The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome

by Harry Sidebottom

  Judging by the silence that her dressing must be complete, Ballista turned to face her again. Despite the scratches on her face, and the bites on her throat, she looked as imperious as any of the sculpted matrons on the frieze outside.

  ‘All you have to do is follow the Via Flaminia, turn off when you see the Temple of Isis, and then you can find your way home.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Why?’

  She regarded him as if were a slow child, or his wits were addled. ‘Do you think Diomedes and his brutes will be sitting quietly around their campfire? You killed one of the gang. Worse, you robbed them of their revenge, made them look foolish. Diomedes has to catch both of us, or he will lose the respect of his men. If that happens, they will turn on him. The next night or two, he will get a knife in his back.’

  Ballista said nothing.

  ‘Where would I go, except to my husband? Where will Diomedes have his thugs searching? If I fall into their hands again, what do you think they will do?’

  It was annoying that she was right.

  ‘You must take me with you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can send me back when it is day.’

  ‘No.’ In retrospect, leaving her to her fate might have been a better option. Women got raped and murdered all the time in Rome, although perhaps less often mutilated. Ballista hunted around for another plan.

  ‘Do you have a house?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I can stay in the women’s quarters until dawn.’

  ‘I am not going there.’

  ‘Then you must take me where you are going.’

  Ballista had a better idea. ‘The other side of the Via Flaminia is the seventh region. The station house of the City Watch is just down the road towards the city. Go there, report what has happened. The Watch will arrest Diomedes and his gang. They can reunite you with your husband.’ And the Watch will be drawn away from the seventh region, Ballista thought.

  ‘You will take me there.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because they would put you under arrest. No wonder Diomedes thought you would make a useful member of his band. You are nothing but a criminal, like them.’

  ‘Gratitude is not a virtue in Egypt?’

  Her shoulders trembled. She was trying not to cry.

  Ballista wondered if her prickly intransigence might be some form of defence against the horrors that she had experienced. He could not abandon her. Sometimes you have to admit defeat.

  ‘I am going to the Praetorian Camp. It is not that far. When we get there, the prefect can send a squad to deal with Diomedes. I am sure that Volusianus can detail some guardsmen to take you home.’

  She seemed to accept this.

  ‘Come with me, keep quiet, and do not lag behind.’

  The mist was lifting, but the Via Flaminia was empty. Ballista could see south as far as where the aqueduct of the Aqua Virgo straddled the street. Not a soul was about. Like thieves in the night, they slipped across into the shade of the Gardens of Lucullus.

  The great villa of Lucullus lay to the north. Ballista intended to skirt well to the south. The Gardens were not a place he would visit unless driven by necessity. For all their beauty, they had a dark past. In the reign of Claudius, they had been owned by a man called Asiaticus. The emperor’s wife, Messalina, had coveted them. She had brought about the death of Asiaticus. Possession of the gardens had done her no good. With a terrible irony, it had been there she had waited for the executioners sent by her husband’s minions.

  There was a more prosaic reason for Ballista to seek to avoid the gardens. The imperial treasury had sold the gardens to the patrician family of the Acilii Glabriones. A scion of that noble house had died serving under Ballista in the east. The family believed that Ballista had abandoned the young man to his fate. The Acilii Glabriones did not forget or forgive. Nothing good would happen should Ballista fall into their hands.

  The western side of the gardens were terraced up the slopes of the Pinician Hill. Gravel paths meandered between ornamental steps. Ballista did not take them, instead striking out across lawns and through copses of trees. It was not long before the Egyptian woman complained.

  Ballista halted in the deep gloom under a grove of cypresses. ‘There are others hunting us than Diomedes’ gang,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The City Watch, and . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Some ex-soldiers. I do not know who has hired them.’ Ballista smiled. ‘Are you still sure that you would not be better off alone?’

  ‘Get me to the Praetorian camp, and we need never see each other again.’

