‘A problem?’ His eyes were on Ballista.
‘Fucker, does not want to pay.’
The pimp glanced at the whore. Ballista stepped forward, seized the wrist of the pimp’s hand which held the knife, jerked the man forward, off balance.
‘What the . . .’
With his right hand, Ballista gripped the pimp’s elbow. He brought his knee hard up into underside of the man’s forearm. There was a sickening crack, like breaking the carcass of a chicken. The pimp yelped in pain, dropped the knife, and curled to the ground, clutching his shattered arm.
The whore started for the curtain. Ballista dragged her back by her hair, pushed her back into a corner. He picked up the knife.
‘Not a sound,’ Ballista said. ‘This does not have to end in tragedy.’
The pimp stopped whimpering and looked up at him. ‘You are dead, you fucker.’
‘We all are in the long run. Now, you’re the one with the broken arm, and I’m the one with the knife.’
‘Fucker.’
Ballista passed the knife close to the pimp’s face. ‘Let me be very clear about this. If you do exactly what I tell you, nothing worse will happen. Choose another path, and you will both be dead.’
Ballista gestured the whore forward. ‘Take off his boots and belt.’
As she did as she was told, Ballista moved to stand between them and the curtain.
Her breasts swung as she bent to the tasks. Ballista felt an unwanted stab of lust. The beast was never far below the surface of man.
‘Throw them over, and get back in the corner.’
The knife in his teeth, Ballista tugged on the boots, and buckled the belt. The former were little bigger than the previous pair, but from the latter hung a heavy purse of coins. Scooping up the whore’s toga, Ballista tucked it under his left arm, and brandished the knife with his free hand.
‘You know the beggar with the picture on the far side of the street.’
They looked at him with utter hatred.
‘He is the lookout for my gang. Don’t call or come out before he leaves, or my boys will come and finish the job.’
No doubt both were vicious, but Ballista was uncomfortable with his actions.
‘Remember, I don’t want to hurt you.’
The whore spat. ‘That is what they all say who like to give you a beating, enjoy causing pain.’
‘Then do not give me the excuse.’
‘They will crucify you.’
‘But neither you or your pimp would be alive to see me on the cross. Quiet as mice, and you will live.’
Ballista sheathed the knife, and turned and left.
Outside, the normality of the night struck Ballista as bizarre; clients and idlers came and went, the other pimps stood around.
‘Enjoy yourself?’ The beggar grinned. ‘What about what you said?’
Ballista tipped about half the coins – some of reasonably high denomination – into the outstretched palm.
‘May the gods smile on you.’ The beggar was grinning. ‘Now to have a go on that little Christian.’
‘If I were you, I would leave.’
‘Why? Even stern old Cato thought a man could go to a brothel, as long as he did not make it his home.’
‘When I have gone, it would be in your best interest to leave soon after.’
‘Of course, whatever you say.’ A look compounded of cunning and lust betrayed the vagrant’s words.
‘Never in the future say that I didn’t warn you.’ Ballista walked away without looking back.
CHAPTER 7
The Field of Mars
The Portico of Balbus
S
CARPIO SAT AT HIS DESK, in the office of the Prefect of the City Watch, wondering how it had come to this.
Always strive to be the best. Perhaps poetry learned in childhood lay at the root of it all. The example of Achilles in Homer – always strive to be the best – dunned in by a schoolmaster, with endless repetition and liberal use of the whip. Only with maturity came the realisation that ambition was both a vice and a virtue. It had not ended well for Achilles. His companion and lover slaughtered, maddened and alone, he was doomed to die young. Even after crossing the great divide, he had known no peace. His shade had demanded the sacrifice of an innocent young woman, had torn another girl limb from limb.
The office in the Portico which led off the Theatre of Balbus gleamed with affluence and success. Antique Corinthian bronzes shone in the gentle lamplight. An original painting by Apelles graced one wall. The desk was cedar with legs of marble. The scent of the wood pervaded the room.
