‘Take, eat; this is my body, which shall be broken for you.’
The old man held a plate of flat bread.
‘This is my blood, which is shed for you; when you do this, you make my remembrance.’
The congregation, at least two dozen, moved forward. The elder placed his hands on the head of each that ate a morsel of bread and sipped the wine.
Those who partook of this simulacrum of a meal were of all conditions, Ballista noted. There were cobblers, laundry workers, illiterate labourers, one or two whose fine clothes showed higher status. There were men and women, free and slave, all indiscriminately mixed. Their very heterogeneity was a threat to the social order.
‘ . . . through whom be glory and honour to you, to the Father and the Son, with the Holy Spirit, in your holy Church, both now and to the ages of ages.’
The service at an end, the worshippers slipped away, in ones and twos, into the night. Ballista’s saviour departed without a word.
‘Come.’ The elder took Ballista’s arm, and led him into a parlour.
‘Eat.’ A more normal meal was set out. There was bread, cheese and honey, although milk to drink, not wine.
The old man smiled indulgently as Ballista ate. ‘You see, we are much maligned. There is no cannibalism or incest.’
Ballista politely finished a mouthful before replying. ‘Why do you meet in the dark, like conspirators? Gallienus countermanded the decrees of his father for your persecution.’
‘It is for our safety.’ The hands of the elder fluttered, as he sought the right words. ‘Imperial policy is not immutable. Even you pagans consider Gallienus . . . inconstant.’
‘You do not dispute the authority of the emperor?’
‘Our Lord bade us render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s. We will not fight for the emperor, but we offer prayers for his success.’
‘But you deny the gods?’
‘It is better to die than to worship stones. He who sacrifices to the gods, and not to God, shall be destroyed.’
‘Then the persecutions will come again.’ Ballista felt that he had to try to explain the inevitable doom these Christians were bringing on their own heads. ‘The Romans believe their empire rests on the Pax Deorum. If they do right by the gods, the gods will hold their hands over them, secure their rule. If the Romans let atheists like you insult their gods, the gods will desert Rome.’
‘Life is good, but the life that we long for is better.’ The old man sounded serene. ‘It is far worse to burn after death.’
Ballista said nothing.
‘To those who deny the Lord shall be given eternal punishment. The unquenchable and unending fire awaits them. No sleep will give them rest, no night soothe them, no death deliver them.’
The old man put his hand on Ballista’s knee, looked at him full of solicitude. ‘One of those you delivered from Ephesus, Aulus Valerius Festus, said that he had hoped to convert you.’
‘He did try.’
‘You are not Roman; their superstitions are not yours.’
Ballista did not want to offend the Christian. He needed this sanctuary. ‘My wife follows Epicurus, and holds that death is the end, nothing but a return to sleep. If she is mistaken, then, according to the superstitions of my people, if I die well, I will live in the hall of my ancestor, Woden-Allfather; at least until the death of men and gods.’
The elder made the sign of the cross. ‘If you acknowledge Christ, repent your sins, you will sit at his side for eternity.’
Ballista shook his head. ‘The Greek historian Herodotus wrote that, everywhere, custom is king.’
The old man looked sad, then brightened. ‘The scholar Origen said that those unbelievers in authority who help the faithful might not be irrevocably damned to hell, that the prayers of the faithful might rescue them. We will pray for you, Marcus Clodius Ballista, and you are safe under this roof until dawn.’
CHAPTER 13
The Esquiline Hill
The Carinae
Conticinium
C
ONTICINIUM, WHEN THE COCKS had stopped crowing, but most men were still asleep, the still time of the false dawn, when it was no longer night, but not yet day. The senator, Gaius Sempronius Dalmaticus, had been up for some time, working on his correspondence. A report from the factor of his estate in Calabria, a request from a client to represent him in the courts, a letter from a young friend studying in Athens; mundane stuff in which it was difficult to feign interest in front of his secretary.
