The siege had continued into the winter. Gallienus had sent two more of his protectores, the famed siege engineers Bonitus and Celer. It had not appreciably hastened things. Byzantium was rich, well supplied. It occupied a very strong position. It was surrounded by the sea on three sides; the Bosphorus, fast-flowing, to the east. There was high ground for its acropolis. To the west, its land walls were substantial, watched over by tall towers, well equipped with torsion artillery.
The wealth of Byzantium and the strength of its position had long fed the contumacy of the city. Two generations earlier, the polis had defied the emperor Septimius Severus and the might of the whole empire for three years. It looked fit to do the same again. The siege had dragged into the spring. The birds had long since picked the skulls of the Macriani clean.
Gallienus himself had broken the deadlock. He had arrived suddenly from the west, accompanied only by the cavalry of the guard. After a herald had arranged a truce, he had ridden alone up to the Thracian Gates. He had not offered terms, but had sworn he would prove more merciful than had Septimius Severus.
The latter emperor had ordered many killed, sections of the walls and most public buildings razed, and had reduced Byzantium to the legal status of a village ruled by its neighbour and rival polis of Perinthus. After a brief debate, to try to avoid such things happening again, the Boule had recommended that the people throw themselves on the clementia of Gallienus. Now, getting to their feet after performing adoration, sweating as the early-afternoon sun beat down in the hippodrome, the councillors were more than anxious about whether they had made a good decision.
‘Those two in the middle,’ Achilleus, the a Memoria, whispered to his emperor, ‘the ones standing a pace in front of the others.’
Gallienus regarded the men. Both were tall, with full but neat beards and heads of hair. They were clad in Hellenic himation and tunic, right arms decorously wrapped in the cloaks. They clung to their self-control for dear life: only their eyes – ever moving, circling – betrayed them.
In the morning, the consilium had expressed the view that Byzantium was too venerable and too important, both as a crossing point between Europe and Asia and as a bulwark against the barbarians from the Black Sea, to be destroyed. A swingeing fine and the execution of the ringleaders should suffice. These two men, Cleodamus and Athenaeus, had led the defence. They should die. The deaths of these two rich, honourable and potent men would cow the others. Their estates would enrich the imperial fiscus.
Gallienus looked at them steadily. One word, and they were dead. He felt the intoxicating rush of power. One word, and all the members of the Boule were dead; one word, and life was ended for any he chose of his own comites. Such god-like power was dangerous. Of course, every slave owner had the power of life and death. But that was over instruments with voices, of little more significance than drowning a cat. These were free men. His was the power of an Olympian. It was not to be used without consideration. Even Hercules, Gallienus’s particular divine companion, had often been too hasty. The sack of sacred Delphi, the killing of his guest Iphitus: in both, Hercules had been too hasty. Gallienus would learn from the errors of his immortal friend: nothing hasty, nothing ill judged.
Shifting his attention beyond Cleodamus and Athenaeus, Gallienus considered the other councillors. All were rich and honourable, but lacking the drive and initiative to head the defence of their own city; followers not leaders. When the bad times came, as they would when the tribes from the north attacked again, who would be more use?
‘From that bald head, to that one over there.’ Gallienus’s pointing finger swept along about twenty of the main line of councillors. ‘Kill them all. They are guilty of maiestas, their entire estates are confiscated. Proceed with the executions.’
Soldiers herded the condemned men out from the spared. Some begged, some cried, a few went with dignity. One by one, they were forced to their knees. Steel shone bright in the sun. The sickening sounds of the blows; the blood spraying very red in the air then, dulled, draining into the soiled sand.
There had been no reaction from the comites behind the emperor. They knew as well as Gallienus that while an emperor was expected to listen to the views of his consilium, he was in no way bound to follow them. The will of the emperor was law; arbitrary and untrammelled. It always had been thus, and so it would be for ever.
