by Unknown
Ballista continues to be puzzled and deeply concerned as to why Macrianus, ‘that devious lame bastard,’ as he customarily refers to him, should have supported if not engineered his appointment to persecute the Christians in Ephesus. The northerner and his familia have no answer, but they are convinced that is a part of some deep plot on the part of Macrianus. Similarly, the familia are convinced that Macrianus has been in clandestine communication with the leading magistrate in Ephesus, the scribe to the Demos, Flavius Damianus, but for what nefarious reason they do not know.
Today, one of the Christians executed, one Appian, son of Aristides of Miletus, uttered terrible words against our sacred emperor, including the treasonous prediction that the noble Valerian had but forty-two months to live. The atheist did not say who or what would kill our noble emperor, but three rumours run round Ephesus: the perpetrator will be Shapur the Sassanid, a high-placed Roman, or, which cannot be true, the gods themselves. Appian went on to claim that the emperor had been led into impiety, namely the persecution of the Christians and the performing of human sacrifice on newborn babies, by none other than Macrianus.
To turn to the actions of Ballista himself. Since he arrived in Ephesus, he has carried out his duties quite commendably overall.
In the area of public security, he has performed outstandingly. When, a month ago, a boatload of Borani pirates were reported to be hiding on a small island south of Ephesus, he took prompt and decisive action. Thirty-two were killed and twelve enslaved and sold in the agora. While it is thought a few may have escaped to the mainland, it is most likely that these have subsequently been hunted down by the locals. The operation was carried out at the cost of just four auxiliaries dead and five wounded.
As far as the persecution of the Christians goes, Ballista has applied himself reasonably diligently, if with some seeming reluctance, until today. To celebrate the birthday of Great Artemis, Flavius Damianus had organized a splendid spectacle. Yet as it came to its climax, the burning alive of three notorious Christians, Ballista seized a bow from one of his guards and shot the criminals dead with his own hand. This extraordinary act cannot be interpreted other than as a shameless attempt to win favour with the mob.
That would do. Hannibal sealed the letter with his frumentarius seal: MILES ARCANUS. By next morning it would be on its way to Censorinus’ office in the imperial palace at Antioch, winging its way along the cursus publicus at some fifty miles a day.
*
There was no moon, but the silver coins glinted in the starlight as they were counted out. There were a lot of them. There needed to be.
‘It is enough.’ The centurion did not try to keep the contempt out of his voice. ‘Wait here. I heard something over by the Gymnasium of Vedius. I will take my boys to investigate. Half an hour – if you are still here when we return, you will not leave.’
The twelve men waited, crouched in the darkness under the wall of the stadium. There should have been fifteen of them, but three had lost their nerve. Torchlight flared out from the gate. The distinctive sounds of soldiers marching – the scrape of metal-studded boots, the jingle of equipment and ornaments – echoed in the still of the night. The contubernium of ten auxiliaries emerged and were led away by the centurion.
The men rose to their feet and picked up the full wineskins. They looked at each other, waiting for someone to take the lead. The priests were all taken, or fled into hiding. Eventually, one man started towards the gate, and the others followed.
The killing circle smelled of woodsmoke and burnt humanity. In the dim light, it seemed enormous, the sand stretching away. In the centre, the pyres shimmered silver; the air around them shivered.
It took courage for the first man to step out on to the open, exposed sand. The rest hurried after. When they had come within a few paces, they could feel the heat on their faces. They slung the wineskins down from their shoulders, fumbling with nerves as they opened them.
At first, they all crowded round the central pyre, each trying to pour the liquid that would cool the ash that hid the remains of the blessed martyr Appian. Harsh, even unchristian, words were hissed. Three or four reluctantly moved to the other two pyres.
The hot ashes hissed, and steam rose up as the wine splashed down. Suddenly, a man leant forward and, ignoring the singeing hairs on his forearm, clasped the shrivelled left hand of Appian. Another man grabbed the martyr’s right hand. Both men snapped at each other. Neither would let go. There was a tussle. Both men pulled. With a horrible wrenching sound, Appian’s corpse came apart like an overcooked joint of meat. The men from the other pyres came running. Everyone wanted his own relic, and a vicious fight broke out.