Scarpio had come a long way. He was born in Apulia, on an estate that was little more than a smallholding. Hard work, skilled bookkeeping and an appearance of unswerving loyalty had underwritten his rise. His father had only just possessed the property qualification of an equestrian, the second rank in society that allowed his son a career in the service of the emperor. The assiduous cultivation of more affluent relatives and their connections had produced Scarpio’s first appointment, the command of an auxiliary Cohort in distant Britain. After that he had served all over the empire; tribune in a legion on the Danube, prefect of auxiliary cavalry in the East, financial posts in Gaul and Spain and Africa. A good marriage to a plain woman had brought a substantial dowry and familial links to men in the senate. Finally he had secured a major prefecture, command of the City Watch in Rome. In an equestrian career only the Praetorian Prefect and the Prefect of Egypt ranked higher.
A lifetime of service and loyalty to his superiors and to Rome, and now it was all at risk. Indeed, in many ways, it was the latter quality that had put him in this terrible position. Sometimes Scarpio wished that he had never left the little town of Lupiae in the heel of Italy. There was much to recommend the life of a country landowner; ease and comfort, a book of poetry and a jug of wine, the companionship of neighbours, and the respect of the local townsfolk. Nothing more troubling than a sudden downpour or some cattle trampling the wheat. If he had never set out to sail on the greater seas of imperial service, he would never have been this frightened, and his life would not hang by a thread.
A voice from behind the curtain. ‘Your visitor, sir.’
‘Show him in.’ Attempting to act normally, Scarpio shuffled some documents on his desk.
A tall, broad man entered, flanked by two of the City Watch, his face hidden beneath a hooded cloak.
Scarpio got to his feet. ‘You may leave us. We do not wish to be disturbed.’
The watchmen saluted, and withdrew.
Scarpio respectfully waited to be addressed.
Instead, the big man turned and looked out through the curtain, then let it fall back into place.
‘Can you trust those two not to eavesdrop?’ he said.
‘As far as we can trust anyone.’
The visitor pushed back the hood. His face was lined and weather-beaten. It would not have looked out of place behind a plough. ‘A drink would be good.’
Scarpio hastened to get two goblets.
‘Not too much water.’ The man remained standing, looking around, seemingly impassive.
‘How is Sempronius?’ Scarpio wanted to postpone the conversation that he knew would come.
‘The tortoise, always use the codenames. Even when you think we are alone.’
Scarpio, handing over the drink, did not reply.
‘You are mouse and I am the peasant.’ The man sat down. The chair creaked under his weight.
Scarpio nodded, accepting the reproof.
‘Our bald friend the tortoise is as nervous as ever.’
Scarpio took a drink. It nearly caught in his throat. ‘He lacks the stomach for these stakes. We should never have approached him.’
The peasant took a swig. ‘You know that we need him, or someone like him. He is from a senatorial family, and the rest of us are not. Gallienus has to be killed by a senator. Then all the senate will acclaim the assassin a hero, and rush to elect him emper
or. If one of us strikes the blow, half of the senators will look to Postumus, and the rest will wrangle for months. The safety of the empire demands a smooth transition of power.’
Scarpio nodded.
‘Yes, the tortoise is an anxious old woman, but tonight his fears are well founded.’
Here it comes, Scarpio thought. He sat back behind his desk, feeling as if his limbs had been unstrung.
‘Where is Ballista?’
‘We think he has crossed the river.’
‘Think or know?’
‘Two brothers have just reported that they saw a fisherman ferry over a man fitting his description.’
‘What does the fisherman say?’
‘He denies it.’
‘Have you questioned him?’
‘Yes, but my men are firemen, not the frumentarii. I can’t order them to torture him. They are searching his shack and boat.’
The peasant ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. It was getting late, he needed another shave. When he spoke, his voice was mild. ‘This is your fault. You insisted that Ballista went to the Mausoleum.’
Scarpio felt his heart hammering in his chest. ‘You said yourself that Ballista would not join us, would never desert Gallienus. If he would not stand aside, he had to be eliminated.’