IV
The soft, blue sweetness of a Mediterranean spring night hid a multitude of things. Ballista stood on the terrace of the governor’s palace, high on the slope of the central mount of Ephesus. Darkness had not long fallen. The offshore breeze hissed through the ornamental shrubs and the scrub of the hillside; the gubernatorial and the unclaimed – the wind made no differentiation.
He looked out. To the left, lights shone from the residential district that climbed the opposite slope. Above them, the mountain loomed dark blue, the sky eggshell blue above that. In front of him and below, past the pale semicircle of the theatre, the famous fifty lanterns illuminating the street that ran arrow-straight to the port. There were lights down by the water, too, not enough to mask the silver-black harbour. Beyond, in the Aegean, the lamps of the fishing boats drifted out on the offshore breeze. Off to the right, more lights: in the open spaces of the exercise ground, the Harbour Baths and the Olympeion; more outside the city itself, out on the plain of the Caystros river.
In the gloaming, if you did not know what had happened, it all looked good. But Ballista did know, and it was all far from good. There were too few lights in the residential district and the port; too few lights out to sea. The lights off to the right, in the grounds of the Harbour Baths and the other places, were the campfires of the homeless. The flaring street lanterns were little more than civic bravado.
It was eight days since the earthquake. There had been no tidal wave. But there had been four big aftershocks. Among the many rescuers and looters scrabbling among the ruins, many more had died. As ever, it was not the earthquake that had killed but the buildings. More fires had broken out as homeowners raked through the debris, desperately searching for their loved ones or possessions.
Yet everything that could be done had been done. The governor of Asia, Maximillianus, had put the two hundred and fifty auxiliary soldiers in the town at the disposal of the civic authorities. Corvus, the eirenarch of Ephesus, had deployed them with his fifty men of the watch. Fires had been doused, the most dangerous ruins that could be got at had been pulled down. Looting and lynching had been discouraged by means of some exemplary executions in prominent places.
The meeting Ballista had just left had addressed the longer-term concerns. The governor had gathered a small consilium of men of rank: the scribe to the demos Publius Vedius Antoninus, the asiarch Gaius Valerius Festus, the wealthy notable Flavius Damianus, the eirenarch Corvus, and Ballista himself. Ballista knew all these men except one from his previous time in Ephesus. Three years before, he had been there, serving as deputy to the governor. Ironically, the governor was the one man he had not met previously. One thing he knew of the others was that they disliked each other strongly. Inamicitia was rife among them; in some cases, it had run in their families for generations.
Yet today, personal and familial animosities mainly set aside, in something almost approaching collegiality, the men had spent hours in discussion. How to prevent rioting and rapine, and how to avoid pestilence and famine – the problems were grave, but the consensus among the hegemones present was that they were not insuperable.
Maintaining public order was always an issue in a city such as Ephesus, whose population was often estimated to approach a quarter of a million. One aspect of the discussion had surprised Ballista. Flavius Damianus, the Christian-hater, whom Ballista detested of old as a man who took perverse pleasure in the physical suffering of others, had proposed that proclamations be posted announcing that attacks on those who might be thought to have brought down the anger of the gods be banned from the city on pain of death. It might be, thought Ballista
, that Flavius Damianus hated the idea of the poor taking matters into their own hands even more than he loathed the atheist followers of the crucified Jew.
The imperial priest Gaius Valerius Festus had raised serious concerns about the great temple of Artemis outside the city. On the one hand, it was filled with incalculable treasures, both sacred and profane; not for nothing was it known as the bank of Asia. On the other, it had an imperially recognized right of asylum and, because of that, as was ever the case with such places, in its grounds abided a horde of murderers, kidnappers, rapists, and other lesser criminals down on their luck. Either way, it was a potential source of serious trouble. After due deliberation, and acknowledging that it would stretch the tiny force of armed men thinner still, Maximillianus ordered fifty of the auxiliary soldiers to reinforce the civilian temple guards. No one had suggested that the goddess might look after her own.
