Apparently, much later, Iunia had wed a dull, wealthy senator called Toxotius. Ballista did not condemn her life of quiet conjugal affluence and ease. It was all he wanted for himself.
The litter passed, and the crowd thinned as it spread again across the street. Ballista remained stock still, like Socrates struck by some philosophic speculation. The house of Decimus was not far, up on the Esquiline. As the husband of the master’s cousin, the door would be open to Ballista. He could go there, and wait the return of Decimus from the Palatine. No, it would not do. If anything it would put Decimus in greater danger. And, of course, Ballista could not rely on the message that he had given Decimus reaching the emperor.
Ballista looked up at the sky above the great, blank wall of the back of the Forum of Augustus. He could not see the sun, but judged it to be about the end of the third hour of the day. By now Gallienus would have left the Palace, would be on his way to the Games. Perhaps he had already arrived. Ballista would have to go to the Colosseum. Somehow he must come up with a plan to gain access to the imperial box. There were less than nine hours left. Ballista needed somewhere quiet and secure to think.
The idea came fully formed, as if put into his mind by a god. The Baths of Trajan opened early. Thousands of people would be bathing, taking massages, listening to lectures and recitals, or just eating and talking. There could be no better place to lay low, and plan his next move. Almost with a spring in his step, he set off.
There had not been a cobbler on the Street of the Sandal Makers in living memory. The pedestrians here wore good shoes, and were well dressed. Most were customers of the booksellers that lined the street. Ballista had spent much time here in his youth.
Down the street children played around a man who was singing. Ballista stopped, and pretended to study some scrolls set out on the pavement. He looked back the way he had come. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
Not far now. Past the Forum of Peace and the Temple of Venus and Rome, up the steps to the Esquiline, and a short walk would bring him to the Baths of Trajan. Once there, he would be overlooking the Colosseum, no distance from his goal. He could blend in with those taking their leisure, and plot how on earth he would get into the amphitheatre, let alone the imperial box.
The children’s laughter and cries were louder. They had a sharp and mocking edge. Now and then one of the children would dart forward, and spit at the singer.
Sabarbath, Sabarbathiuoth. The man’s song was tuneless, its words without meaning.
A passer-by stopped, and put his thumb between his fingers to ward off evil.
Someone threw a stone. It hit the singer on the shoulder, and he stumbled. Sabarbioneth. His eyes unfocused, he continued to sing.
‘Poor Lucius.’ The passer-by addressed Ballista. ‘He was a stonemason, as sane as the next man. One day he was standing outside a tavern, when a black dog stood in front of him and yawned. Lucius yawned too, he could not help himself. The dog vanished, and the daemon leapt down Lucius’ throat. His family paid for an exorcism. It did not work, and they threw him out. Now he wanders the streets.’
Sabarbaphai. The madman and his cruel entourage went on towards the subura.
Watching them go, something struck Ballista as wrong. Those on the street either looked at the demented stonemason, or went about their business, studiously ignoring his passage. Except one short man whose eyes were fixed on Ballista. Realising his attention was noticed, the man quickly turned away, and hurried into a bookshop.
Ballista waited. The man did not come out. For sure he was not a member of the City Watch, and nothing about him spoke of service in the military. His thin, ratty appearance did not suggest a love of books.
Then again, many bibliophiles were down at heel. People liked to browse. It might be nothing, a casual meeting of eyes misinterpreted. If this went on much longer, Ballista thought, he might end up as mad as the stonemason.
Striding out, although not so fast as to draw comment, Ballista came level with the Forum of Peace. On the other side of the street was an eating house with a painting of a lyre on its sign. Ballista went in, and found a seat from which he could watch the street. He ordered some bread and cheese, and a jug of well-watered wine. Before the food arrived, he saw the seedy little man.
A little too casually, his follower glanced into the Lyre as he passed.
Ballista took a drink, eyes on the street. People went to and fro. None of them were out of the ordinary, except for a priest of the goddess Isis, clad in linen robes, and wearing a mask over his face fashioned like the head of a dog. It was really no wonder people like Diomedes and the brigands on the Campus Martius saw them as alien.
All too soon, sure enough the short man retraced his steps, again peering into the eating house.
Ballista ate his food quickly, paid up, and went to the doorway. The little man was some way off to the right, leafing through some papyri. Ballista waited until a group of fashionably dressed young men blocked the little man’s view of the eating house, and walked away.
As Ballista neared the statue of Apollo Sandaliarius, the street was crowded. He ducked behind the base of the statue.
A moment later the now familiar figure hustled past. Not being tall, the shabby man bobbed from side to side, trying to see around those in front.
Making sure that he was not observed, Ballista marched into the nearest bookshop.
‘Health and great joy, sir.’
‘And to you.’
Apart from the bookseller, there were two customers. The latter were in close conversation towards the rear of the shop.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
Ballista took off his hat. ‘The Encomium on Hair by Dio of Prusa would be fitting.’
The bookseller smiled. ‘One of his minor works, I am afraid that I do not have it. But I do have a copy of his Trojan Oration, on clean papyrus, in a fine hand.’
