Blood seeped out between the woman’s fingers.
‘That was unfortunate,’ Ballista said to the shopkeeper. ‘All I want is to wear your clothes.’
Tarchon released his grip. The man tugged off his tunic.
‘Tend to your wife.’ Ballista pulled off his bloodstained tunic, wriggled into that of the shopkeeper. It was unpleasantly warm, with an odour of stale sweat, and it was too tight.
‘Tie them up, and gag them.’
Maximus and Tarchon cut up strips of sacking, and went about the tasks with brisk efficiency.
Before the gag was inserted in the man’s mouth, Ballista asked him directions to the Sweating Post. They sounded simple enough – second left, third right, right again by the sign of the Dolphin Inn, and you could see the fountain beyond the western side of the Temple – time would tell.
‘I am sorry for the intrusion, and for your wife’s pain. My name is Marcus Clodius Ballista. By tomorrow you will hear one of two stories. Either you will have helped me to save the life of the emperor, or you will have given unwilling aid to a traitor. It all depends what the Fates have spun. If the former, come forward, and you will be rewarded; if the latter, keep very quiet.’
The alleyway outside was empty. The gloom of evening had descended already down here. Time was running out. Even so, the three men went slowly, stopping to listen. In the distance, dogs barked, children squealed. High on the roofs, gulls screamed.
Second left. They passed a few people. Ballista had wrapped his sword in a rag. Despite the other two sheathing their weapons, their mail coats earned a few inquisitive looks. Third right. Almost out of this maze of miniscule alleys.
‘There they are!’
Immortality must be dull. The gods sport with humanity to lighten the boredom.
A squad of the City Watch clattering single file down the narrow passage after them.
‘You go,’ Tarchon said.
Ballista and Maximus hesitated.
‘Three years waiting to pay debt. All good now.’ Tarchon turned his back, his mailed shoulders nearly filling the alleyway. With a flourish, he unsheathed his sword.
The leading man of the Watch slowed down.
Tarchon slid the tip of his blade down the brickwork, a rasping sound of infinite menace.
The watchman stopped. He was taking great gulps of air, working himself up to fight.
‘Go now,’ Tarchon said over his shoulder. The demented Suanian looked blissfully happy. ‘Tarchon see you later. Maybe in another life.’
CHAPTER 26
The Sweating Post
T
HE COLOSSEUM, AT LAST. The sheer scale of the building was overpowering – three levels of arches piled on top of each other, above them the fourth, where windows replaced arches, and, at the very top, almost out of sight, the spars and rigging which supported the awnings. There were tiny figures up there, like black insects against the liquid gold and pink of the sky. The sailors from the fleets at Misenum and Ravenna were stationed in Rome for their expertise with ropes and pulleys, block and tackle, their skills at spreading and furling recalcitrant sails. Now the sun was low, and the spectators no longer needed shade, they would be hauling in the vast expanses of brightly coloured canvass.
Ballista had a good head for heights, but the idea of working up there, unharnessed, one false movement spelling disaster, was appalling. How long would it take to fall? His gaze travelled back down the edifice. There were gilded shields between each of the windows, but there were statues in only some of the endless arches. Almost two centuries had passed since the amphitheatre was opened. Emperor after emperor had poured boundless money into repairs and renovations. Yet still the Colosseum was unfinished. There was a Christian story about some people in the east who had tried to build a tower that would reach the heavens. Their solitary god had decreed that it would never be completed. To punish humanity for its temerity, he had cursed the races of man with innumerable different languages. Seemingly it had not struck the Christians that their deity had given the lie to his supposed omnipotence by underestimating his own creations’ ability as linguists.
The Colosseum dominated this low-lying area of Rome. The Sweating Post, the fountain by which Ballista stood, was dwarfed. Even the enormous statue of Helios, the sun god, was overhadowed. The bulk of the Temple of Venus and Rome was made to look stunted and squat. What sort of empire constructed as its central, most iconic edifice a monument to killing as entertainment?