Ballista had recommended that the troops be brought in from their individual billets, which were spread across the city, and gathered in two or three requisitioned barracks so that the largest possible numbers could be sent out quickly in the event of serious disorder. The consilium was divided. Publius Vedius Antoninus and Flavius Damianus supported the notion: only a fool trusted the fickle hoi polloi. But in the end, the governor had been swayed by the views of Corvus. Given that there were no sizable bandit groups in the nearby mountains at the moment, and that there had been a robust investigation of all lower-class clubs in the city, with any suspicious collegia being suppressed, just the previous year, a more visible presence of armed men throughout the city would have a calming effect. Ballista had to acknowledge that there was something in the local eirenarch’s view.
Everyone knew that pestilence followed an earthquake like vulgar abuse followed a philosopher. Already the governor’s palace was hung with swags of laurel, that sure preventative of plague. Ephesus possessed public slaves whose sole duty was to carry the dead out of the city. But the number of corpses visible, let alone those still buried in the ruins, was far beyond anything with which the libitinarii could deal. The scribe to the demos was assigned just twenty soldiers to assist the libitinarii, but he was to have the authority to compulsorily recruit as many privately owned able-bodied slaves as he felt necessary. Areas of public land out on the Caystros plain were designated for anonymous mass graves.
The aqueducts and water supply had been less damaged than might have been expected, but not all was as it should be. Clean drinking water might stave off disease. Flavius Damianus promised to put things to rights, using his own slaves and tenants, at no cost to the city or the imperial fiscus. The governor’s accensus wrote out a commission, which Maximillianus had signed there and then.
No apocalyptic vision was complete without famine. Hunger was the terror that constantly gnawed at all the cities of the imperium. To assuage their fear – on occasion to ameliorate the harsh reality – frequently they stripped the countryside bare, reducing peasants and poor tenant farmers to eating strange, sometimes noxious roots and leaves. The three rich men in the consilium stepped up. They would feed their city. They would scour their estates, empty their granaries, have their dependants transport the produce to Ephesus.
Given the potentially ruinous magnanimity of their gesture, it was only right that the governor had allowed Flavius Damianus to discourse at some length on how such generosity and love of the polis ran deep in his family – had not his eponymous ancestor, the famous sophist, planted his lands with fruit trees and given the demos free access to them? After that, naturally, both Gaius Valerius Festus and Publius Vedius Antoninus were granted similar indulgence.
Ballista’s thoughts had wandered. Could it be that a disaster such as this transformed the love of honour with which the Greek elite so often credited themselves into a practical reality? Yet looked at in a more sardonic way, this engrained virtue of philotimia was nothing if not competitive. By this signal act of generosity, these three eupatrids were elevating themselves far above the rest of the rich men in the Boule of Ephesus. The demos could not but praise them: their action would reach the ears of the emperor.
Was there an imperium -wide pattern to be found here? Was there a small group of incredibly rich men rising up from the ranks of the larger oligarchy in each city? Ballista remembered how, in Arete, his friend Iarhai had told him that there used to be a dozen or so leading men in that city. When Ballista had arrived at that town, there had been just three. Maybe, but Arete had been a special case. Situated perilously but profitably between the great empires of Rome and Persia, its notables owed their status to their abilities in deploying armed force. And now, had this earthquake not made Ephesus also something of a special case? Of the four hundred and fifty members of the Ephesian Boule, forty-seven were dead or unaccounted for. Unsurprisingly, finding this out had been one of the first acts of the authorities.
When Publius Vedius Antoninus launched into an ample review of the buildings with which past members of his family had adorned the city, some might have considered he had strayed rather from the point. Maximillianus urbanely interjected to thank most, most sincerely each of the eupatrids. He was sure many decrees of the Boule and Demos of the Ephesians would be passed extolling their virtues. It may well be that when the Heroon of Androclos was repaired, the heroic founder would have to share his quarters with statues of men still living. Their munificence was unparalleled: Hellas and poverty might be foster sisters, but one should not forget that Croesus had reigned here in Asia.