‘If I may, I will see what catches my eye.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The short man had not reappeared, and Ballista edged away from the door.
‘You may be just the man we are looking for, good sir.’
The two customers wore elegant Greek mantles over spotless tunics. The one who had spoken sported a neat, trimmed beard, and short hair. His powerful physique was evidently the result of hard training. The other was more slender, with artfully curled hair. He was clean-shaven, and his cheeks showed the trace of cosmetics.
‘My handsome friend here,’ the bearded one continued, ‘is from Corinth, and that city, notorious for the beauty and skill of its courtesans, is the cause of his obsession with women. You note how he employs curling tongs and depilation to make himself attractive to them.’
The Corinthian laughed. ‘Whereas this hirsute man of Sparta is a devotee of the wrestling grounds, although only to watch the boys oiled and naked. To put an end to our contentious and inconclusive quibbling over which love is better, we would debate the issue in an orderly way. We need a man of culture and learning to act as judge.’
‘You, sir,’ the Spartan said, ‘demonstrated such attributes just now with your witty reference to that Dio whose eloquence won him the title of the Golden-mouthed.’
‘Forgive me,’ Ballista said, ‘I have little time.’
The Spartan took Ballista’s arm in a manly grip. ‘We will keep our speeches short. There is a back room for privacy, and I am sure that our host will offer us refreshments.’
Beware Greeks bringing gifts, Ballista thought. But among his people there was another saying, never look a gift horse in the mouth.
The door of the back room shut behind them. As they settled themselves on couches, the bookseller bustled about, ordering one of his slave boys to bring them olives, while himself pouring wine. These Greeks were valued customers indeed.
‘You should draw lots to decide who should speak first.’
They did as Ballista had suggested, and the Corinthian won.
‘Ap
hrodite, help my advocacy. You, goddess of love, plead the cause of womankind.’ The Corinthian pushed some ringlets from his forehead. ‘The love of man for woman is natural and ordained by the gods. Aphrodite herself imbued both sexes with desire for the other. The intercourse of man and woman preserves humanity by an undying succession.’
Over his years in the empire Ballista had listened, not always willingly, to the speeches of many Sophists. The words flowed over him. It was a lesson of office to appear attentive, while the mind moved elsewhere. By the time that this was over, the shifty little man should be long gone. Rome was full of informers. There must have been a proclamation. Most likely it had included a description. Either the new garments and headgear had not provided an adequate transformation, or the short man had already known Ballista. The latter was quite possible. Ballista had commanded armies, served on the imperial council. On his return from the North, he had appeared beside Gallienus at the Circus. If it was the former, there was little to be done. Ballista could think of no better disguise.
‘Gradually the passing years degenerated to the lowest depths of hedonism, and cut out strange paths to enjoyment. Luxury transgressed the laws of nature. The same sex entered the same bed. Sowing his seed on barren rocks, it brought a little pleasure to the one at the cost of great disgrace to the other.’
Ballista had never fully understood Roman attitudes to sex. As far as he could see, a Roman could penetrate anyone, man or woman, boy or girl, and he incurred no shame. A member of the elite got into trouble if caught bedding the wife or daughter of another member of the elite, but beyond that almost anything seemed to go. Yet should a male ever play the role of a woman, just once allow himself to be the receiver, he was disgraced for the rest of his life. It accounted for the contempt in which freedmen were held. Once they had been slaves, and thus almost certainly would have submitted to the desires of their master.
‘From maidenhood to middle age a woman is a pleasant armful for a man to embrace. Even if her beauty is past its prime, as Euripides said, “With a wiser tongue experience speaks than does the young.” The intercourse of man with woman brings mutual pleasure. Unless we heed the judgement of Tiresias – that mortal who had been both sexes by turn – and say that the enjoyment of a woman is twice that of a man. Finally, as even the most dedicated pederast must admit, a woman may be used like a boy, opening up two paths to pleasure.’
No sooner had the Corinthian stopped, than the man of Sparta began speaking.
‘Aphrodite, be propitious, for I am here to honour your son, Eros. Marriage is a remedy invented to ensure the perpetuity of man, but the love of boys is a noble duty enjoined by a philosophic spirit. As long as life was a daily struggle for existence, men were content to limit themselves to necessities. Once pressing needs were at an end, we were released from the shackles of necessity.’
Was necessity a hard master, or nothing but a convenient excuse? Ballista saw the watchman falling, an Icarus with burnt wings. Help me. He heard the knuckles break under his boot. He watched the second, fatal fall, heard the sickening impact, saw the shattered body on the pavement, and listened again to the outcry of those down on the street. Ballista had killed many men. He had killed his own half-brother. That had not left this horror. None of the victims had been so helpless. Never had there been that cold, inhuman calculation. There were rituals of expiation. Ballista would hold to necessity. Let the shade of the watchman haunt his sleeping and waking hours, let the Furies rise from Hades and hound his every step. Ballista would accept it all, but he would save his family. No one and nothing would stop him.
