King of Kings

by Unknown

  ‘Flooding is a great problem here in Antioch in the rainy season. From November through to March – even April in some years – heavy cloudbursts fall up on Mount Silpius, and the water pours down into the city. Every gully turns into a flash flood – the Parmenios river is the worst, that is why the locals call it the Donkey-drowner.’

  Why is he telling me this? Ballista wondered. He had spent a week in Antioch the previous year. Julia is here. Isangrim, my beautiful son is here. With a horrible lurch, Ballista realized that he had just assumed that Isangrim would be with Julia. He had not asked. Allfather, Deep Hood, Long Beard, Fulfiller of Desire, let my son be here.

  ‘Back in the reign of Tiberius, they had a magician called Ablakkon set up a talisman against the floods. They are very proud of it, not that it seems to do much good.’

  Of course, there was no reason that Cledonius should know that Ballista had spent a week in Antioch. What would Isangrim look like? How tall would he be now? It was thirteen months and twenty-two days since Ballista had seen him. He would be four and a half now. Allfather, One-eyed, Terrible One, let the boy recognize me.

  Cledonius was still talking. ‘Up there, you can see…’

  And Julia… What would she look like? Ballista pictured the black – very black – eyes, the olive skin, the black hair tumbling to her shoulders. Julia – the daughter of a long line of Roman senators, married to a barbarian diplomatic hostage become Roman officer – how would she welcome him? He thought of her tall but rounded body, the firm breasts, the swell of her hips. Over a year without a woman; Allfather, he wanted her.

  ‘… the Iron Gate, a complicated system of sluices.’ Sensing Ballista’s distraction, Cledonius sounded slightly put out. ‘I thought that, as a military engineer, you might be interested.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, it’s very interesting.’ I can add it to the water clock at the palace as another piece of hydraulic engineering to study while the emperor decides my fate, Ballista thought sourly.

  They turned their horses past the temple of Zeus, out of the omphalos, the ‘navel’ of the city, and into the main street. The great colonnaded street of Tiberius and Herod ran for about two miles right across the city. Unsurprisingly in a city of a quarter of a million people, it was crowded. Numberless kiosks were jammed between the columns on either side. They sheltered a bewildering range of merchants: greengrocers, goldsmiths, stonemasons, barbers, weavers, perfumers, sellers of cheese, vinegar, figs and wood. Ballista studied the cabins with their brushwood roofs. He could detect no order in their arrangement. More respectable trades, silversmiths and bakers, were jammed up against cobblers and tavern keepers.

  Cledonius turned. His long, lop-sided face was smiling. ‘They say that each clings to his pitch as Odysseus clung to the wild fig tree above the cave of the monster Charybdis.’

  Ballista thought about this. The poetry of Homer was common currency among the elites of the imperium, its use an empire-wide badge of status. ‘Does it mean that the sites are too lucrative to lose, or that if they lose them they will fall into an abyss of abject poverty?’

  Cledonius’ face did not change; it continued to smile an open, guileless smile, but he looked sharply at Ballista. It was easy to underestimate this barbarian. Never easier than now, when, muddied and bloody, he looked like everyone’s idea of a big, witless northerner. It was all too easy to forget that he had been brought into the empire as a teenager and educated at the imperial court. Cledonius thought that only a fool would gratuitously make an enemy of this man.

  ‘Off to our left is the main theatre. It contains a wonderful statue of the muse Calliope as the Tyche, the Fortune, of Antioch.’ The ab Admissionibus resumed his soothing chatter. ‘Some of the more ignorant locals think…’

  After a time they turned left into a side street heading up towards the foothills of Mount Silpius. Soon they were deep in the residential district of Epiphania: on either side, well-built houses of limestone and basalt. The horses stretched out their necks and trod carefully as the street steepened. Over everything loomed the switchback wall of the mountain.

  They passed the Temple of Dionysus, and Cledonius pulled up in front of a large townhouse. The long blank wall of the residence was broken by a gate flanked by two columns of imported marble. A porter appeared.

  ‘Tell the Domina Julia that her husband has returned,’ Cledonius said.

