Those with any claims to philosophy should not give way to irrational impulses. All the philosophical schools stressed that. Following an eclectic line, melding the doctrines of the various schools, as Demetrius himself did, was no excuse. But, still, he could not help himself.
Demetrius walked up through the city towards the Magnesian Gate. It was still raining hard, so he walked in the cover of the colonnade on the north side of the Sacred Way. Wrapped up in anticipation, he did not give the market stalls outside the East Gymnasium a glance. He stopped and looked around. The colonnade was busy, but there was no one he recognized. Everyone seemed preoccupied with keeping out of the downpour.
Demetrius waited for a gap in the line of slow-moving traffic, then crossed the rainswept road, nearly turning his ankle in one of the deep ruts cut into the stone by generations of heavy wagons. With a final furtive glance about him, he entered an alleyway. Although not blessed with a great sense of direction, he turned left and right, navigating easily through the potters' quarter. The alleys became narrower and dirtier. Mud soaked into his sandals.
He stopped at an inconspicuous door in a blank wall of peeling plaster. He knocked. As he waited, the rain ran down his neck. The door opened a crack.
'Ah, it is you again.'
The door creaked wide.
'Come in, come in.' The old man spoke in strangely accented Latin. There was no particular warmth in his voice. 'Shut the door, and leave your sandals there. I do not want mud all through my home.'
Demetrius removed his sodden footwear and followed the old man down the shabby corridor. It smelled of damp and other, harder-to-identify things. There was no light except from the cheap clay lamp the old man carried. They turned into a small room. Apart from a pile of things hidden by a cloth in one corner, it was completely bare. There was a small trench cut in the packed earth of the floor, bird droppings around it.
'Ave, Dio, son of Pasicrates.' As the old man spoke, he turned his back and lit a second lamp, which he placed on a ledge. 'What do you want this time?' He looked back, the flickering light making hollows of his sunken cheeks. He smiled a knowing smile. 'Chickens. You will want the chickens again. Each of those devoted to the dark things has his own preferred method. The chickens are infallible.'
The old man did not wait for an answer but rummaged under the cloth and produced a large wooden board. He placed it in the centre of the floor. Squares were marked on the board, in each a letter of the Latin alphabet. The old man went back to the corner and returned with a cloth bag. From it he took a handful of wheat. He placed one grain on each square and carefully tipped the remainder back into the bag. He went out, shutting the door behind him.
Left on his own in the dim light, Demetrius wondered what in his soul demanded such dangerous, guilty pleasures. He was frightened, very frightened. He had consulted the Etruscan magician before, but he had no proof the old man was trustworthy. He always gave the false name but, if he were denounced, almost certainly the frumentarii would discover his real identity. His heart was beating fast. He could ask a different, a safer question. Or, there was nothing stopping him from just leaving.
The old man returned, in one hand carrying two black cockerels by their feet. 'What question would you have the shades of the underworld reveal?'
Demetrius fumbled the usual fee from the wallet at his belt. The coins in his hand were slick with sweat. Almost against his will, he found himself asking the question.
A strange look passed over the face of the aged Etruscan. Fear, excitement, greed — Demetrius could not tell.
'It is a terrible thing you ask. You place us both in great danger — not just from the powers in this world. It will be three times the normal fee.' The old man held out his free hand, waiting until Demetrius had crossed his palm with the correct amount of silver. 'I will bar the front door.'
Alone again, Demetrius looked round the dark, dingy room. There were no windows, just the one door. No other means of escape. He looked at his bare feet, standing on an earth floor spotted with chicken shit. He thought he must be mad, or possessed by some evil daemon. But something inside him sang with the deep thrill of it all.
The old man came back. He trussed up one of the cockerels in a corner of the room. He held the other in his right hand. Signalling Demetrius to remain silent, he stood gazing down into the trench. His lips moved. At first it was inaudible, but then he began to mutter and finally chant in some rusty archaic language.
Demetrius could hardly breathe. It was 8 November, a day when the mundus, the gate to the underworld, stood open. The spirits of the dead hovered thick all around him, desperate, thirsty for blood.
