said his ancestor the great sophist had been, but he had been on form that night, the high Attic pouring out of him like wine from a jug. The telones remembered it like yesterday. And what had struck him was that the big barbarian travelled light, no more than fifteen, twenty at most staff and familia line
d up behind him. But watching them go on board just now, hoods up, muffled against the chill of a spring evening, there must have been at least twice as many. It was odd, since rumour had it that, in the seven months he had been in Ephesus, the ex-vicarius had not bought so much as one bum boy.

  The telones watched as the Tyche slipped her mooring. He had said nothing when the ex-vicarius had come to hand over the customary tip, just wished him a safe voyage. Only a fool got mixed up in the doings of those connected to the imperial court. This Ballista might be under a cloud now, but who could tell what the future held? Like Ixion bound to his wheel, one moment these people were down in the depths of disgrace, the next they were carried aloft on the emperors’ favour. If you thought about it, the whole story of Ixion was a warning not to stick your prick where it was not wanted. Ixion had been eating at the table of the king of the gods himself, then he tried to fuck Zeus’ wife and, before he knew it, he was spending eternity bound to a fiery wheel. No, the telones had not said anything then, and he was not going to in the future.

  It was a fine night: a bite to the air, a myriad stars wheeling overhead. Ballista watched as Maximus made his way to the stern of the Tyche. In the near dark, the tip of the Hibernian’s bitten-off nose was strangely white against the deep tan of his face. They stood together in silence for a time, looking at the famous fifty lamps of Ephesus that lit the road up from the docks to the theatre slip away astern.

  ‘The gaoler?’ Ballista asked.