After the admiring laughter which acknowledged the governor’s playful allusion to the aphorism of Herodotus, Maximillianus had brought proceedings to a close with a brief speech intended to keep up everyone’s spirits. A unit of auxiliary cavalry, double strength, one thousand-strong, was en route from the interior. Letters had been dispatched to the emperor; soon the bounty of Gallienus would ease their troubles. All would be well.
Maximus walked out on to the terrace and up to Ballista. ‘Sorry I was not here when you came out. I waited, but one of the governor’s men said you would all be at it for hours. So, I… I went for a wander.’
‘Went for a wander?’
‘Yes, a wander.’
‘And was it good?’
‘Sure, it was magnificent.’ Maximus smiled. ‘You cannot be praising too highly the dedication and enthusiasm of the girls of this town. Straight back to work, putting their backs into it. Now, if your public servants learnt a trick or two from them, the place would be back to rights in no time.’
‘You really are a sadly deluded man.’
‘Well,’ considered Maximus, ‘you might say that, but not if you had any knowledge of philosophy. Does not each one of us recreate the world in our own minds based on what our eyes and ears tell us? Now, I know that some of your Stoics hold that only the wise man gets it right. But they themselves will admit that a wise man is harder to find than a virgin in a whorehouse. So, given that most of us are going to get it wrong, and given it is up to us, what sort of fool would you be if you did not make the world you perceived into the sort of place that suited you?’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am surprised at an educated man like you – do you not have any understanding of sense perception theory at all?’
‘Have you been talking to Hippothous again?’
‘Well, not just now, luckily. But, it has to be said, he does like to philosophize. Just like little Demetrius he is: cannot get enough philosophic dialogue. Mind you, he is also very keen on that physphysiog-’
‘ Physiognomy – reading people’s characters from their faces.’
‘That is the one. A noble science, infallible in the hands of a skilled practitioner, so he says. Loves it, he does. Tells stories that would make your hair stand on end.’
‘And that probably tells him a lot too.’
‘Where is Corvus?’ Maximus asked.
‘The governor held him back for a private conversation.’ Ballista leant on the parapet. Maximus joined him. Together they looked out at
the sea, all quiet under the waxing moon.
Ballista’s thoughts ran back to the casualties among the Boule: nearly one in nine dead. Now, if the death rate across all the citizen body were about the same magnitude, and there really had been about 250,000 in the city, that would mean around 28,000 corpses, by far the majority still to be unearthed. But it is the collapsing houses that kill, and a rich man’s house is likely to be better built. Yet what about the poor who lived in huts? They were easier to get out of; there was not much to collapse. There were no simple answers.
Out to sea, the light of one of the fishing boats winked and went out. Ballista’s thoughts continued on their way: to his own household. Seven of the eight people who had been with Ballista had survived. A few others had lived. The cook and a kitchen porter had been shopping in the agora. They were shaken, but unhurt. The day after the earthquake, a stable-boy had reappeared. No one could tell what had happened to him. His wits were gone. They had dug Rebecca and Simon out of the ruins, but with Constans and the others they had failed. Twelve of them – men, women and children, almost half the familia – all gone. Constans, the boys’ pedagogue, Julia’s custos, three of her maids… the rest – all gone.
After the fire had burnt itself out, Ballista, Maximus and Calgacus had returned again and again to the wreck of the house. Hippothous had joined them. With insane dedication, running ridiculous risks, they had climbed over and dug into the teetering ruins. Repetition had not dulled the fear. Each time, Ballista had found it harder to force himself up the slope, to cram himself into the black, tomb-like niches in the rubble. They had scraped and burrowed, always calling out for survivors. They had retrieved many of their possessions: the strongbox, their weapons, much of Julia’s jewellery. But no voices answered their calls. They came across just four corpses, mangled and charred. They had left the sad things where they were, a coin pressed between their teeth.
The Caspian Gates wor-4 Page 5