  The latter would be no bad thing, Ballista thought. Although he had to admire her resilience. He wondered how Julia would have coped under the circumstances. He tried to push out the ghastly thought. But once framed, it would not be banished. Years before he had shared a boat out of Ephesus with a group of Christians. One of their endless, strange debates there had been on the subject. One speaker had held that if there had been violence or force then no shame attached to the woman, that a virgin remained intact. Another vehemently disagreed; a woman could always throw herself into a river, or find some other way to take her own life, if defilement was inevitable. Suicide was a sin, but God would be merciful. The followers of the crucified god were much concerned with suicide and virginity. Yet ordinary Romans, worshippers of the traditional gods, always had the example of Lucretia. Raped by the son of the tyrant, she steadfastly determined to end her life, despite all the arguments and entreaties of husband and family. Whatever gods were given credence, the world was a harsh place for women.

  An easterly breeze was getting up. The fog dispersed, although fragments still lingered in hollows. The wind hissed, sibilant through the foliage, creaked boughs together. Small nocturnal creatures scuttled away. The moon cast deep shadows across their way. The woman crowded close at Ballista’s back. Walking at night in the country, even in this crafted and tamed imitation, was profoundly alien and unsettling for a town dweller.

  Ballista was in his element, his senses sharpened. Barefoot, the woman was not making too much noise. He was aware of everything around them, and he detected a presence before registering what had alerted him.

  Halting, he gestured the woman to silence. There was a faint tang of wood smoke on the air. No one should be kindling fire in the gardens at night. Ballista stilled his breathing, probing the darkness. Up ahead, slightly to the left, was there an indistinct murmur, like a man muttering to himself?

  ‘Stay here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I will return quickly. Do not make a sound.’

  Leaving the woman unhappily huddled under a tree, Ballista moved at a tangent to the sounds. The years with the Harii served him well. Using every scrap of cover, and the shadows cast by the moon from passing clouds, he ghosted through the gardens. Soon he saw a glimmer of light on the lower leaves of a cypress. There must be a fire underneath. If you wanted a fire to remain undetected in the dark, you should never kindle it under the boughs of trees which could reflect its light. Not looking directly at the shimmering leaves, the better to preserve his night vision, he crept closer.

  Now exercising every ounce of caution, he took care with every step. Placing just the outside of each foot, he felt for any twigs which might snap, or stones which could turn, before letting his weight come down. When he found a point of vantage, he hunkered down, letting the raking shadows break his outline.

  The low fire burned by a freshly dug trench. A man – long bearded, hairy, and unkempt – stood over them. A young boy, no more than seven or eight, lay on the ground, asleep or unconscious. His chest was rising and falling. He was not dead. The man was chanting softly, with the cadence of a prayer: Aion, Iao, Kmephis. The individual words were meaningless, but the overall intent was clear. No wonder the man had sought this remote place. Ballista smiled, perhaps here was an answer to the problem of the Egyptian wom
an.

  There were three bowls on the ground. One by one, the man tipped the contents of each into the trench. Iaeo, Aee, Chphuris. He moulded a cake of dough into something resembling a man. On its head he fixed a crown of laurel and fennel. Satisfied with his handiwork, the doll also was thrown into the pit.

  Suddenly the man produced a sword. An old legionary gladius, Ballista noted. The man flourished the blade over the child. Ballista was but fifteen paces away. He half rose, tensing himself to run. Still reciting the supposed words of power, the man turned the sword on himself. Without hesitation, he slit the skin of his left forearm. Ballista saw the blood running black in the moonlight.

  Oblivious to pain, the man picked up a branch of laurel. With precise, even fussy, movements he wiped the blood onto the leaves, then tossed the branch into the fire. Stooping, the man whispered into the child’s ear. The boy did not stir. The man tried to pull him to his feet. The child was a dead weight, and the man let him slump back down.

  Some way off, Ballista heard a large animal moving through the brush, disturbing the undergrowth, cracking twigs. A deer or a dog, there would be both roaming the gardens.

  Aamasi, Nouthi, Merope. The man was chanting louder, working himself up into a frenzy. Brandishing the sword, he leapt over the fire. Long hair streaming, three times he jumped the flames. The child stirred. Bending, the man pulled the boy up. The child’s eyes opened, blinked without focus.

