Although there must be at least a hundred waiting, both servile and free, the vastness of the basilica made it seem almost untenanted. Ballista crossed the floor, his boots treading on intricate patterns of purple, yellow, red and black marble. Shipped from the furthest reaches of the empire – Numidia, Phrygia and Egypt – the stones asserted the universal dominion of Rome.
Taking one of the doors at the back, Ballista came out into the courtyard dominated by Trajan’s Column. He turned left, and went into the imperial library devoted to Latin literature.
The attendant at the entrance gave him an odd look. Ballista pulled off the cap. A disguise which worked in one place drew attention in another. Why indeed would a slave just given liberty rush to consult a book?
Ballista went up to the second floor. He knew the library well from his youth. Its smell of cedar wood and papyrus and dust reminded him of leisure and safety, of losing himself in other worlds.
Surreptitiously stuffing the cap into a bookcase, he took a seat on the gallery that overlooked the column. A man had to be somewhere, and a library was not an obvious refuge for a fugitive. He was as safe here as anywhere. There were copies of Trajan’s Commentaries on the tables, as there had been half a lifetime ago, when Ballista was young. He picked up one of them, unrolled it. To blend in, a man in a library should be reading or writing. Sarmizegethusa, Blandiana, Germisara, the litany of Dacian place names, and the dry prose could not hold his attention. He looked out of the window.
Trajan’s Column had always puzzled Ballista. The great spiral of relief sculpture pictured the emperor’s Commentaries of the campaigns. Yet, despite its artistry, the visual narrative was unreadable. If you stood at the bottom, and looked up, no matter how sharp your eyesight, no matter how you craned your neck, you could not really make out the figures at the top. From where Ballista sat on the second floor, he could not see those at the base. And there was no way to follow the story as it wound around the column.
Ballista studied the side which faced him. Romans marched in order, they crossed bridges, built camps, defeated Dacians. Trajan was depicted at strategic points. Larger than the other figures, possessed of a god-like calm, he oversaw everything, but never himself had to fight. The message was evident: resistance was futile; Rome would always win; like a deity, the emperor was everywhere.
Long ago Ballista had attended a lecture here. The sophist had proposed a different reading. It had hinged on the barbarian allies who were pictured fighting for Rome. A foreigner viewing the column, the sophist had argued, would take an aspirational message. He would identify with an ascent from hostile savage to Roman ally, and from there on to regular auxiliary soldier, and finally to citizen legionary. Why not, Ballista thought, on that logic, from legionary to officer, and on to senator, or even emperor?
Ballista gazed at Dacians fighting courageously to the death, at men committing suicide rather than submitting, and – right at the top – at men, women and children fleeing their burning homes. As the historian Tacitus wrote, the Romans create a desert, and they call it peace. Some barbarians always would choose to become refugees, to lose everything before they lost their freedom.
To think in such a way, Ballista knew, would brand him in Roman eyes as an irredeemable barbarian, beneath rational thought, incapable of understanding the benefits of civilization and Roman rule, little better than an animal. Ballista knew that it was not true. After all these years in the empire, he was part Roman. No longer totally welcome in his homeland, yet still not fully accepted in the imperium, he was between two worlds, he stood out in both. For sure, here in Rome, he stood out physically. He needed to alter his appearance.
‘Marcus?’ The upper-class drawl was familiar.
‘Is that you?’ At least Julia’s cousin had used his praenomen, and not called him Ballista.
‘Health and great joy, Decimus.’ There were people at the desks, some moving through the shelves; best if this was cut short.
‘You look different.’
Not different enough, Ballista thought.
‘What has happened to your hair? A society beauty would have paid a fortune for your long, blonde locks.’
‘What are you doing here, Decimus?’
The young equestrian made a self-deprecating gesture. ‘Oh, you know, still writing. Would you like to hear my latest poem?’
Before Ballista could frame a polite refusal, think of a way to extricate himself, his wife’s relative began to recite.
Grey Time moves silently, and creeping on
Steals the voices of articulate humans
‘Now I had trouble with the next lines.’
Obscure himself, he hides illustrious men
And brings to light men who have been obscure.
The recitation was drawing attention. One or two scholars were looking up from their scrolls with irritation.
‘You see the play on obscurity?’
O unforeseen finish of men’s lives,
Who daily always advance towards the dark.
An idea occurred to Ballista. This chance meeting could be turned to advantage.
‘I think the ending works well.’
‘Decimus . . .’
‘It is one of a cycle on mortality—’
‘Decimus.’ Ballista got up, took his arm, and led him to a secluded alcove. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes, but—’
Ballista held up a hand to silence him. ‘Have you got writing materials?’
‘My secretary has, you remember Felix? I set him free last year. Were you at the party? No, of course, you were away.’
‘Would you get them?’
‘Of course, let me call him.’
‘No, please bring them yourself. I do not want anyone to know that I am here.’
Decimus rolled his eyes. ‘How deliciously mysterious. Not an affair? Should I help you? What would Julia say?’
‘Please.’
‘A moment.’ Decimus walked off, throwing an arch look over his shoulder, like an actor in a mime.