Appearances must be maintained, nothing could appear out of the ordinary. Sempronius always rose early and dealt with his correspondence. To do so was the right thing. Pliny the Younger had always got up before dawn to work. Sempronius had recently reread Pliny’s Letters. They were an admirable guide to a senatorial life conducted according to the precepts of duty and dignity. The Emperor Marcus Aurelius also had shunned sleep, and by lamplight dealt with affairs both of culture and the state.
Sempronius sent away his secretary, and summoned his barber. His wife had suggested that, given his straitened financial circumstances, keeping a slave-barber was an unnecessary expense. Surely he could be shaved at the baths in the afternoon; it was not as if his bald head called for an elaborate coiffure. Sempronius had dismissed the idea. In the old days, a wife would not have uttered such words, would have better known her place. Anyway, after today there would be no lack of funds.
The barber drew the curtains. The light was gathering, but the slave arranged the lamp with the tools of his trade: the mirror, bowl of water, crescent-shaped razor, and tweezers. Sempronius, submitting himself to the process, gazed out of the window.
High, dappled clouds against a pigeon-grey sky held the promise of a fine day. Had the circumstances been different, it would have been an enjoyable day. A litter would carry him from the opulent district of the Carinae to the Palatine, and the stately formalities of the emperor’s levee. He would process as a member of the imperial entourage down to the Colosseum, take his place in the perfumed shade of the royal box. They would catch the latter part of the morning’s beast fights. They were promised ostriches, and, a rare beast indeed, a hippopotamus. Over a fine luncheon, they would witness the elaborate executions of those guilty of the foulest crimes. A notorious bandit from Asia had been condemned to castrate himself, like Attis, the oriental god from Pessinous. Given his origins, the punishment was apt, although, as he might survive, some held it too lenient. The afternoon would bring the gladiators, several hundred pairs. Sempronius had always favoured the myrmillones – solid and employing good Roman sword and shield – over flighty retarii, or foreign-sounding fighters like the Thracians or Gauls. A fine day’s entertainment, but Sempronius knew it would bring him neither pleasure nor diversion. Not with what would happen at the end.
As the barber plucked his eyebrows, Sempronius mulled over the deaths of emperors. A few, a very few, had lived out their natural course; Augustus, the first emperor, Vespasian, the Divine Marcus Aurelius. One or two had fallen in battle; Decius against the Goths, Albinus in a civil war. Some, like Nero or Otho, had been forced to suicide. Yet many more had met a sudden end at the hands of others, often those close to them. Claudius was poisoned by his wife, Commodus strangled in his bath by a member of his household. Any number had been cut down by the soldiers. The corpse of Heliogabalus had been stuffed into a sewer. Sempronius could not recall any killed by their successor in person. Unless, of course, the rumour was true that Caligula pressed the pillow down over the face of Tiberius. Caligula was not a good precedent.
When the barber had finished his painful ministrations, Sempronius called for his valet. He shrugged off the tunic in which he had slept, and stood naked before the old retainer. With the respectful silence of long service, the valet slipped a new, clean tunic over the head of his master. Its broad purple stripe marked out its wearer as one of the six hundred richest, most elevated men in the empire; a senator of Rome.
‘A visitor,
sir,’ said a voice beyond the curtains.
‘Show him in.’ Sempronius gestured for his valet to continue dressing him.
‘Health and great joy, Gaius Sempronius Dalmaticus.’
‘Health and great joy, Cecropius.’ It was beneath a man who had been Consul to use the full three names of such an officer. Sempronius waved a hand for Cecropius to take a chair.
The valet brought out a gleaming white toga. The heavy wool was draped first over Sempronius’ left shoulder, wrapped round under his right arm, then back over his left shoulder. The valet moved slowly, arranging the folds and swags, stepping back, head on one side, to study the hang and effect of the garment.
Cecropius waited, any impatience or irritation hidden, except perhaps for the way his fingers flexed on the hilt of his sword. Born a goat boy, somewhere on the other side of the Adriatic, in the wilds of Dalmatia, Cecropius had risen from the barracks, up through the army, and now commanded a unit of cavalry. Gallienus had granted him equestrian status, and admitted him to the protectores. Sempronius loathed Cecropius and his sort. The protectores were a typical innovation of Gallienus. It was said the emperor had been inspired by the hearth-troops that surrounded barbarian warlords in the forests of Germania. Almost all originally common soldiers, uneducated and boorish, the protectores swaggered about, lording it over their betters. Allowed to bear arms within the sacred borders of Rome, in the houses of senators, even in the imperial presence itself, the protectores were little better than barbarians themselves.
