‘Another one who knows of a conspiracy.’
A resigned tilt of the head indicated Ballista should follow the centurion.
They walked between porticos which fronted two barracks. All the doors were closed. Normally, off-duty soldiers would be idling in the shade, playing dice, drinking and talking. Although there were never more than a couple of hundred frumentarii in the camp, today it was unusually quiet.
The centurion led Ballista to a small square. A dozen civilians sat or stood around under the bored gaze of four soldiers. Those waiting had nothing in common physically. One even wore the quilted jacket and trousers of a Sarmatian tribesman from the Steppes. They were not prisoners, but they all shared an air of furtive desperation. When a man was convicted of treason, the individual who had betrayed him to the authorities received a quarter of his confiscated property. In Rome some men made a living by denunciations. Informers like the men in this square were motivated as often by avarice or spite as concern for the welfare of the ruler. Under a suspicious or vengeful emperor there were fortunes to be made. Gallienus was neither as mistrustful or rancorous as some, but the trade remained lucrative, and it could never be stopped.
The centurion handed Ballista a small wooden tablet. On the tessera was scratched XIII. Even treachery had its bureaucracy.
‘I need to see the prefect immediately,’ Ballista said.
‘Don’t you all,’ the centurion replied. ‘Wait until your number is called.’
‘I must see Rufinus now.’
‘You can wait your turn.’ The centurion looked around. ‘Doubt he will get through this lot before dark. Best you come back tomorrow.’
Ballista began to untie his mask. It was time for crafty Odysseus to stand forth. He took off the canine face of Anubis.
‘I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, and I have information that an attempt will be made on the life of the emperor as he leaves the Colosseum at sunset.’
The centurion looked startled. ‘Ballista . . . the Marcus Clodius Ballista?’
‘There is no time to waste,’ Ballista said. ‘Take me to Rufinus.’
The centurion jerked his head at two of the soldiers. ‘You two, come with us.’
They halted at the steps outside the headquarters building. The centurion told Ballista and the soldiers to wait, and went inside.
He was back in moments, pushing a scrawny man in front of him. ‘You get nothing.’ He pushed the man down the steps. ‘Clear off, or you will spend the night in the cells.’
Muttering at the injustice, glowering at Ballista and the soldiers, the gaunt figure shuffled away.
‘Marcus Clodius Ballista, the prefect will see you now.’
They went up the stairs, and through the door, which shut behind them.
Rufinus was seated behind a desk. Two more soldiers, one with a nastily bruised face, stood on either side.
Ballista heard the blades slide from the scabbards before he felt their tips prod his back.
‘Search him,’ the prefect said. Given the nature of the work of the frumentarii, precautions were necessary.
Experienced hands patted Ballista down. Armpits, crotch, they missed nothing. A blade slit the back of the linen skirt, and the knife was removed from its place of concealment in the small of his back.
‘On his knees, and bind his hands.’ Precautions were one thing, but this was excessive.
Ballista did not resist. An unarmed man could not win against five soldiers with swords, six if their commander was counted.
When Ballista had been pushed roughly to the floor, his wrists tied behind his back, the prefect ordered all out except the two soldiers who had been with him at the start.
When the door was shut again, Ballista started to speak. The prefect told him to be silent, as if he already knew everything that Ballista might say. A feeling of dread sat like a stone in Ballista’s chest.
Rufinus had a thin, pointed face. It reminded Ballista of a half-tamed polecat, a creature accustomed to sanguinary pursuits in dark places. Slowly a smile spread across the rodent-like features.
‘The gods are good,’ Rufinus said.
Both the soldiers laughed.
So this was the end. Ballista could not understand how he could have been such a fool. Despite their civilian dress, he had realised the swordsmen at the Mausoleum had served in the army. The terrible mistake had been to assume that their service was in the past. They had not deserted. They were still serving. They were frumentarii. And now here, standing above him, was the one he had battered unconscious in the tunnels under the Baths.