Julia’s cousin was a harmless innocent. His life consisted of a round of dinner parties and recitations, nothing more dangerous than the occasional trip to a rowdy theatre. It was wrong to involve him. Ballista would put him in as little danger as possible. Although ignorance might prove no protection.
‘Here we are.’
‘I need you to take a message for me.’
‘So I gathered.’ Decimus smiled. ‘At least tell me her name.’
‘It is not a woman.’
‘Not a boy?’
‘No, not a boy.’
‘I am consumed by curiosity.’
Ballista opened the wooden block. He hesitated, the stylus poised over the smooth wax. There was no time for style or amplitude, and no point in subterfuge. He shielded the diptych from Decimus with his back, and wrote, his practised hand impressing the characters quickly but with clarity.
Ballista send greetings to Gallienus Augustus.
There is a plot to assassinate you as you leave the imperial box of the Colosseum at sunset today. Scarpio, the Prefect of the City Watch, is part of the conspiracy. There are others, I do not know who, but they must be close to you. One is bald, another is said to look like a peasant.
Take all precautions. Trust no one, except the German Guard.
The bearer of this message knows nothing. I will try and come to you.
Ballista shut the diptych, snapped the hinges closed.
‘Decimus, do not read this.’
‘My dear, I am the soul of discretion.’
‘Take this to the Palace. In the vestibule ask for Demetrius the secretary. Tell him that it must reach the emperor.’
There was a look of horror on the equestrian’s face. ‘The Palace? Marcus, I want nothing to do with the Court. It is far too dangerous. You know I never go near the Palatine. We have estates in Gaul. Some of our relatives are with Postumus. It is not safe. I really do not know . . .’
Ball
ista gripped his shoulders, looked into his eyes. ‘You know nothing. You will be safe. Just deliver the message to Demetrius. He will do the rest. Hand it to the Greek boy, and leave.’
‘But . . .’ Decimus stumbled over his words, as he sought a way out. ‘An affair is one thing, but . . .’
Ballista held him tight. ‘Decimus, as you love your cousin, do this thing for her.’
‘Well, if I must. Just hand over the message, and leave?’
‘Just hand over the message, and leave.’
Ballista released him.
‘What did happen to your hair?’
‘Another time. Please, just go.’
CHAPTER 16
The Markets of Trajan
T
HE STREET CHILD WAS SITTING on the pavement.
‘Do you want to earn some coins?’
The boy looked at Ballista with suspicion, his eyes too knowing for his years.
‘I am going into that barbershop.’ Ballista got out a bronze coin. ‘Let me know if you see the City Watch coming this way, or anyone else who looks suspicious. Keep an eye out for any soldiers trying to pass themselves off as civilians. There are two more coins for you, when I leave.’
The child smiled. Under the dirt and the deprivation, he was beautiful. ‘I knew you were up to no good, as soon as I saw you.’
‘I value my privacy.’
‘But I thought you were after something else with me. Tell you what, five more coins and you can meet my sister. Nice and private up in her room.’
‘That would be delightful, but perhaps another time.’
Ballista had walked past the barbershop twice already. It opened directly off the walkway, and there did not appear to be another way out, but there was a flight of stairs up to the next level of shops a few paces deeper into the labyrinth of the market.
‘Be with you in a moment, sir. Do take a seat.’
The shop smelt of lotions and singed hair. Apart from the barber and his client, there was a young assistant, and two elderly men playing dice. Ballista sat on a bench from where he could see the urchin squatting outside.
On the wall behind the barber hung the main tools of his trade; the curling irons, combs, scissors and razors. Ancillary items – perfumes, creams, dyes, patches, the latter all too often required – were arranged on a shelf.
‘Do you think your boy could go and buy some things for me while I wait?’
‘Of course, sir. He would be delighted.’
‘A small flask of wine for me, and another for these gentlemen here.’
The old idlers muttered their thanks. That was civil of him, indeed.
Ballista handed over some money, then added that he had lost his knife, and needed another; a decent-sized blade, something that could cut twine, not a little fruit knife.
When the assistant had left, Ballista closed his eyes. He wanted a real blade, but, if he intended to pass for a civilian, it was better that he had not asked the boy to buy him one. It was illegal for any except the military to carry a sword in Rome. It was not technically against the law to carry a sword for hunting or self-defence. But opportunities for hunting might be considered limited in the metropolis, and admitting that you needed a weapon to defend yourself raised difficult questions.
Ballista was tired. The sounds of the street were muted. The client must have asked to have his hair cut in silence. There was only the click, click of the dice, and the occasional murmur and grunt of the players.