‘No, I said that he should have been got out of the way, sent home to Sicily. You wanted him dead.’
Scarpio’s hand was trembling. He put down his drink. ‘It was not me who let him escape from the Mausoleum. If you and those thugs of . . .’ He checked himself, remembering the code. ‘If those thugs of the ferret had done what they are paid to do, Ballista would be with the informant at the bottom of the Tiber.’
Quite deliberately, the peasant tipped some of his wine on the floor, on Scarpio’s exquisite Persian rug. ‘That is not going back in the glass. You take my meaning?’
As shocked as if he had been slapped, Scarpio stared at the ruined carpet. It was hard to accept the casual lack of propriety and respect.
‘What is done is done,’ the peasant continued. ‘Yet since he escaped, you have failed to catch him.’
‘But . . .’ Fear and guilt and anger over his rug were beginning to stoke Scarpio’s indignation.‘But the ferret’s men have not caught him either.’
‘You have seven thousand men. The ferret has a couple of hundred.’
What about you? Scarpio was tempted to throw the criticism back. Since the Mausoleum, you have done nothing. You have many men under your command, but you claim that if they were employed to search for Ballista, then for certain Gallienus would be informed. For all your excuses, you have not got your hands dirty. Are you keeping your distance, hoping to find a way out if it all goes wrong?
Not daring to say anything of the sort, Scarpio spluttered excuses. ‘The ferret’s men are trained for this work. Mine put out fires, arrest pickpockets. The City Watch aren’t spies. They don’t track and fight savage barbarian warriors.’
‘You have a point.’ The peasant was unflappable. No wonder the old bastard had risen so high, Scarpio thought, mastering his resentment.
‘Ballista is a hard man to stop,’ the peasant continued. ‘I know him from years ago, and you do not. You must never underestimate him because he is a barbarian. Yet he is just one man. You can still catch him. You must catch him, and you must kill him. If he gets to the emperor, Gallienus will believe everything he says, and, once the torturers have finished with us all, our heads will be decorating pikes outside the city gates.’
The peasant drained his drink, got up, pulled his hood back over his head.
Scarpio stood.
‘I will see myself out,’ the peasant said. ‘Do not fail.’
As the curtain closed Scarpio slumped down in his seat. He could not take his eyes off the stained rug. The peasant had come here – the headquarters of a senior prefect – and deliberately humiliated him. How dare the jumped-up bastard?
Scarpio should call someone to take the carpet away, try to salvage it. He did nothing. This is your fault. What, in the name of all the gods, had he been thinking? Why had he argued that Ballista should go to the Mausoleum? He had only met the man once. To kill two birds with one stone. That argument was specious. The motive had been personal. It stemmed from that one fateful meeting in the imperial box at the Circus Maximus. The disgusting spectacle of the great, hulking barbarian sitting in the place of honour at the right hand of Gallienus. The debased fool of an emperor flattering and fawning on the hairy northerner returned from his native woods. Romans of high rank, men of dignitas, consigned to the rear seats. Gallienus had fleetingly introduced Scarpio to Ballista. The barbarian had glanced back, barely bothered to speak. Ballista had dismissed Scarpio as beneath his attention.
When I get my hands on you, Scarpio thought, I will have your attention. When the knife peels the skin from your flesh, you will learn your place. Before you die, you will know what the Fates hold for your wife and sons.
CHAPTER 8
The Field of Mars
The Camp of the Immigrants
A
MIST HUNG LOW OVER THE NORTHERN Campus Martius. Mingled with the smoke of innumerable cook fires, it screened the camp of the immigrants. The smell gave the location away; a compound of wood smoke and faeces, unwashed humanity and rotten food.
Suddenly, Ballista was in the belly of the beast. In the wan moonlight, the squat huts and lean-tos slumped against each other at crazy angles. They were built of river mud and reeds, scavenged blankets and stolen timber. Their roofs were held down by half-bricks and rocks. The narrow alleys formed a maze that Ariadne’s thread could not have unravelled. But for the first time tonight, Ballista could see the moon and the stars. The six Pleiades shone high above, the seventh sister, as ever, hidden from all but the keenest eye.