‘If one were to see women rise in the morning from last night’s bed, one would think them uglier than those beasts whose name it is inauspicious to mention early in the day. They need powders and unguents, jars full of dentifrices and contrivances, legions of maids, skilled hairdressers, Indian gems and Red Sea pearls, to cease to resemble monkeys.’
Ballista felt a great desire to leave. The trivial and precious concerns of these effete Greeks were sickening. The informer would have long since quit the street.
‘But a boy rises at dawn, washes the sleep from his eyes, pins on a simple mantle, and leaves his father’s hearth.’
It was time for Ballista to be gone. He needed peace to think.
‘Next comes the glistening wrestling school. Under the midday sun his developing body is covered in dust. A quick bath and a sober meal, and a return to his books, before the evening ends, and he sleeps the sweeter for his exertions. Who would not fall in love with such a youth?’
Would this ever stop?
‘This love is pure and beautiful, for the lover is driven, not by lust, but a philosophic attraction to the beautiful and virtuous. The boy repays this love with affection, and, if he chooses, satisfies the desire of his lover by some means that does not taint his own virtue.’
It took Ballista a moment to realise that the oration had ended. They were both waiting for his verdict. The Spartan was leaning forward, gazing into his eyes, a hand on his knee. Beware the Greeks bringing gifts. At home among the Angles, the practices advocated by the Spartan would have seen him drowned in a swamp. Deeds of shame should be buried out of the sight of man, stamped down, trodden deep.
This was no place to cause offense. Ballista had lived too long among foreigners to think only the ways of his own ancestors could be right. He reined in his thoughts. Something tactful to say, something enigmatic, which favoured neither side, and he could be on his way. A couplet of Homer came to mind.
A man who never sleeps could rake in double wages,
One for herding cattle, one for pasturing fleecy sheep.
He left them nodding sagely at each other as if they actually understood what it meant.
CHAPTER 18
The Baths of Trajan
B
ALLISTA HAD FORGOTTEN the festival of Venus. On the Kalends of April the pools of the public baths were reserved for women. After he had left the bookshop, he had taken a roundabout route, up to the Esquiline, then through backstreets behind the Temple of Tellus and the Baths of Titus. It was not until he reached the side entrance to the Baths of Trajan, and saw the crowd of women, that he remembered. They were of every age and class; girls and matrons in respectable long robes, prostitutes in the toga that showed their occupation. Inside all marks of status would be discarded. They would bathe naked. The haughtiest wife of a Consul would join with the lowest whore from the subura in offering a pinch of incense to Fortuna Virilis, that the goddess might hide any blemish on her body from the sight of men.
The festival made little difference. The rest of the vast complex was open to men. Ballista had not intended to bathe anyway. Being naked would not help, if he had to leave in a hurry.
Walking through the formal gardens to the main buildings, Ballista passed by the famous sculpture of Laocoon and his sons. The Trojan prince had objected to bringing the wooden horse into the walls. Athena had sent two great sea serpents. Caught in their coils, Laocoon had been crushed to death, along with his blameless sons. The gods were cruel. The innocent would be punished with the guilty. It was not a message a man in Ballista’s position could be expected to find encouraging.
Going through a side door, Ballista came out into a palaestra. There were only a few men playing ball in the exercise ground. Ballista went over to a statue hung with green boughs and garlanded with roses, and pretended to read its inscription. A semi-circular auditorium opened off the palaestra. Attendants and slaves with satchels of books sat outside. Through the columns of the open wall, their masters could be seen strolling to their places on the benches. It was a good-sized audience. Some well known philosopher or sophist was going to declaim.
Ballista took a seat on the lowest tier, at one end. From there he could keep an eye on the palaestra, and, if necessary, slip out without much fuss. He took off his hat, and closed his eyes. The buzz of conversation was soporific. Once again fatigue threatened to overcome him. He rubbed his
eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. On his travels, he should have found an apothecary, and purchased a compound of natron and chalcanthite. It was said a single sniff banished tiredness. The magician from the Gardens of Lucullus no doubt would have recommended wearing the dried head of a bat as an amulet, or spooning up a drink with its wings. Too much of the latter, and apparently you never slept again. There was no end to the superstitions of men.
Like kicking on a weary horse, Ballista forced his mind back along the right path. Last night he had failed to reach the Praetorian Prefect. This morning he had failed to reach the emperor. Before sunset he had to get into the Colosseum, and somehow gain entrance to the imperial box.
There was a network of tunnels under the amphitheatre. One of the entrances was outside in the Ludus Magnus. If he could talk his way into the gladiatorial school . . . Ballista dismissed the strategy. The last thing he wanted was to come out onto the floor of the arena. There had to be corridors leading up into the building itself, but Ballista did not know them, and they would be securely guarded. The authorities would hardly leave avenues of escape open to reluctant combatants and wild beasts.
There was no longer any doubt in Ballista’s mind, but that he needed help to reach the emperor. That help had to come from an officer or official with access, someone who could order the guards to let him pass. If not the Praetorian Prefect, then whom?
The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome Page 19