A knife appeared in the magician's left hand. With a deft sweep, he cut the throat of the cockerel. Its blood spurted down into the trench. The old man's eyes became glazed. He chanted louder, in the tongue of his distant ancestors. The cockerel's body twitched. Blood dripped from the knife. The spirits feasted.
Abruptly, the old man dropped the carcass of the cockerel. The knife vanished. He turned and untied the other bird and held it near the board. As he let it free, he asked, in Latin now, the treasonous question:
'Spirits of the underworld — what is the fate of Valerian, emperor of the Romans?'
As the words faded, there was a terrible stillness. The black cockerel tipped its head on one side and regarded Demetrius with a glittering eye. It stretched its clipped wings. It made a low, crooning sound and gave its attention to the board. With a delicate, high action it stepped on to it. Its head darted from side to side, choosing which grain, the spirits guiding the selection.
The cockerel's head snapped down, then up. The square with the letter P was empty. The bird ate, regarding first one then the other of the men with suspicion. It struck again, three times in rapid succession — E, R, F. Again it paused, ruffling its feathers. It took another grain — I.
The bird was motionless. Its feathers gleamed black in the lamplight. There was perfect silence in the room. Suddenly, the cockerel flew up, scattering grains across the board, and the two men jumped as there was a loud knocking on the door of the house.
With a speed which belied his age, the Etruscan swept the board and the body of the sacrificed bird under the cloth. He grabbed the live bird with one hand and Demetrius' arm with the other. He hauled the Greek youth out of the room.
The knocking had stopped. They stood for a moment in the corridor. Someone pounded again on the front door. The old man dragged Demetrius down the passageway, the thunderous sound pursuing them.
For a moment, Demetrius thought the passage was a dead end. Someone shouted outside the house. The hammering on the door increased. The magician manhandled Demetrius through a low doorway and across a pitch-black room. The young Greek barked his shin on something hard then piled into the back of the other, who had stopped abruptly.
As the Etruscan fumbled with something in the darkness, several voices could be heard, raucous voices demanding admittance: 'Open up, you old bastard, or it will be the worse for you.'
Without warning, the grey light of an overcast day flooded in as the little side door opened. Demetrius felt a strong push in the small of his back, and he was outside, his feet sliding in the mud. The door was slammed behind him. The rain was still sheeting down.
Not pausing to think, Demetrius started to run down the side alley, away from the noise. He ran without direction, through wider and narrower alleys, splashing through the puddles and the refuse, turning right and left at random.
He ran until he thought his chest would explode then stopped, bent over, shaking. He looked about him. He had no idea where he was. The rain beat down harder. He heard a noise: men shouting. He could not tell which of the innumerable alleys it came from. Hopelessly, he turned, scouting in each direction. The noise was getting louder now. A stray dog came round a corner. It snarled at him. He ran away from it. Again, he plunged down alley after alley. The stray dropped back, gave up. Demetrius ran on.
At last
, unable to go any further, he skidded around a corner and came to a stop. Doubled up, painfully he sucked air into his lungs. The rain beat on his back. When he had regained some control over his breathing, he listened. There was nothing but the sound of the rain. Nothing to indicate pursuit.
There was a small balcony projecting from the wall on the other side of the alley. He went and huddled under it. Outside his makeshift shelter, the rain fell like a curtain.
He was lost. He was frightened. From his bare feet to his thighs, he was covered in mud and worse. He wanted to cry. Never again. He had lost his sandals. He had lost a serious sum of money. He thought of Calgacus, of the proverbial parsimony of the Caledonian. He started to laugh, a high, slightly unhinged giggle. He wanted to be back safe in his familia, back in the solid, reassuring presence of the three barbarians who now were the nearest he had to a real family: Ballista, Maximus and Calgacus, each in their different ways so capable, so good in a crisis.