Satisfied at last, the valet laced the elaborate shoes which only senators were allowed to wear, and then withdrew. Sempronius gave orders to be left alone with his guest.
‘Would you care for some wine?’
‘Too early.’
Cecropius’ hair was suspiciously blonde. Perhaps, Sempronius thought, he copied the fashion of the emperor, and had it dyed. Gallienus had gold dust sprinkled in his artfully curled locks.
‘Are you ready?’ There was a note of insolence in the tone of Cecropius.
‘Have they caught the barbarian?’ Sempronius was annoyed that he sounded both petulant and frightened.
‘No,’ Cecropius said. ‘He was last seen in the subura; jumped off the second floor balcony of a tenement. Hard man to kill, it seems. He escaped.’
‘But the subura is . . .’
‘Just at the foot of this hill.’ Cecropius waved a hand, perhaps in reassurance, possibly with contempt. ‘Don’t worry, Ballista does not know who you are. With the City Watch chasing him, he must have realised that the mouse is part of the conspiracy. Having seen the men at the Mausoleum, he may have worked out the identity of the ferret. The man he murdered at the top of the monument may have talked. But there is no possibility that he knows the rest of us. Anyway, he is not coming here. His aim is to reach Gallienus.’
‘And if he does, what then?’
‘We all die, but it will not come to that. The Palatine is sealed tighter than a vestal’s cunt.’
Sempronius tried not to show surprise or distaste at the crudity. ‘But why do I have to strike the blow?’ Again, he sounded like a scared child.
‘We have been through this many times.’ Cecropius spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘The peasant is right. If Gallienus is not killed by a senator, half the senate will acclaim Postumus, the rest will quarrel among themselves, a few might even turn to Odenathus. It would be chaos. The civil wars will continue, we would be no better off, the empire no more secure.’
‘If it has to be a senator, why not the peasant himself?’
Cecropius actually laughed. ‘It has to be a senator of a more conventional background. Would you accept the peasant as emperor? He gave himself that nickname for a reason.’
‘What about Tacitus? His family have been in the Curia for generations.’
‘He is away on the Danube.’
‘Conveniently.’
‘Tacitus left before this undertaking was finalised.’
‘How do I know that he is with us at all? You name all these protectores – Tacitus and Aurelian and Heraclian – none of them are here in Rome. What proof do I have they even know of our plans?’
‘What proof would you have? Do you expect them to put it in writing, affix their seal? The friends of Catiline did, and the executioner strangled them.’
Sempronius was silent. He had not expected Cecropius to have heard of Catiline and his conspiracy. Surely this unlettered soldier had not read Cicero or Sallust? In his surprise, he did not take in the first words of what Cecropius was now saying.
‘ . . . only some of them, to approach any more would have run too many risks, but rest assured all the protectores will welcome the end of Gallienus. Day by day the empire totters. In the West, Postumus must be crushed. In the East, Odenathus has to be brought to heel, the Persians defeated, the prestige of Rome restored. We are surrounded by war. The army cries out for men and money, proper leadership, old-fashioned Roman discipline and virtue. And Gallienus passes his time with mime artists and whores, wearing women’s clothes. He empties the treasuries to build a gigantic statue here on the Esquiline, an enormous portico on the Campus Martius, a city full of philosophers in the Apennines. No wonder Postumus despises us, and barbarians like Odenathus and the Sassanid King mock our power. You know they say Shapur makes the old emperor kneel in the dirt, puts his boot on Valerian’s shoulders when he mounts his horse. Poor old Valerian, to have a son like Gallienus, who makes no move to save him. Poor Rome, to have sunk so low.’