Ballista worked his way north and east. He went carefully. Awnings and washing lines overhead, guy ropes and rubbish underfoot, impeded his progress. There were no adults in the lanes. Only hushed voices, chinks of light and furtive movements behind tattered curtains betrayed their presence. Twice he stumbled across roaming packs of feral children; no sooner seen than squealing and gone.
Every summer the authorities sent in the City Watch to tear down the shanty, disperse its inhabitants. Every summer the political will failed, and the task was left half done. By the autumn the dispossessed had drifted back. By the close of the sailing season they had been joined by thousands of newcomers washed in from across the Mediterranean by poverty and the illusory promise of the eternal city. Not all in the camp were from overseas. Every year illness or injury, a turn of the stars or a run of bad luck, reduced many Romans to homelessness. Some went to live under the bridges; more preferred the camp.
There were specific laws against erecting huts and lean-tos on the Field of Mars. The penalty was eternal exile. Enforcement was well beyond the capabilities of the authorities. Was it Aristotle who had said that a law which could not be enforced was no law at all?
Ballista stopped to take his bearings. He lined the Scorpion up with the Pleiades. Perhaps, like Merope, the seventh sister, he should hide his face in shame. No doubt the pimp and his whore were bad people. Yet he had visited unprovoked violence on them, had taken much of what little they possessed. He was strong, they were weak. Only the conscience of a Sophist or lawyer could believe that might was right, and that self-interest was of more account than justice.
Rounding a corner, the way was blocked by four men. They were tall. In the ambient light their faces had the pallor of the bellies of fish.
‘Health and great joy,’ Ballista said.
They did not move, but stood, hands on the hilts of knives. Their air of menace was palpable and deliberate.
‘You are out late,’ one of them said. His accent marked him as from the north, one of the provinces by the Rhine, maybe a Batavian or Frisian.
‘I have to meet someone at dawn out by the Milvian Bridge.’
‘Better to go by
the Via Flaminia. It is not safe for a man on his own wandering through the camp at night.’
‘I have been in bad places before.’ Ballista smiled, trying to defuse what he feared was coming.
‘What are you carrying?’ The speaker obviously was the leader.
‘A toga, a few coins, my knife, and twenty-five years experience in the army.’
One of them went to flank Ballista. Shifting slightly, Ballista stopped him, filling the passageway with his broad shoulders.
The leader stepped close in front of Ballista. The man’s face was bulbous, lumpy. It looked like tallow that had melted and been pinched into shape by an unskilled Prometheus. No doubt a physiognomist would have read in it a dark past and an evil future.
‘Where are you from?’ The leader’s breath reeked of garlic, fish sauce, and the fumes of stale wine. These men ate better than most in the camp. The money that paid for this food would not be honestly gained.
‘I move about.’
‘Where were you born?’
‘Beyond the frontier, by the shores of the Suebian Sea.’
‘You look like you can handle yourself,’ the leader said.
‘If it is necessary.’
The leader grinned. ‘Come and have a drink.’
‘Until I have been to the Milvian Bridge, I have few coins.’
‘The drink is on us. You might be just the sort of man we need.’
Thessalian persuasion, Ballista thought. Necessity disguised as choice.
Their lair was not far. A straggling compound of huts, animal pens, and a corral for seven or eight horses and mules, surrounded a yard of beaten earth with a fire burning under a tree in the centre. Another half dozen men sat around the fire.
Ballista squatted down next to the leader. A wine sack passed from hand to hand.
‘What is your name, stranger?’
Ballista thought fast.
‘Publius Licinius Vandrad.’
The names fitted Ballista’s story. The first two would have been taken from the reigning emperor when the veteran was granted citizenship on discharge from the auxiliaries, the last a birth name from barbaricum.
The leader nodded. ‘I am Diomedes.’
The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome Page 8