Never again. The awful physical risk just run, the looming danger of denunciation — and for what? What had he learned? Five letters: P-E-R-F-I. What did they mean? It did not help that Latin was not his first language. Perfi-… perficio? To bring to an end, to finish? A possibly even darker word struck him: perfixus, pierced through.
The rain showed no sign of easing. The fear of being pursued was rising up again in Demetrius. He had to find his way home. Stepping out into the downpour, he set off down the alley, the mud and semi-liquid rubbish oozing through his toes. Then he stopped, stock-still in the rain. As he stood there, the water running into his eyes, he knew. It came to him as a divine revelation: perfidia — treachery.
XX
The head gaoler shut the door behind them. The air was close and fetid. Ballista could feel it catching in his throat, could sense the prison stench seeping into his clothes.
'You are not a soldier, and they are not your brothers!' The voice was raised in anger.
As they were in the large, outermost cell, it was only gloomy rather than completely dark. There was a slit window high up on the front wall and, by its light, Ballista could see the two men quite clearly. They were a few paces away, in front of a partition made of an old cloak, a couple of blankets and a shirt. The men were standing face to face. They looked almost identical. The intensity of their dispute had prevented them noticing the new arrivals.
'You are mistaken, Gaius. Like all Christians, I am a soldier of Christ. We will not serve in the armies of the emperor here on earth, but we pray for him. Now we pray for Valerian to revert to his previous mild and gentle nature, to cast off the evil advice of the lame serpent Macrianus.'
The other snorted with derision. 'You are a fool. You are the one who has listened to evil advice. These Christians are not our sort. They are ignorant, unwashed hoi polloi. They are not your brothers. Think of your real family. I am your brother. You will lose your equestrian status. You will die. The imperial fiscus will take your estate. Will you leave your wife and children destitute — the widow and orphans of a convicted traitor?' The speaker thrust his face forward aggressively.
Ballista knew who the two men were now: Aulus Valerius Festus, the Christian of equestrian rank whom he had tried and remanded in prison; the other, now revealed as the Christian's brother, the mysterious man from the agora, the one Ballista had thought he recognized, who had hurried away.
'We have a saying of our Lord Jesus Christ: "He who loves his father or his mother or his wife or his children or his brothers or his family more than me is not worthy of me." '
It was the last straw. Gaius Valerius Festus punched his brother savagely in the face. The Christian sat down hard on his arse. His brother loomed over him. Ballista stepped forward and caught his arm. He swung round angrily. A momentary look of confusion crossed his face, then he spat, 'This is no brother of mine. Burn him with the slaves and illiterates he loves so much.' He shook off the northerner's hand and stormed out.
Maximus and Demetrius helped the Christian to his feet. 'Your brother has a forceful line in argument,' said Ballista.
Aulus looked Ballista in the eye. 'My brother has always been the victim of strong passions. I pray for him, that he will see the true light. I pray for you all.'
As the Christian held his gaze, a sudden realization struck Ballista. Among his people in the far north, it was thought right that a freeman should look another in the eye, no matter what their respective status. Clearly, these Christians thought something similar. It was not the way of the Romans; with them, the inferior should quickly look down or away. When he had first arrived in the imperium, Ballista had inadvertently caused offence on several occasions, but these Christians had all been born within the imperium. It was as if they deliberately courted a charge of insolence.
'Malus, perversus, maleficus… the stars of heaven are swept down to earth by the dragon's tale.'
Ballista was not alone in jumping at the words. They came from under a bundle of rags in one of the far corners. 'Kakos, kakoskelos malista Macrianus… the vine which the right hand of God planted is ravaged by the solitary, well-horned stag.' A closer look revealed an elderly, unkempt man.
'Forgive my brother in Christ,' said Aulus. 'The spirit of the Lord is in him. He talks in tongues.'
The old man raved on. 'I see a sideways-walking goat… Come! And I saw, and behold, a pale horse, and its rider's name was Death.'
'The spirit will soon leave him,' Aulus said. 'He has fasted for two days and nights, not a mouthful of food, not a drop to drink. He has little strength. His devout soul nourishes itself by continuous prayer.' Indeed, the old man's voice had already fallen to little more than a whisper as he, it seemed, listed a number of angels who would blow trumpets and relished the ghastly things that humanity would suffer in the aftermath.
