The Caspian Gates wor-4 Page 2

It was odd, the attitude to snakes of these Mediterranean types. On their account, the creatures had a bad parentage, born from the blood of the Titans, enemies of the gods. And they kept bad company: the hair of the petrifying Gorgons was alive with them. And then there was unhappy Philoctetes, bitten by a snake on the island of Lemnos, the smell of the suppurating wound so bad the other heroes abandoned him there when they sailed on for Troy. Yet despite all that, often Greeks and Romans would feed the scaly things by hand, offer them cakes, twine them fondly around their necks and set them up as guardians of houses, tombs, springs and altars. The fools.

  The perspective of a man such as Ballista, born beyond the northern frontiers of the imperium in the misty forests and fens of Germania, was much more straightforward. There was not a snake in Middle Earth that did not share the old, cold malevolence of Jormungand, the world serpent who lay coiled in the icy darkness of the ocean waiting for Ragnarok, for the day when it was fated the serpent could return to dry land and the gods would die.

  A snake without venom regretted it. Certainly, Maximus overdid things, but he was not a complete fool. Not about snakes anyway.

  Constans came in carrying the shaving apparatus. He placed a heavy silver bowl of warm water on the table. Condensation ran down the side. Ballista repeatedly scooped the water up and splashed it on his face. He took his time; dousing his cheeks, admiring the bowl’s embossed images of the Persian king hunting a lion.

  Constans busied himself with the whetstone, putting a fine edge on the razor.

  At length, face glowing, Ballista leant back. Constans draped the napkin around his master’s neck. And, with just a little reluctance showing, Ballista offered his throat to the blade. Through the steam he could see his two freedmen, Maximus, with his short beard, and old Calgacus with his ugly face with its patchy stubble. Both were looking at him, and both were smiling. The bastards.

  Constans leant over and got to work, skilled, diligent and slow. Schick, schick, the razor traversed the pulled-tight skin. Constans was a godsend. His dexterity meant that Ballista was spared visiting the public barbershops. It was not the expense, exorbitant though it could be, and it was not the idlers sat around on their benches, the endless gossip, or the enforced proximities that Ballista minded. His dislike of such establishments was more visceral. A shout, an accident in the street, a moment’s distraction, even a stone thrown by a mischievous youth or boy – it had happened – and you left minus an ear, or at best looking like a man with a bad-tempered wife with sharp nails.

  Constans had repaid his purchase price in another way. A couple of years earlier, Ballista had freed Calgacus, along with Maximus and his then secretary the Greek boy Demetrius. After that, it somehow seemed wrong to have old Calgacus shave him. And, truth be told, the old Caledonian had never been much good with a razor. All too often recourse had to be made to spiders’ webs soaked in oil and vinegar to plaster the nicks, if not staunch the flow.

  Out of Ballista’s line of sight, a caged bird was singing furiously. It was irritating. Hopefully it would not distract Constans.

  Ballista knew it was ridiculous. A man such as himself. The first sixteen years of his life he had been brought up to be a warrior among the Angles, the tribe in which his father was war-leader. He had stood in the shieldwall when just fifteen. Killed his first man the same year. Most of the following twenty-four years, although technically a hostage, he had served in the Roman army. He had broken his ankle and jaw once, ribs twice, and his nose and the knuckles of his right hand more times than he could remember. There were scars scattered over the front of his body, and the back of his right hand was seamed with them, as you would expect of a swordsman. In Africa, he had won the mural crown for being first over the enemy wall. Again and again, he had stood with the front-fighters in hot battle. And yet he was nervous – no, be honest – he was scared of the barber.

  Hippothous and two slaves appeared outside. The lamps were paling. Soon it would be dawn. The three men stood in a huddle, heads to one side, debating how to go about cornering the snake. The creature had plenty of room for manoeuvre. The atrium was big. The whole rented house was big. It was a house fitting the dignitas of a senior member of the equestrian order, the sort of house a sometime Praetorian Prefect would rent for his familia while waiting for the sixth day before the ides of March and the opening of the sailing season, waiting to start his voyage home to retirement in a comfortable villa in Sicily. Naturally, the Vir Ementissimus was paying a high rent. But that was of little concern to a man who two years earlier had defeated the Persian King of Kings at the battle of Soli and captured his treasures and harem. Of course, all such booty, legally, went straight to the emperor. But it was often striking how much never reached him.