‘All done,’ Maximus said. Wherever you went in Rome there were children on the streets, urchins living by their wits, always on the lookout for a few coins. The Hibernian had hired two of them to take his mail coat and their swords home to the House of Volcatius in the district of the Brazen Gate. It had seemed unnatural and foolish to disarm themselves, but there was no hope of gaining admittance to the imperial box openly carrying blades, and to be apprehended with concealed weapons would be worse.
‘Will they not steal them?’
Maximus shrugged. ‘If we are alive tomorrow, we can buy some more.’
Ballista felt a stab of regret for Battle-Sun, the sword he had left at the Mausoleum. A blade like Battle-Sun was not so easily replaced. Forged at the dawn of time by the dwarves, it had been brandished by Wade the sea-giant. The hero Hama had won it, and gifted it to Helm, the founder of the line of the Kings of the Harii. From Helm it had passed through the ages down the dynasty, until Heoden had entrusted it to his foster-son Ballista. A sword such as Battle-Sun was not inanimate. It had a history, and a personality. It might be lost to Ballista, but Battle-Sun would not serve a man without heart and courage. Should such a one wield the blade, it would turn in his hand.
‘So how do we get in?’
Maximus brought Ballista back.
Even this late in the day, entrance to the Colosseum was tightly controlled. Around the amphitheatre was a ring of barriers, wooden rails fixed to stone posts. Imperial slaves were stationed at all the openings. They were backed by squads of praetorians. There would be more guardsmen inside. Admission was free, but only for those with valid tickets. Ballista had thought that they could find a couple of spectators who were leaving early; offer them money for their tickets, or take them by intimidation. There had been a flaw in his plan. These Games were the emperor’s farewell, before he departed to the north on campaign. Whatever faults he had, Gallienus was generous. None of his subjects would leave until the open-handed emperor had finished distributing gifts.
‘Now, if you had thought to pluck out the eye of one of the men you have killed on the way here – Rufinus would have been good – we could have bought a peony plant and a little oil of lily, and we would have been fine.’
Ballista did not stop scanning the barriers. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘The eye of an ape would have worked just as well. I am assured it is an infallible spell for invisibility.’
There were stalls outside the barrier selling food and drink. They were quiet now, but would find trade as the crowds left. That would be too late.
‘Or you can take the eye of a night owl and a ball of dung rolled by a beetle and the oil of an unripe olive, grind them together, and smear the paste all over your naked body. Once you have said “BORKE PHOIOUR”, no bugger can see you at all.’
‘Hmm,’ Ballista murmured. ‘Did you talk to that magician I sent?’
‘Indeed I did, fascinating man. When Tarchon and I were setting off to look for you, he recommended both methods – said we could be sneaking across the city and up to the Praetorian Camp, and no one would be any the wiser.’
‘I see.’
‘Actually, it would have been quite good – if we happened to have the eyes of an ape and all the other stuff – because then Tarchon would not have had to kill those guardsmen. Very good for them, anyway.’
‘We should be moving, before the news of the Germans fighting the frumentarii gets here.’ Ballista fished out the MILES ARCANUS badge he had taken fr
om Rufinus. ‘This might get me in. I want you to cause a distraction at those food stalls.’
Maximus turned to Ballista. All air of banter was gone from him. ‘This may be the end. It has been a long road. I don’t regret any of it.’
‘Nor me.’
The two men embraced.
‘Snow blowing from one tree to another,’ Ballista said. ‘Nothing to choose between us.’
Maximus stepped back. ‘When we were up north, didn’t your half-brother say that to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just before you killed him.’
‘Some things just happen.’
Ballista watched his friend walk to a stall. Maximus picked up a sausage, sniffed it, exclaimed in disgust, and threw it on the ground. The stallholder shouted. Maximus took another sausage, and did the same. The outraged vendor went to grab him. Maximus punched him. The man fell over. Four of the eight praetorians at the nearest entrance rushed out to restore order. Ballista started walking.
Sometimes walking casually could be one of the hardest things in the world. No one else was going to the opening. The square was almost empty. Ballista felt very exposed. At least the attention of the remaining praetorians was concentrated on their colleagues.