  ‘Tell me what I seek to know.’

  The boy did not speak, but swayed, and looked as he might fall. The man held his shoulders.

  The animal was getting nearer. Most likely a dog; a deer would not approach people.

  ‘As I have summoned you, I command you to tell me.’

  Deep in the trance, when the child spoke, it was in an unnatural deep, guttural voice.

  ‘Another will come, the sun-sent, dreadful lion, breathing fire.’

  The child’s words were Greek, in a rough, broken hexameter.

  ‘Fame will attend him; perfect, unblemished, and awesome, he will rule the Romans, and the Persians will be cast down.’

  The man broke the flow of strange poetry. ‘Tell me what I seek to know.’

  The boy paused, frowning, before taking up his thread. ‘When the ruler of the mighty Romans will be of the third number, he will be clad as a woman, but have the nature of a wolf, which tears the gentle sheep. On the Ausonian plains, the sons of Ares, men inured to violence, will ring him around. He will be smitten by gleaming iron, betrayed by his companions.’

  ‘Murderer!’ The Egyptian woman burst into the circle of light. The man stood, rooted to the spot. She hurled herself at him. Heedless of the sword, she raked her nails down his face. Ineffectually, he reeled away, tried to cover himself.

  Ballista got up. Too late. In an instant the boy had snapped out of his abstraction, and was running. Ballista could not catch him and deal with the man.

  Vaulting the trench and the fire, Ballista reached the struggling pair. He wrenched the hilt of the sword from the man’s grip. The blade went spinning into the darkness.

  ‘He was going to kill that innocent little boy,’ the woman yelled.

  Pushing her away, Ballista got a firm grip on the front of the man’s ragged tunic.

  ‘He was going to sacrifice that child,’ the woman spat.

  ‘Get this whore off me,’ the hedgerow mage pleaded. ‘I would never harm anyone.’

  ‘I am not a whore, necromancer.’

  ‘Nothing like that.’ There were livid scratches down his cheeks. ‘My art looks to the heavens, frequents with the gods, devotes itself to all that is good and helpful to man.’

  ‘Lying bastard!’ The woman surged forward.

  Ballista shoved her back with his free hand. ‘Stay there,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The magician wiped his scoured face. ‘You know that the boy was in a trance. He would not be hurt. I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Nothing wrong?’ Ballista shook him slightly. ‘You think that the authorities would take that view of meddling in forbidden things?’

  ‘A philosophic inquiry.’

  ‘Into the death of the emperor?’ Ballista gave him another shake, harder, like a dog with a rat.

  ‘You are mistaken.’

  ‘I have served in the East. There are men peddling Sibylline oracles in every market place over there.’

  ‘I would never . . .’

  ‘The ruler of the Romans will be of the third number? Alpha, beta, gamma. Our emperor’s name begins with the third letter of the alphabet. You think that Gallienus will see your nocturnal activities as philosophic inquiry?’

  The mage rallied. ‘And a vagabond like you has his ear?’

  ‘My name is Marcus Clodius Ballista. You may have heard of me.’

  ‘The barbarian who dared take the purple,’ the man’s words trailed off.

  ‘And who was pardoned by his childhood friend, our emperor.’

  ‘Ballista?’ The Egyptian woman sounded incredulous.

  ‘Not now.’ Ballista pulled the man almost up off his feet, bringing his face very close to his own. ‘Who paid you?’

  ‘They will kill me.’ The mage’s eyes were wild with fear.

  ‘You might not tell me, but do you think you can keep silent in the cellars of the Palace?’

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘On the rack, as they get busy with the pincers and the claws?’

  The man was sobbing.

  ‘Of course, it does not have to end that way. No one need know.’

  ‘Anything, just don’t make me tell you their names.’

  ‘Instead of agony and a drawn-out death, you could end this night at home.’ Watchful, in case the wizard tried to bolt, Ballista let go of the man’s tunic, and unlaced the wallet from his own belt. ‘Safe at home, with a fat purse of coins.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Despite his desperation, the mage was suspicious.

