King of Kings

by Unknown

  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 told 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.

  ‘Of course.’ Somewhat taken aback, Ballista spoke quickly to her. ‘I will decide your place of exile soon. I should have done so sooner. In the meantime, I hope you are not too uncomfortable? I see you have a curtain for some privacy.’

  ‘It is not for privacy,’ interjected Aulus. ‘I erected it myself. She is another heretic, a follower of Apollos, a long-damned local heresiarch. The curtain is to prevent her spreading contagion to those of the true church confined here.’

  Behind the curtain the child started to cry. The woman went to soothe it. Aulus laughed. Anger rising in him, Ballista turned on his heel and left.

  Back in the civic agora, standing outside in the fresh air by the Bouleuterion, Ballista called the head gaoler over. The anger hot in him, Ballista spat out orders. No visitors were to be admitted to the Christians. No one was to take in food, drink, lamps, clothes, bedding; above all, no books. Let them live on prison fare, nourish themselves with prayer. Any gaoler found breaking these orders, found taking a bribe, would be treated as a Christian suspect. He would find himself on the rack, heading for the arena. The cells were to be searched; any luxuries, anything treasonous, was to be confiscated. Aulus Valerius Festus and the old fool who talked in tongues were to be thrown in the deepest dungeon.

  Ballista paced furiously back and forth across the Stoa Basilica. The old man would probably die in there. Maybe the equestrian would too. Perhaps they all would. Good. Most likely it was what they wanted anyway. Fuck them. The Christian woman? Fuck her too. Fuck them all. Christians to the lion.

  But the woman had a child. The boy must be what? About a year old. Two days earlier, news had reached Ballista from Antioch: he had a second son. Born five days before the kalends of December, the boy was healthy, the mother doing well. Imagine if the fates had been different. What if Julia and the boy were imprisoned? What – a more horrible thought than any – if Isangrim were in the dark hell of an imperial gaol?

  ‘Wait!’ Ballista looked away, beyond the civic agora, beyond the red-roofed houses climbing the slopes. He looked up to the bare mountainside above, where the grey slabs of rock thrust through the greenery. It was nothing like his homelands in the north, but it was untouched by the imperium. It was wild and free. It was clean. That bastard Corvus was right: Ballista hated this. It was not even as if the people he was persecuting seemed to belong to the same sect as the bastard who had betrayed him in Arete. He was caught between Scylla and Charybdis: on the one hand, the self-righteous intransigence of the Christians; on the other, the implacably cruel imperial orders and the inhuman gloating of the pagan mob. What was Ballista doing to these Christians? What was he doing to himself?

  As he rescinded his orders, Ballista made a vow to himself. That very day, he would send the woman and child to a comfortable place of exile, one as safe as he could find. Then he made another vow to himself, a much more dangerous one: the persecution in Ephesus would stop. He could not order it. But there must be a way to make the process fail, to bring it grinding to a halt.

  Ballista thought of the volatile crowd in the stadium at Ephesus. He thought of the riot in the hippodrome in Antioch. Yes, there was a way. The first duty of a governor was public order. He was the vicarius to a governor. Therefore, his first duty must be public order. He knew the sophistry would not save him if he were caught. It was ridiculously dangerous. But a man has to have a code to live by. A man has to live with himself.

  It was an upmarket brothel, just across from the library of Celsus in the centre of town. Maximus had chosen it. He had been there once or twice, not enough to be a regular. The high prices meant it was seldom very full, and he had wanted somewhere quiet to talk to Calgacus about the very dangerous thing they would do the next day.

  ‘Do you know what she said to me?’ Maximus beamed.

  ‘No, I do not.’ Calgacus’ tone and demeanour showed a supreme lack of interest.

  ‘She said’ – Maximus drew himself up to his full height – ‘she said I was the best she ever had.’ He raised his arms from his sides, spread them wide. He half turned, first one way then the other; a victorious gladiator basking in the applause, waiting for the palm of victory.

  ‘Interesting – her only speaking Aramaic, and you not knowing a word of that language.’

  Maximus grinned. ‘Oh, brother, I could tell – that is what she was trying to say in her funny lingo.’

  When there was no response, Maximus dropped his trousers and undergarment to his ankles. Lifting his tunic, he took the next seat to Calgacus in the communal lavatory.

  The brothel really was upmarket – it had running water. Maximus leant forward and picked up the sponge on a stick from the trough in front of him. He fidgeted with it. ‘Sure, but I have almost got used to the Roman habit of having company when you shit.’

  ‘I cannot tell you how happy that makes me,’ Calgacus replied.

  Although they were the only two in the privy, Maximus looked all round in an unconscious parody of shiftiness. Reassured that there was no one else there, he bent over to Calgacus and spoke quietly. ‘Did you see your man?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘It was good.’

  Maximus replaced the sponge
. ‘I still say it is a mistake of the Dominus to involve one of the factiones from the theatre.’ He held up his hand to forestall an interruption from Calgacus that did not come. ‘I grant you, the theatre gangs have the organization to get the numbers out. They are always up for trouble. There is never a riot in any city in the imperium and them not behind it – although why they usually get so worked up about some mincing dancers who have probably been taking it up the arse since they could crawl I cannot see. No, your problem is that they are too well known. Everyone knows who is the head of each factio. It makes an easy trail. The frumentarii find your man. He leads them to you. Then you lead them to Ballista. And then I am next to the pair of you in the palace cellars with someone dancing on my bollocks.’

  ‘Aye, all life is a risk.’

  ‘Until just now, only you, me and Ballista knew the plan. Not even Demetrius knew. Now, half the idlers in Ephesus must know.’ He picked up the sponge again. ‘And if we were going to a factio,’ Maximus continued, ‘it should have been me that talked to the head man.’

  There was a horrible grating, wheezing sound. Calgacus was laughing. ‘Wonderful, a half-witted Hibernian with the end of his nose missing – what could be more inconspicuous?’

  Maximus bridled. ‘And what about you, you old fucker? An ugly old Caledonian with a face that could turn milk at a hundred paces, fucking great dome of a head.’

  ‘I wore a hat,’ Calgacus said simply. ‘Anyway, when do I get to leave the proconsul’s palace? Next to no one in Ephesus knows me. My man has been well paid. How did you get on?’

  With an instantaneous change of mood that even the briefest acquaintance revealed as quite customary, Maximus grinned again. ‘As you would expect from a man of my qualities – wonderful. Five wild boys from Isauria. They would cut their own mothers’ throats for a few coins. And, the best of it is, they sail with the evening breeze tomorrow.’

  ‘If they are they still alive and the frumentarii have not got them.’

  ‘Brother, your cup is always half empty.’