‘Every man scouring the city for you, and you walk into the Camp of the Strangers. It is good of you, but, my dear sir, the trouble you have caused.’ Rufinus spoke in a dispassionate voice, as if discussing the cost of a dinner party. ‘Two warehousemen dead in a burned granary in Transtiberim. Four young equestrians assaulted in the subura. Two of the City Watch beaten to within an inch of their lives at the Bridge of Nero, another hurled to his death from a rooftop at the Markets of Trajan. No fewer than three of my men killed in the Mausoleum, and Labeo here pummelled near to death in the baths. The odd incident may have slipped my mind. Even so, it is quite a trail of destruction.’
Ballista said nothing. There was no point pleading.
‘The Prefect of the City Watch is a fool,’ Rufinus continued. ‘The rest of us were against involving you, but Scarpio insisted. He does hate you so. A great, hulking barbarian favourite of our unworthy emperor, lolling in a seat of honour at the front of the imperial box, petted by Gallienus, while little mouse Scarpio has to keep out of sight at the back. It struck a chord in his soul. He does so want you dead, and, of course, he will get his wish.’
Death comes to cowards as well as the brave. ‘I am sorry about the warehousemen, and the man who fell from the roof,’ Ballista said.
The prefect gestured to Labeo. Throwing himself sideways, Ballista took the boot in the side of his head. With his hands bound behind his back, he could not stop his face hitting the floor. Labeo kicked him in the stomach. Ballista curled into a foetal position. Labeo walked around, and kicked him in the kidneys.
‘Enough,’ Rufinus said. ‘I don’t want bloodstains all over my floor. Get him upright.’
Ballista was yanked back onto his knees. The iron taste of blood was in his mouth. He spat on the floor.
Labeo went to hit him again, but Rufinus motioned him to stop.
‘Are you a devotee of the schools of philosophy?’ Rufinus was enjoying this. ‘They argue that what does not affect the inner man is an irrelevance.’
‘Fuck you,’ Ballista said.
‘Evidently you are some way off philosophical enlightenment. Even so, I would not want you to entertain any vain hopes as you make your way to the underworld.’
From the desk, Rufinus picked up a wooden writing block.
Ballista’s heart sank.
Opening the block, Rufinus began to read. ‘There is a plot to assassinate you . . . one is bald, another is said to look like a peasant . . . take all precautions . . . the bearer of this message knows nothing.’
Ballista could sense his self-control slipping.
‘You write a good hand for a barbarian.’
‘What have you done to him?’ Ballista could not help blurting out the question.
‘And every word you wrote was true. Even that the bearer of the message knew nothing. It only took a few touches of the hot irons to convince me of that. The little cousin of your wife was prepared to tell me anything.’
Ballista felt as if he was sinking into a well of despair.
‘Little Decimus is here in one of the cells. As I am not an inhumane man, perhaps you might draw comfort from heading to Hades together.’
Rufinus tipped his head on one side, as if pondering deeply. ‘Except, of course, without coins to pay the ferryman, neither of your shades will be able to cross the Styx. An interesting question – will you wander together or alone? Would a
n eternity of torment be improved by company?’
Ballista remained silent.
‘And while we are on the subject of your family . . .’
Now Ballista knew he was nearing the depths of the well. Nothing left to do, but one last doomed struggle.
‘They will have to die, but Scarpio is cruel, and, for one so mouse-like, extraordinarily lustful. He intends to enjoy your wife, before he strangles her. Well, she is a wanton-looking bitch.’
Gathering all his strength, Ballista prepared to hurl himself across the desk. Perhaps he could at least sink his teeth in his tormentor’s face, before the swords cut him down.
The door swung open.
‘We are not to be disturbed,’ Rufinus snapped.
Two soldiers entered. They were clad in mail, but carried trays covered by cloths, like waiters. One had the end of his nose missing. The other was little more handsome.
‘Oysters! The finest oysters from the Lucrine Lake,’ No-nose said. ‘Oysters for the prefect.’
‘I did not order any oysters,’ Rufinus said.
‘Most probably not,’ No-nose said. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the tray, seafood and all, at the prefect.
‘What?’ Outraged, Rufinus surged to his feet, shellfish clattering onto his desk.
Open mouthed with surprise, the frumentarius on the right saw No-nose’s blade flash out from under the cloth. A second later it punched into his stomach.