Julia’s cousin had given his word, but would he go to the Palatine? Decimus had looked terrified. He might be a dandy – a poet, not a man of action, he had never done military service – but he was not a fool. To take a secret message to the emperor was not something that anyone would undertake lightly. The closed writing block could contain nothing except a denunciation. This man is a traitor. Decimus must be wondering why Ballista could not deliver it himself. Even if Decimus plucked up his courage, did not find some excuse to delay, or abandon the unwelcome task, it was far from certain that the message would reach the emperor. Demetrius had access to Gallienus. The Greek youth was not just an imperial secretary, but a former lover of the emperor. Gallienus always had shown consideration to those who had shared his bed. Yet the approaches to the Palatine were closely watched. The message might never reach Demetrius. If Julia’s cousin was intercepted carrying the message, neither Scarpio, nor the unknown knifemen from the Mausoleum, would believe that he did not know its contents. Ballista did not want the torture and death of Decimus on his conscience. Enough bad things weighed on that sensibility already.
The room and the street outside seemed very distant. Ballista’s head felt light, his thoughts swimming away, until just one remained. He could not rely on Decimus. Somehow he would still have to warn Gallienus himself.
Ballista snapped awake when the assistant returned. Despite everything, he must have fallen asleep. He was more tired than he had realised. It was not merely lack of sleep. He had seen soldiers so fast asleep before battle that they could hardly be roused, even with a kick. A retreat into fatigue deadened fear seemed in a way to remove a man from danger.
The boy handed Ballista the knife, with some change, and distributed the two flasks.
Ballista tucked the knife in his belt, and took a swig of wine. It was strong, flavoured with resin, surprisingly good.
The barber was brushing down his customer. ‘Let me sweep the floor, sir, and I will be ready for you.’
Ballista stretched, and looked outside. The urchin was still watching the entrance to the market. Ballista went and sat on the stool.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘Shave my head.’
One of the geriatric dice players laughed. ‘You thinking of joining an eastern cult? A bald head won’t be enough. To be one of the Galloi, you have to have your balls off.’
‘Don’t mind old Gnaeus, sir. Always thought himself a comedian.’ The barber spread a napkin over Ballista’s shoulders. ‘Shave it is, sir. The face too?’
‘Leave the stubble.’
The assistant brought a bowl of hot water from the brazier at the back of the shop.
‘Take care, Barber, I don’t want to end up looking like a man married to a bad tempered woman with sharp nails.’
‘Have no fear, sir. I have been doing this all my life, man and boy. Any little nicks, and we have plenty of spider’s webs soaked in oil and vinegar.’
The barber arranged a warm and damp towel over Ballista’s head. ‘Those stories are all the wrong way around. Men who cannot control their wives blame their barber. Not that it is easy to keep any woman in her place.’
The whetstone and the razor were produced. The barber spat on the former, and set to putting an edge on the steel. ‘You see all those tombstones boasting the dead woman’s virtues. She was chaste and modest, frugal and sober, good natured and hard working; first to rise from her bed, and last to return. Maybe back in the day, back when Hannibal was at the gates. Perhaps back then poverty kept women chaste, hard work and little sleep kept them honest, put callouses on their hands.’
The towel was removed, and the barber made the first pass with the razor.
‘But now they sit around all day, won’t take a turn at the loom. If you don’t put a lock on the storeroom, they will drink all your wine, spend all your hard-earned savings. If you try and stop them, they give you what for, answer back, try and scratch your eyes out. Blessed relief it was when my wife died.’
‘Had her carried to the pyre on a shield, he did.’ Gnaeus had looked up from his game. ‘You know why?’ The old man was laughing so much he could hardly get the answer out. ‘Because she always liked a battle.’
Ballista hoped that the barber, given what he was doing, did not join in the senile hilarity.
‘At a woman’s funeral, a stranger asks, “Who is resting here?” ’ Gnaeus was enjoying himself. ‘ “I am,” says the widower, “now I have got some peace.” ’
‘That is enough, Gnaeus. That joke was old when Nestor was a boy. The gentleman does not want to hear you prattling on.’
The barber was taking his time with the shaving. That was good. The street boy was still watching outside. There was no particular hurry.
‘And as for their superstitions. My old woman was always running off to some cult or other.’ Evidently the barber preferred his own monologues to his friend’s witticisms. ‘If it wasn’t bad enough with Cybele and the rest of those eastern mysteries, now there are those fucking Christians. Who knows what they get up to? I heard they meet in a shuttered room, just the one light, and they tie a dog to the lampstand. They throw in a piece of meat, the dog pulls over the lamp, out goes the light, and then they can all fuck each other in the dark; brothers and sisters, fathers and daughters, no one any the wiser.’
The barber gestured for the assistant to wet Ballista’s head again.
‘You married, sir?’
‘No.’ Even Odysseus had not denied that he had a wife. Once you started to lie, it got easier. Perhaps after a time, it became second nature.
‘Those Jews are no better with women . . .’
Ballista stopped listening to the litany of misogyny and religious prejudice. He wondered what had happened when Maximus and Tarchon had reached the Praetorian Camp last night. They were hard men, they could look after themselves. But he had thought the same about Calgacus. When this was over, he would not rest until he found Hippothous. He would scour the empire. One day, maybe not soon, but one day, he would find Hippothous, and then he would revenge Calgacus, or die in the attempt. But first he must save the emperor. If Gallienus died . . . Ballista would not think about Julia and his sons.
The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome Page 17