'He is an inspiration to us all,' Aulus continued reverently. 'He has nearly attained sixty years and never once lapsed from bodily continence.'
'A sixty-year-old virgin,' exclaimed Maximus. 'No wonder he is off his head.' He shook his head in wonder. 'I cannot see this religion catching on at all with my countrymen.'
The mumbling of the aged Christian dropped into inaudibility.
'I came to see you,' said Ballista. He looked for somewhere to sit. There was just one bed. He remained standing. The cell was moderately filthy. He really could not believe the accusation of Flavius Damianus that Christian sympathizers came to the prison to have sex with the condemned.
'As you see, I have leisure to talk,' said Aulus with a smile.
'Aulus Valerius Festus,' began Ballista with some formality, 'when you were brought before me, I gave you time to reconsider. You have had — '
'Three months and seventeen days,' supplied Demetrius.
'Ample time,' Ballista continued. 'You are one of the honestiores, an educated man from one of the leading families of Ephesus, a member of the Boule of the city, an equestrian of Rome. Will you not renounce this treasonous cult of slaves and the humiliores?'
'I am a Christian. We do nothing treasonous. Night and day we pray for the emperor and the imperium.'
If your first tactic does not bring down the wall, try another, thought Ballista. 'You meet before dawn and after sunset, secretly, in the dark, like conspirators. You remind the educated of Catiline and his band in the monograph of Sallust: meeting at midnight to swear foul oaths, drink human blood and plot the fall of Rome.'
'We do nothing of the sort. We merely remove ourselves from the prying eyes of our neighbours and those in our families who might inform against us.'
'The authorities say you reject their power. Do you deny you call a meeting of your cult an ecclesia, an assembly?'
'It is just a word.' Aulus spread his hands wide. 'Our Lord ordered us "to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's".'
'I have been talking to those who have returned to the traditional gods and reading some of your books.' Ballista was pleased to see the Christian's annoying calm somewhat disturbed by this. 'Your holy man Paul tol
d you to ignore Roman judges and take your disputes to the priests you call Bishops.'
The Christian was silent for a time. Then he burst out, ' "Answer not a fool according to his folly!" '
In the long silence that followed, the mutterings of the aged Christian could again be heard: seals, dragons, horns; woe, misery, unhappiness. Flies buzzed somewhere in the distance. Near at hand, someone moved behind the partition.
'I will give you one last chance. If you do not take it, I will have to order your execution,' snapped Ballista. 'Just offer a pinch of incense and a prayer to Zeus, and you can go free.'
'I will not. I am a Christian. "He who sacrifices to the gods, and not to God, shall be destroyed." ' Aulus' voice was loud, sonorous, implacable.
'Can you not say the words and believe what you like in your heart?'
'Never! What would you have me be? One of the Helkesaites? A follower of heretics like Basilides or Heracleon?' He glared with self-righteousness.
'I have no idea what you are talking about,' said Ballista. 'You mean there is more than one type of Christian?'
'Never! There is but one holy church. The ones I named are cursed heretics. And they will burn for ever in hellfire!' He laughed a strange laugh. 'You have already released several of these heretics. They think themselves clever. They think themselves Christians. Fools! They will discover different on judgement day.'
A thought struck Ballista. 'Do you know anything of the Christian priest Theodotus who betrayed Arete?'
'He was no Christian, but a foul heretic, a follower of the Phrygian whores, a Montanist — even now his pitch-black soul is tormented in Hell,' thundered Aulus. 'Any true son of the Catholic Church knows the Apocalypse will not fall for at least another two hundred years.'
Before Ballista could pursue Aulus' mysterious statements, the makeshift curtain parted and the young Christian mother who had appeared before Ballista on trial looked through. She addressed herself to Ballista. 'I have just got my child to sleep. Can you be quiet?' She spoke with the icy self-possession the northerner remembered.
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