‘Halt!’ The guardsman’s armour was silvered and chased, the plume on his helmet a flamboyant crimson. Praetorians looked impressive, and they were accustomed to ordering civilians around. Yet put them up against a frontier legion, and, for all their martial swagger, they would run like rabbits. Even so, four guardsmen with swords could still take down a lone unarmed man.
‘Ticket?’
The other praetorians had reached Maximus. There was angry shouting.
‘No one gets in without a ticket.’ The guardsman was not looking at Ballista. His eyes were on the altercation breaking out at the stall.
‘I need to speak to Lucius Petronius Taurus Volusianus,’ Ballista said.
Maximus had thrown another punch. One of the praetorians was reeling backwards.
‘What?’ The guardsman dragged his gaze back to Ballista.
‘I need you to take me to the Praetorian Prefect.’
A full-scale brawl had started at the food stall.
The praetorian facing Ballista laughed. ‘Do you know, baldy, I thought you said you wanted me to take you to see the Bull.’
‘That is what I said.’
The other three glanced back from viewing the altercation. They were smirking as well.
‘And you are aware that Volusianus is in the imperial box?’
‘Yes, and you are to escort me there without delay.’
A shout of pain. Maximus had floored another guardsman.
The praetorian speaking to Ballista was torn between dealing with this impudent idiot, or going to help his friends. ‘You think the Master of Admissions will let anyone into the sacred presence, let alone a rough looking northerner like you?’
The two guardsmen still on their feet at the stall were drawing their swords. The distraction was almost over. Allfather, let Maximus give himself up, just take a beating. Death-blinder, do not let them kill him.
Ballista produced the MILES ARCANUS badge. ‘Take me to Volusianus now!’
The praetorian was nonplussed. He studied the identification. ‘What is your name?’
‘ARCANUS means secret,’ Ballista said. ‘I don’t have all day.’
‘How do I know this is real? You could have stolen it.’
‘You will answer to your prefect and the emperor, if I am not escorted to the imperial box now!’ Ballista put all the authority he could into his tone.
The praetorian looked at the other three. One of them shrugged. ‘Best do as he says.’
‘Are you armed?’
‘No,’ Ballista said.
‘You will have to be searched.’
‘Be quick about it. There is no time to lose.’
Out beyond the barrier, Maximus stood with his hands down by his sides. A praetorian hit him on the side of his head with his sword. Maximus went down. There was no blood. Thank the gods, the guardsman had used the flat of the blade.
The praetorians patted Ballista down roughly, with a bad grace. One of the few things they shared with the plebs of Rome was a loathing of the frumentarii.
By the food stall the guardsmen were laying into Maximus with their boots.
‘Follow me.’ Reluctantly, the praetorian led Ballista towards the amphitheatre.
Maximus was on the ground, curled up, his arms protecting his head. One of the guardsmen was still down. The other three ringed the Hibernian. Their boots thudded into his exposed back and legs. They were exerting themselves. Do not let them kill him, Ballista prayed. Not him as well as Tarchon.
The praetorian ushered Ballista in by the west gate, the one that led out onto the arena by the Gate of Life. Triumphant gladiators left the sand by that route; maybe it was a good omen. Yet now the combats were concluded the Gate of Life was shut, so perhaps not.
‘Get a move on,’ Ballista snapped. ‘I said there was no time to waste.’
They crossed three of the corridors that ran around the inside of the huge edifice. At the fourth, they turned right. There was a strange, subaqueous quality to the light down here. In the torchlit gloom, the paintings on the walls seemed to shift. Drinking fountains rilled and splashed. The distant rumble of the crowd filtered down through the unimaginable weight of concrete and brick.
‘Step up the pace,’ Ballista chivvied his unwilling guide. To have come so far, got so close, and fail at the last moment would be unendurable.
After they had gone past ten, twelve or more passageways opening off the corridor, at last the praetorian turned into one of them. A broad flight of stairs, and they emerged into the stands. After the darkness, both stood blinking in the early evening light. The roar of the crowd hit them with an almost physical force.