  For a moment the porter seemed confused, looking at the small cavalcade. With a miniscule gesture Cledonius indicated Ballista. Smartly the porter stepped over and held the bridle of Ballista’s horse as the northerner dismounted.

  ‘Welcome home, Dominus.’ The porter bowed. Presumably he was either a hired local or a recent purchase. As Ballista thanked and said goodbye to Cledonius the porter ordered a boy to run and inform the domina of the happy event.

  ‘Please follow me, Dominus.’

  Ballista watched Cledonius and his servants ride on, then turned and followed the porter.

  As they entered the house they walked over a mosaic of a naked hunchback sporting an improbably large erection. Obviously the owner of the rented house was a man of some superstition, who feared the envy of his fellow townsmen. Ballista smiled. There were many worse grotesques that could deflect the evil eye from one’s front door, and this one to some extent mirrored what was on Ballista’s mind.

  At the end of a long dark corridor was an open courtyard. Ballista stopped when he emerged into the sunshine. There was a pool in the middle, reflecting dappled light up on to the surrounding columns. He looked into it. At the bottom was another mosaic. This one was an innocent scene of marine life: fishes, a dolphin and an octopus.

  Ballista hesitated. He leant on one of the columns and closed his eyes. The reflected sunlight played on his closed eyelids. He felt strangely nervous and unsure. How would Julia receive him? It had been a long time. Would she still want him? With a sick feeling, he faced up to a fear he seldom let himself consider. Had she taken a lover? The morality of the metropolis, let alone that of the imperial court, was not that of his northern upbringing. There was no point hanging around here. Do not think, just act. Somehow the mantra that he had used to force himself through so many things seemed singularly inappropriate here.

  Ballista opened his eyes and nodded to the porter, who led him across the courtyard and deeper into the house.

  They crossed a dining room, more mosaics on the floor and paintings on the wall passing unnoticed. The porter stopped and opened a double door to the private apartments.

  ‘Domina, your husband, Marcus Clodius Ballista.’ The porter stepped back and Ballista walked into the room. The door closed behind him.

  Julia stood very still on the far side of the room. She was flanked by two maids, each a step behind her. Decorously, she stepped forward.

  ‘Dominus.’ Her voice betrayed no emotion. Modestly, she kept her eyes down. She was every inch the Roman matron of the past receiving her husband back from the wars.

  ‘Domina.’ Ballista leant down. Julia brought her head up. Their eyes met. Hers gave nothing away. He kissed her gently on the lips. She looked down again.

  ‘Will you sit?’ She indicated a couch. Ballista sat.

  ‘Would you care for a drink?’

  Ballista nodded. She told one of her maids to bring wine and water, the other to bring a bowl of warm water and towels.

  The maids left and the silence stretched. Julia kept her eyes down. Ballista sat very still. He stifled a yawn.

  The maids returned. Julia told them that she would see to the comfort of the dominus herself. They should go and make sure that the bath was hot. The maids left once more.

  She mixed a glass of wine and water and handed it to Ballista. She moved the bowl of water close to him and sank to her knees. He took a drink. With firm hands she pulled off his boots. Taking first one then the other of his feet, she began to wash them. The water splashed up on to his trousers.

  ‘They are getting wet. You should take them off
,’ she said. Was there a hint of a smile before she looked down and her long black hair hid her face?

  Ballista stood and pushed down his undergarments with his trousers and stepped out of them. He sat. She began washing his feet again. The tension was getting to him. His chest felt tight, his palms slick with sweat.

  Julia looked up, into his face. She smiled.

  With one movement, Ballista got to his feet. Putting his hands under her arms, he pulled her up with him. He kissed her. Her tongue darted into his mouth.

  After a few moments she pulled a little away from him. ‘My family warned me of this when they married me off to a barbarian – that I would be a slave to his dreadful lusts.’

  Ballista grinned. ‘Paulla’ – he called her by the name her family used, ‘Little One’, then by his own affectionate diminutive, ‘Paullula.’ She stepped back and unfastened her tunic, letting it drop to the floor. She was wearing nothing underneath. Her body looked breathtakingly good. He bent and kissed her breasts, licking them, the nipples stiffening under his tongue.