  ‘You know the district of the Bronze Gate?’

  ‘In the south-east?’

  ‘Take this woman there. Ask for the house of Volcatius. Tell my wife that I want her to give you coins to match those in this wallet. She will look after the woman. In the house is a Hibernian called Maximus. Easy to recognise, the end of his nose is missing. Tell him to meet me at the Praetorian Camp.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘And tell him to bring Tarchon the Suanian.’

  ‘I am not going with this creature,’ the Egyptian woman said.

  ‘You wanted to shelter in my house. Now you can. You will be safe there.’

  Ballista handed the wallet to the mage.

  ‘He is a magician,’ she said.

  Ballista sighed. ‘You are an Egyptian, you should be used to such things.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘If you come with me, things may take a turn for the worse. This will be a long night. If you go with him, in the morning my wife can arrange for you to be restored to your husband.’

  Although still dubious, the woman seemed to acquiesce.

  ‘What shall I tell those who hired me?’ The mage sounded plaintive.

  ‘Tell them what the boy said. You know it is what they want to hear.’

  CHAPTER 10

  The Praetorian Camp

  T

  HE VIA TIBURTINA WAS FULL OF MOVEMENT. All through the hours of darkness, carts trundled into the city piled with local produce; wine and food, forage and bedding for animals. Heavy wagons were laden with builders’ materials; stacked bricks and tiles, swaying baulks of timber. Herders drove in beasts for slaughter. Most of the vehicles leaving were empty, but one or two enterprising hauliers had acquired a load for the return journey; imported luxuries for country villas, or cheap gewgaws and mass-manufactured goods for thrifty peasants. The carts taking out night soil were given a wide berth by the rest of the road users.

  Rome, it was said, was a city that never slept. Watching from the shelter of an alleyway,
Ballista could see the truth of the complaint. Men shouted, animals bellowed and bleated, wagons creaked, and their weighty, iron-rimmed wheels groaned and shrieked along and over the deep ruts ground into the stones by generations of their predecessors. If you lived on a main thoroughfare, like the Via Tiburtina, sleep would be near unobtainable.

  It would be easy enough to hitch a ride on an empty cart. A lone driver might welcome the company. But it would be too exposed. From his place of concealment, Ballista had already seen a squad of the City Watch marching out from the centre. It was not far to the Praetorian Camp, and the night was not half run. He settled to wait for the right company to join.

  His gaze idly followed a cart topped with hay. Ballista wondered how far the mage and the Egyptian woman had got towards the House of Volcatius. Judging by the moon, they had been gone about an hour. The district of the Bronze Gate lay away from the Campus Martius. No one outside the immigrants’ camp was hunting them. They could go openly, make good time. Of course, it was possible that the magician would abandon her, slink off into the night. But, on balance, greed should keep him honest; the promise of more coins would outweigh any inconvenience. And, as Ballista could attest, the Egyptian woman was hard to shake off. Even if the hedge wizard vanished, most likely the indomitable woman would reach the house on her own.

  He hoped that the sudden arrival would not scare Julia and the boys too much. No one ever pounded on the doors of a shuttered house in the dead of night for a trivial or pleasant reason. Maximus and Tarchon were there, Grim and Rikiar as well. If not very drunk, they would be competent and reassuring. Ballista wished that he had thought to pass the message for Maximus and Tarchon to come to the Praetorian Camp armed, to bring his mailshirt and a sword. Yet they were veterans, and had served with him for years. They would feel unclothed without weapons. Allfather, it would be good to have them at my side. Ballista was not sure that he had ever felt so alone.

  An insidious fear struck him. With Maximus and Tarchon gone, would Grim and Rikiar be able to guard his family? He pushed the thought away. They were skilled warriors. The doors would be bolted. The porter was reliable and carried a cudgel. There were several tough slaves in the household, an arsenal of weapons in the building. In any case, surely the conspirators would not come for them until they knew Gallienus was dead.