Cecropius took a deep breath. ‘Everything is ready. The moment is propitious. You will be searched when you go into the presence of the emperor, but in the imperial box the peasant will pass you a weapon. Wait until Gallienus leaves. Hand him your petition when he is out in the private corridor that runs up to the Palatine. While he reads it, strike. Don’t waste your breath on words, just strike. The guards there will not intervene. We will all be with you. You must strike the first blow, but we will help finish him. As soon as Gallienus is dead, we will escort you to the Palace. Nothing will go wrong. Have no fear.’
*
Once Cecropius had gone, Sempronius went out into the atrium. At the rear, all the slaves were waiting by the household shrine, as they did every morning. Quintus, his surviving son, dutifully stood with them. The old ways were important to Sempronius. After all these years his eldest son’s absence from the ceremony still hurt. Not a day passed that he did not mourn the boy. Quintus was a weak thing compared with his dead brother.
The slaves – bowing, blowing kisses from their fingertips – bade him a formal good day. Another absence caused merely irritation. Once again his wife had not appeared. She would be finishing her toilette, criticising her maids, slapping and pinching them. Sempronius’ marriage had always brought her servants even more unpleasantness than it brought himself.
Sempronius stood in front of the shrine. He looked at the painted genius of the household. Toga-clad and dignified, his mirror image, it stared back. The genius was flanked by the two lares. Their short tunics flared as they danced, wine jugs and drinking vessels in hand. A long snake coiled across the bottom of the painting. In front a fire burned on the altar.
Have no fear. Typical impudence from the likes of Cecropius. An ancestor had won Sempronius’ family the cognomen Dalmaticus by killing thousands of Cecropius’ barbaric antecedents. If Cecropius and the other protectores thought they were getting an emperor who would be no more than a figurehead, they would quickly learn their mistake. The key was the emperor’s German bodyguard. When an emperor was dead, the barbarians accepted the fact, easily shifted their allegiance to his successor. But while the emperor was alive, they honoured their word, and were unshakably loyal. Which was much more than one could say of the Praetorian Guard. It explained why the attempt on Gallienus’ life must be made in the secret corridor of the Colosseum, after the Germans in the imperial box had handed the duty of guarding the emperor over to the praetorians. It was a sad indic
tment of contemporary Roman morality.
Sempronius had his plans in place. This coming evening, no sooner than Gallienus was dead, and Sempronius had reached the Palace, he would summon the Germans and administer their oath. Once they had given their word, Sempronius could rely upon them. His first command would be to order the execution of the protectores in the conspiracy. Have no fear. The peasant, the ferret, the mouse, and Cecropius – the rider, as he was styled among the plotters – would barely have time to register fear, let alone savour their transitory triumph.
The coup would cleanse the Augean stables of the court and the army. The protectores would be abolished. The equestrian officers who had clawed their way up from the mire of the barracks would be dismissed. Senators of good standing would again hold high military commands. Sempronius had sounded out some here in Rome. On the plains of northern Italy, Acilius Glabrio and Nummius Faustinianus were with the army, and poised to act. That no senator to whom he had spoken had betrayed him proved both their hatred of Gallienus and their commitment to the cause embodied by Sempronius himself.
The reign of Sempronius Augustus would be a return to the ways of the ancestors. Once again the mos maiorum would be respected. The emperor would attend the senate, show due deference, draw his councillors from its number. When he took the field, his armies would be commanded by senators of traditional families, men shaped by generations of their forefathers’ duty and service to the res publica. Sempronius would not rule like some oriental despot, but conduct himself as a first among equals. Sempronius was steeped in history. Its examples were ever before his eyes. Trajan, Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius would be his models. Emperors who ruled not for themselves, but for the good of others. Sempronius’ eldest son would have made a fine ruler. But he was dead. Weak and profligate, Quintus did not have it in him. When it came time for Sempronius to join his elder son in Hades, like the good emperors of old, he would designate as his heir the best man that could be found among the senate. Sempronius Augustus would haul Rome back from this age of iron and rust. Perhaps the times were too debased, and the gods too far, to return to an age of gold, but it was not too late to recreate one of silver.
The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome Page 14