  He straightened up and looked in her eyes. ‘It has been a very long time.’ She did not reply, but taking his hand, turned and led him to a couch.

  ‘Yes, it has been a long time,’ she said. Her hands pushed his tunic up out of the way.

  There were some other travellers on the road up to Daphne, but even after just three days it was a relief to be free of the crowds of Antioch.

  Up to Daphne. It seemed strange to Maximus the bodyguard. He had noticed it when they were here the previous year. No matter where the locals set out from when they travelled to the suburb, they always said that they were going up to Daphne. But sure it was a pleasant enough trip. As soon as you cleared the south gate of the city there was the river, the great Orontes, rolling along to the right, and off to the left began the varied gardens, the springs, houses and shrines hidden among the groves. As you went on and the road edged away from the river, on both sides were shady vineyards and rose gardens. And all along, at no great interval, were the things that gave pleasure to a man like Maximus, the baths and the inns, and the lively looking girls around them.

  At first they had ridden close together, the three adults on their horses and the boy on the pony. Ballista talked to the son, but Isangrim did not answer. The boy seemed withdrawn, even sullen. You could not expect to vanish from a child’s life for over a year and straightaway be welcomed back. Yet it was embarrassing. Maximus and the Greek secretary Demetrius let their horses drop back. They looked around in the autumn sunshine.

  Around midday a pleasant breeze began to blow from the southwest up the valley of the Orontes. The sleeves of the riders’ tunics rustled in the wind. The boy started to talk. Then he wanted to ride with his father. Things were all right. Isangrim transferred to his father’s horse. Ballista threw Maximus the lead reins of the pony. Ballista trotted on. The boy, clinging tightly to his father’s back, was laughing.

  It had a sly, nasty nature did the pony. Now they were stopped, it tried to sidle up to bite Maximus’ horse. The Hibernian put his boot into its shoulder. The pony eyed the man’s leg and showed its yellow teeth before deciding better of it and moving away. Maximus leant forward and played with his mount’s ears.

  ‘Hey, Graeculus, little Greek, come out of there. They will soon be out of sight.’ Maximus knew that Demetrius, like all his race, liked to be called a Hellene not a Graecus, let alone a Graeculus, but he was in a mood to tease the boy.

  ‘They will be out of sight, I tell you.’ In truth, Ballista and his son were a couple of hundred paces ahead.

  Demetrius emerged from the small wayside shrine. He looked absurdly young to Maximus. And he looked happy. That was good. He seldom looked happy. Even using a mounting block, the Greek youth struggled to get into his saddle. He was no horseman.

  ‘The people of Antioch must be some of the most god-fearing in the world,’ said Demetrius.

  Maximus looked dubious. It was not their common reputation, and he could only think of one reason that the two girls outside the last tavern they had passed might get on their knees.

  ‘Wherever you look are appeals to the gods.’ Demetrius smiled. ‘You remember the other day, when we rode into the Beroea Gate, I pointed out to you the talisman set up long ago by the holy man Apollonius of Tyana as a protection against the north wind?’

  Maximus made an affirmative noise.

  ‘And then, near the palace, the talisman set up by the sage Debborius against earthquakes?’

  ‘You mean the statue of Poseidon that had been hit by lightning?’

  ‘That is the one.’ The Greek youth was smiling. ‘And then the one in the omphalos, the one set up by Ablakkon to guard against flooding?’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Maximus.

  ‘Well, now I have found another set up by the holy Apollonius. This one guards against scorpions.’ Demetrius was pleased.

  ‘Sure, might not someone with an uncharitable mind see all this as the most terrible superstition?’ The Hibernian’s question was accompanied by a quizzical look.

  The Greek youth laughed. ‘Oh yes, it is always important to distinguish true religion from base superstition.’

  You should know, boy, thought Maximus.