XIX
It was snug and comfortable in the private study of the proconsul. The thick glass of the windows and a glowing brazier kept the autumnal air at bay. It was Ballista’s favourite room in the palace. The windows looked south at the jagged crest of the mountain wall. There was a fine mosaic on the floor, orientated to be viewed from the window seat. In the lowest register, a couple of huntsmen set out with their dogs to hunt hares. Above them, a lion killed a deer and a panther leapt at a wild boar. In the middle, two well-equipped, mounted huntsmen were on the point of despatching a tiger. Towards the top, three men were outnumbered by four wild animals. Two of the beasts were wounded or dead, but one of the hunters had only a split second to shoot an arrow and save his companion from the ravening lion which was about to pounce on his back.
Ballista wondered if there was any sort of narrative or message here. Maybe, as one progressed through the mosaic, from near to far, things became ever more threatening. You set out on something that appears to be safe, but it turns out otherwise. It is a dangerous world out there. He turned back to the three letters spread on the desk.
Julia’s had been delivered personally that morning by one of her endless cousins, who had been on his way back to Italy. Ballista read through it again. First, there was much news of Isangrim, his humour and strong will, above all the wonderful progress in his riding lessons. Then a little about her pregnancy: she was bigger than she had been the first time, moved like a beached whale. After the domestic, came the public news. To the east, the Sassanids had been active. A raiding force had appeared before Nisibis in north-east Mesopotamia. Their horsemen had ridden west to beneath the walls of Carrhae, before moving down the Chaboras to Circesium. They had enacted religious ceremonies there on the field of battle, before disappearing south. Out in the deep desert, other raiders had taken caravans bound for Palmyra. In Antioch, Julia had talked to Cledonius and his wife, her distant relative. Neither they nor anyone else could yet suggest a reason that Macrianus the Lame had wanted Ballista appointed to the persecution in Ephesus. But the influence the Comes Largitionum had over the emperor was ever growing. As always, Julia ended her letter with a simple sentence that she loved and missed him.
Ballista looked at his reply. First, the pregnancy: expressions of sympathy for her discomfort, prayers for a happy outcome. That was tactful, before moving on to fulsome praise of Isangrim and requests for ever more news. In response to her public information, he merely stated that he was carrying out his mandata in Ephesus and hoped he would be returned soon. He, too, ended with a simple statement that he loved and missed her.
Ballista knew that his wife understood Roman imperial politics better than he did. He had always relied on her insight. But there was a huge difference between accepting that a woman knew about politics and wanting her to become actively involved. When she was heavily pregnant, it was especially unthinkable. Ballista picked up the letter he had written to Cledonius.
After the usual expressions of politeness to the ab Admissionibus, Ballista launched straight into the persecution in Ephesus. Ballista was doing his duty. As his official reports to the emperor must have made clear, he was following his mandata. Although a Christian had betrayed him at Arete, it was a distasteful task, one for which he was unsuited – taking an Epicurean view, was it likely that
the gods really cared what these humble, misguided atheists believed? He had heard that the Sassanids were raiding in Mesopotamia. A man of his background would be of far more use there. Would Cledonius petition the emperor for Ballista to be reassigned to a military post on the eastern frontier? And there was another thing that the ab Admissionibus should raise with Valerian. On the point of death, one of the Christians had denounced the malign and ever-increasing influence which Macrianus wielded over the emperor. Letters to Ballista from Antioch confirmed this. Neither Macrianus the Lame nor his sons were to be trusted. Cledonius should warn Valerian – or should Ballista write directly to the emperor himself? Whichever Cledonius thought best; Ballista would do nothing until he had his advice.
Ballista sealed the two letters. He called for Calgacus.
‘Never a moment’s peace, for fuck’s sake.’ The Caledonian actually did not look in the least put out. ‘What now?’
‘Are Demetrius or Maximus about?’
‘No, the Greek boy is out and the Hibernian is’ – a horrible leer crept over Calgacus’ face – ‘entertaining a friend.’
‘Allfather, it would not do to interrupt that,’ Ballista said, deadpan. ‘Send a boy down to the docks with these. Tell him to find a ship heading for Seleuceia in Pieria and pay the captain to make sure they are delivered in Antioch.’
With only a minor string of muttered complaints, Calgacus left. Once he had gone, Ballista picked up one of the confiscated writings.
And the beast was given a mouth, uttering haughty and blasphemous words, and it was allowed to exercise authority for forty-two months; it opened its mouth to utter blasphemies against God, blaspheming his name and his dwelling, that is, those who dwell in heaven. Also it was allowed to make war on the saints and to conquer them.
Religion, thought Demetrius, is dangerous. Like strong drink, wild music, the juice of the poppy, it makes people do strange things. He knew what he was going to do. He knew he should not – apart from its sordid nature, it was illegal. It was very, very dangerous. Yet something irrational was making him do it.
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.