When his eyes adjusted, Ballista saw the vertiginous tiers of spectators, the great empty expanse of the sand. The arena was in deep shadow. Ballista looked up at the sky. It was the deep purple of an old bruise. The last hour was nearly ended.
But there – not twenty paces distant – was the imperial box. And there, standing at the front, perfectly untroubled, his golden hair gleaming, was the emperor. Gallienus was alive.
Ballista pushed past the guardsman.
A centurion of the praetorians blocked his way.
‘That is as far as you go,’ the officer said.
CHAPTER 27
The Colosseum
‘N
O ONE GOES INTO THE imperial box.’ The centurion was adamant. His bulk blocked the way. There were four praetorians at his back.
‘Let me talk to Caecilius,’ Ballista said.
‘The Master of Admissions is not seeing anyone.’
Ballista flourished the MILES ARCANUS badge. ‘You know what I am.’
‘I know what you are,’ the centurion said. ‘Scum – the sort that invents stories against honest men, betrays their fellow soldiers.’
This was going nowhere. Like everyone else, praetorians mistrusted the imperial spies. It was natural. The frumentarii might be soldiers, but they existed to betray, inform, and execute. Ballista would have to take a risk. ‘There is a plot against the emperor.’
‘Isn’t there always? Go back to the Caelian, and tell it to Rufinus.’
The centurion was unmoved. Yet nothing in his demeanour had changed at the revelation. At least he had not heard of the death of the commander of the frumentarii. More importantly, surely the centurion was not part of the conspiracy.
‘Listen carefully,’ Ballista said. ‘There is no time to go to the Caelian. The emperor will be attacked as he leaves the Colosseum.’
The centurion shrugged. ‘Gallienus has the German guard in there. He will leave by the private passageway back to the Palatine. The praetorians will escort him. The emperor will be safe enough without your help.’
Ballista leant close, spoke softly. ‘An
d if he is not? Do you want to be the man responsible?’
For the first time, there was a trace of doubt on the centurion’s face.
‘If he is attacked, it will be your fault. If he lives or dies, what will happen to the centurion who failed to stop the attempt?’
The centurion shifted uncertainly.
‘Just fetch Caecilius.’
The centurion stared at the vine stick of his office in his hands, as if he might find the answer there. ‘What name?’
That was a revelation too far. The centurion must know there was an order to arrest Ballista. ‘That is for Caecilius to know.’
The centurion snorted. ‘You expect me to say to Caecilius that there is a rough man outside, barbarian by the look of him, demands to talk to the Master of Admissions, claims to be a frumentarius, but refuses to give his name?’
Ballista racked his brains for something that would identify him to Caecilius, but not betray him to these praetorians.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off, and leave the emperor’s security to those who know what they’re doing?’ The centurion started to turn away.
‘Wait!’ Ballista grabbed his arm. ‘Tell the Master of Admissions that the former owner of Demetrius the imperial secretary is outside. Tell him that I have information vital to the safety of the emperor.’
The centurion brushed off Ballista’s hand. He looked off into the distance, weighing up the best course of action.
‘You have nothing to lose,’ Ballista said. ‘A few moments of Caecilius’s time. If he thinks it is wasted, you can take me into custody, let your men give me a beating. Do what you like. You will have done your duty.’
‘Alright. Stay there, and don’t move.’ Turning to go, the centurion spoke to his men. ‘Keep an eye on him.’
A roar from the crowd drew Ballista’s attention to the sweep of the encircling stands. Liveried imperial servants stood at the top of each block of seats. They had leather satchels. When the emperor threw a handful of tokens, the servants did the same. It was the only way the gifts could be scattered among fifty thousand spectators.
The crowd jostled and scrambled to catch the hail of little wooden balls. Men pushed and shoved. Here and there scuffles broke out. Elbows and fists were used to secure a prize. Some said Gallienus enjoyed watching his subjects fight. Senators thought his behaviour demeaned the imperial dignity.
The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome Page 27