  ‘And indeed the plebs here, like the unwashed hoi polloi everywhere, are prey to the most ignorant of superstitions. For example, in the theatre, there is a wonderful statue of the Muse Calliope as the Tyche of Antioch. You will never believe what the plebs think the statue represents…’

  Demetrius chattered on as they trotted to catch up with Ballista and his son. Maximus let his thoughts wander. It was good that the Greek youth was happy. He had suffered badly in their flight from the fall of Arete: the hunger, the fatigue; above all, the fear. The Greek secretary was not naturally suited to an adventurous life. Actually, he seemed fairly unsuited to any life except that of scholarly leisure. Certainly he was unsuited to life as a slave. He frequently seemed unhappy, which struck Maximus as odd. If you were born into slavery, as Demetrius had said he was, surely you would get used to it, as certainly you had nothing to compare it with.

  ‘So you see, the basest superstitions infect the plebs like a disease.’ Demetrius was in full flow. ‘I will give you another example…’

  Truth be told, if anyone should find the pains of slavery especially sharp, it should be Maximus himself. He was already a warrior when he was captured in a tribal raid in his native Hibernia. He had been sold off to the Romans to fight in the Arena, first as a boxer then a gladiator. It had not been a good time. But then, Ballista had bought him as a bodyguard and things had become better. In some ways, things were better now than they would have been if he had not been captured. Either way, he would have had to fight – which was good: it was his skill and it was his pleasure. And here in the imperium the rewards were better: a greater variety to the alcohol and women.

  Maximus looked down as they passed a traveller inspecting the hoof of his lame donkey. Demetrius was still talking.

  Anyway, Maximus thought, there is the debt. Years ago, in Africa, Ballista had saved Maximus’ life. There was no question of Maximus seeking his freedom until he had paid back the debt. Ballista kept offering to free Maximus, but the Hibernian could not accept. Maximus knew that he must return the favour, must clearly and unambiguously save Ballista’s life, before he could think about freedom.

  They caught up with Ballista and Isangrim. There was a grey-green humpback peak straight ahead. They crested a slight rise and there, opening off to their right, was a lush, wooded valley. This looked like good hunting country. They were coming into Daphne.

  Demetrius clapped his hands with pleasure and said they were all blessed. The sides of the road were lined with inns and stalls, mainly selling food or souvenirs. It was not quite meridiatio, time for the siesta. The weather was warm despite the breeze. The tables outside the inns were full of men finishing their lunch or playing dice.

  They walked their horses past the public
baths and the Olympic stadium before they came to the tall, tall grove of cypress trees that was the sacred heart of Daphne. Dismounting, they paid a couple of street urchins to look after their horses. Rather more coins secured the services of a local guide.

  They were led down shady paths. The air was full of birdsong and the sounds of the cypresses moving in the breeze. There were pleasant smells, smells sweeter than spices.

  The guide stopped first at one particularly tall cypress tree, which stood apart from the others. He told them the story of the Assyrian youth Cyparissus who accidentally shot and killed his pet stag. So great was his grief that the gods took pity and changed him into this very cypress tree.

  Even Demetrius looked unimpressed by this. Sensing that his audience was not with him, the guide moved swiftly on.

  Next he brought them to a gnarled laurel tree. He told them of the god Apollo’s lust for the mountain nymph Daphne, his relentless pursuit, her headlong flight, the moment of capture, her despairing plea to Mother Earth, and her miraculous transformation into the laurel tree in front of them.

  While this was generally considered a far better story – indeed, Maximus found himself quite stirred up at the thought of the chase – it again seemed to fail to win total credence. Demetrius pointed out in a stage whisper that the story was usually set in mainland Greece, either in Thessaly or Arcadia.

  At last the guide led them to the springs of Apollo. These won a far more positive response. Waterfalls cascaded down the rockface. The babbling waters were guided into semicircular basins and pools. Streams ran on either side of the Temple of Apollo.

  All the party except Maximus went into the temple and admired the great statue of the god – hair and laurel crown gilded, eyes made of huge violet stones – that, three years earlier, after the Persians had sacked and burned Antioch, had made Shapur throw away his torch and leave Daphne untouched.

  Maximus was standing outside. The Hibernian was not a man given to bothering the gods, but even he recognized that there was something special about this place. Maybe the boundaries between man and the supernatural were especially thin here. Whatever it was, something was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He looked around. There was nothing to be seen or heard except the water and the trees, the cooing of doves high up on the pediment of the temple.