The frumentarius on the left got his sword up into a guard, but too slow to prevent the other man driving the point of his blade into his neck.
Neither had time to scream.
Rufinus went for his hilt.
‘Do you think you can draw your sword before I bury mine in your guts?’ No-nose said.
The commander of the frumentarii did not think so. No-nose went and disarmed him, pushed him back down into his seat.
‘You took your time,’ Ballista said to his bodyguards.
‘Sure, it has been a trying few hours,’ Maximus said. ‘Been all over the city looking for you, since that magician turned up. The praetorians at the camp last night were most inhospitable.’
‘Killing several fuck-mother-bastards,’ Tarchon said as he cut the ropes that bound Ballista’s wrists. ‘Happy time.’
Maximus regarded Ballista. ‘Why are you wearing a skirt, and where has your hair gone?’
‘Long story. Did you bring me any clothes?’
‘Do I look like a tailor?’
‘Now kill this shit-arse-bugger, and off we go.’ Tarchon had a way with compound obscenities. ‘Everyone contented.’
‘Wait!’ Rufinus said.
‘Kill quick, leave sooner.’ Tarchon hefted his weapon.
‘I am the head of the frumentarii.’ Rufinus was pleading for his life. ‘People tell me things. I know secrets, something you want.’
‘Tarchon is right,’ Maximus said. ‘The soldiers out there will soon get suspicious. We had best be on our way.’
‘No!’ Rufinus held out his hands in supplication. ‘I know who killed your friend Calgacus.’
Tarchon stopped, his blade poised.
‘That is no secret,’ Ballista said. ‘It was Hippothous the Greek.’
‘But I know where Hippothous is living.’
‘Where?’
‘Let me call for the guards, and I will tell you.’
‘And then give us safe passage?’
‘Of course, you have my word.’
‘And watch us leave to tell Gallienus that you are plotting to kill him?’
Maximus looked at Ballista. ‘Let me make him talk.’
‘No time,’ Ballista said. ‘If he does not die now, the three of us will die in a few moments.’
Ballista walked behind the prefect’s chair. He reached over, and took a metal disk that hung from a fine chain around Rufinus’ neck. On the disk were inscribed the words MILES ARCANUS. It was the identity badge of a frumentarius; the words meant secret soldier.
Maximus passed Ballista a sword.
‘Don’t kill me, I beg you!’
Ballista pulled Rufinus’ head back by the hair. Lining up the steel, Ballista thrust down into the prefect’s throat.
CHAPTER 23
The Caelian Hill
T
HE TWO FRUMENTARII ESCORTED the strangely dressed prisoner down the steps from the headquarters. His face was obscured by one of the dog masks that the priests of Isis wore, and his hands were tied behind his back. It was not uncommon for a man to enter the prefect’s office as an informant, and leave as a prisoner. Nor was it unusual that they looked battered and dishevelled; this one’s linen robe was split down the back. What was strange was the direction the group were taking. Normally they went to the cells, not towards the main gate. The centurion strolled over.
‘New orders.’
All frumentarii cultivated an offhand attitude. The centurion did not recognise the one who spoke. Soldiers were always being posted in and out of the camp, but this one had a striking white scar where the end of his nose should be.
‘Let me see,’ the centurion said.
‘Verbal, not in writing.’
The scar looked a bit like a cat’s arse.
‘Wait there,’ the centurion said, turning away. ‘I will speak to the prefect.’
As soon as he had gone a few steps, the prisoner and escort set off again between the barracks. They walked quickly, almost at a jog.
‘Not too bright, arse-fucker-bastard.’
‘Even a man of his limited intelligence might notice all the dead bodies and everything,’ No-nose said.
At the gate one of the guards barred their way. ‘Where are you taking him?’
Both the frumentarii fished out their identity disks: MILES ARCANUS.
‘Rufinus wants him taken to the Palatine.’ Again Maximus did the talking. ‘Stubborn bastard, he is. The prefect thinks he needs the special expertise of the Palace cellars; the rack and the horse, all those cunning devices that loosen a man’s tongue.’
‘Well, that will be the last we see of him.’ The guard stood aside. ‘His Egyptian goddess can’t help him now.’
As soon as they stepped through the gate, they heard the distant shout. ‘Sound the alarm!’
‘Could be time to start running,’ Maximus said.
‘Stop those men!’
Miraculously, the bonds fell away from the prisoner’s wrists. Ballista tore off the face of Anubis, and pelted after the others. The long skirt tangled his legs, made it hard to run. Already he was falling behind.
‘Not far,’ Maximus called over his shoulder, as he vanished around a corner.
Stumbling after, Ballista saw one of the best things he had ever seen.
Across the street, blocking it from side to side, stood a wall of northern warriors. Shields, helmets, glittering coats of mail, fierce bearded faces; there must have been fifty or more of them.
‘I stopped at the Gardens of Dolabella,’ Maximus said. ‘Thought we might be needing some help.’
The German Guard parted to admit the fugitives. Hands pounded Ballista on the back, strong arms embraced him. He recognised one of the warriors.
‘Thorgrim, son of Svan, what are you doing here?’ Ballista said.
‘A man has to be somewhere,’ the Heathobard replied.
‘Sure, there was much debate in the Gardens,’ Maximus said. ‘Some of the men were for leaving you there. “Fuck him,” they said. That was mainly the Goths, although the Franks agreed with them. And, now I think of it, most of the Marcomanni were of the same opinion. “Why should we be risking our lives for a cunt like him?” they said. It is extraordinary how many enemies you Angles make.’
Further discussion was curtailed by the arrival of the frumentarii around the corner. There were no more than a dozen of them. Seeing the northerners, they skidded to a halt, looked at each other anxiously.
Their centurion stepped forward. ‘Marcus Clodius Ballista is wanted for treason, arson,
assault, theft, and murder. Hand him over!’
‘Is that all?’ Thorgrim called back. ‘Nothing serious then, nothing like fucking a Vestal Virgin?’
‘Any man who gives aid to a traitor is guilty of treason himself.’ The centurion was bristling with outrage. Outnumbered as they were, his men seemed less sure of their cause.
‘Mind you,’ Thorgrim said, ‘he has fucked your wife. But we have all had her. Like throwing a sausage down the Via Sacra.’
‘You barbarians had better give him up, or every one of you will be on a cross by tomorrow.’
‘And will it be you driving the nails in, pretty boy?’
The centurion turned to his men. ‘Seize him!’
The soldiers did not move.
‘Obey the order! Get in there, and arrest the barbarian!’
From the ranks of the northerners came a low hooming sound.
The soldiers shifted uneasily.
The Germans took a step forward.
As one, the frumentarii turned and ran. Northern laughter and shouts of derision followed them.
The centurion was left standing on his own. He started to speak. Someone threw a stone. It missed. The centurion turned, and strutted off with a certain dignity.
‘We had best get going,’ Thorgrim said. ‘Your Hibernian here said you had to get to the Games before the emperor leaves.’
It was a few hundred paces to the Colosseum. The route was straightforward. It should take no time. Turn right into the Street of the African Head, follow it down, the school for imperial slaves on the left, the gladiators’ hospital and armoury to the right, past the fountain with the sculpture wearing elephant tusks that gave the road its name, and emerge between two gladiatorial barracks, the Dacicus and the Magnus, by the eastern frontage of the Colosseum.
The warriors shouldered their shields, and moved into a rough column. Ballista took his place at their head, feeling more than faintly ridiculous in his Egyptian linen.
As they rounded the corner onto the Vicus Capitis Africae, it became obvious that the journey would be neither quick nor easy. About a hundred paces ahead, under the arch where the Annian Aqueduct crossed, the street was filled with armed men. Bronze helmets, leather armour, swords and plain shields; it was the City Watch. Shoulder to shoulder, twenty men across, some five deep; about a hundred of them. Of course, the barracks of their fifth Cohort was just to the west. Even so, they had acted fast. Perhaps the centurion of the frumentarii had never expected the Germans to hand over Ballista, maybe he had just wanted to keep them talking, while a messenger turned out the City Watch.
The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome Page 24