  Out in the atrium, the two slaves went to catch the snake.

  ‘You not going to help them?’ Calgacus asked Maximus. ‘A big strong bodyguard like you, ex-gladiator and all, quick on your feet; aye, very helpful you would be.’

  ‘I am not fucking scared of fucking snakes. It was just he was a bit fucking big.’

  ‘Aye, I know, and there were none of them where you grew up.’ Calgacus was enjoying himself. ‘You lying Hibernian cunt,’ he added amiably.

  The slaves were not having an easy task of it. The snake did not want to be caught. It was probably long steeped in cunning. Certainly it was quick, slithering out of the questing hands. The slaves shouted at each other. Hippothous shouted at both of them.

  Ballista hoped again that it was not going to distract Constans.

  The slaves were running around like actors in a bad mime. The unholy row would have woken anyone – except the entire household was already awake: Ballista and the men in the andron; his wife, Julia, and her maids in the women’s quarters; the domestic slaves throughout the house wielding an arsenal of cloths, sponges, feather dusters, brooms, buckets, poles and ladders. A blur of sawdust tipped out, then swept up again, a cloud of chased dust; the usual frenzy of domestic economy.

  Ballista had instructed the bell rung early this morning, with a good two hours of the night left. It was not a day to be late. It was the anniversary of the accession, one hundred and one years earlier, of the divine emperors Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus. It promised to be a grand day: sacrifices, a procession, singing and dancing, all sorts of entertainment, more sacrifices, speeches and a feast. It was a day on which the imperial cult would be celebrated, on which the expression of loyalty and religious sentiment would meld together.

  It was not a day for Ballista to be late. Everyone knew what he had done the previous year – turned his hands on a man who, no matter how briefly and how very wrongly, had worn the purple. He had thrown Quietus – may his name be damned – from a tower, a cliff, the pediment of a temple; had stabbed him, strangled him, beaten him to death with a chair leg. In one lurid version, he had torn his heart out on an altar. The details of the execution might vary, but everyone agreed what had happened next. The soldiers had acclaimed Ballista emperor. Certainly, the barbarian had laid down the diadem after just a few days. And certainly, Odenathus, the king of Palmyra, who now oversaw the eastern provinces of the Roman empire in the name of the true emperor Gallienus, had pardoned him. But a man who has killed an emperor, or even an ephemeral pretender, will always be the object of curiosity and some suspicion. Not a man who can afford to be late for a festival of the imperial cult.

  It was all rather worse than the idlers in the bars and baths had it. As soon as the deed was done, Ballista had written to the emperor Gallienus: a letter of explanation, a request for clementia, a plea to be allowed to retire into private life, to live quietly in Sicily. The cursus publicus would have taken the letter west at about fifty miles a day. It had been sent months ago. There had been no reply.

  As youths, Gallienus and Ballista had both been held at the imperial court as sureties for the good behaviour of their fathers. The young men had got on well. They could even have been counted friends. Ballista had hoped it woul
d help. He had hoped he would be allowed to live quietly as a private citizen, that he would not be convicted of treason. If declared guilty of maiestas, Ballista hoped his property would not be confiscated, that his sons might inherit. If the verdict was bad, he hoped for some form of exile rather than the executioner’s sword. For months, Ballista had hoped all these things, but there had been no reply.

  That was not all. Many years ago, Ballista had killed another emperor. Not many people knew of the young Ballista’s role in the death of the terrible Maximinus Thrax. Most, if not all, the other twelve conspirators were dead. Ballista had only told five people. One of them was also dead. Three of the others were still with him: his wife Julia, his freedmen Maximus and Calgacus. But, worryingly enough, the fifth one, his ex-secretary Demetrius, was now in the west; precisely, in the court of Gallienus. It would not be good if a report arrived there that Ballista had been anything other than punctual for a festival of the imperial cult.

  With a final, slightly disconcerting flourish, Constans finished the shave. Ballista thanked him, avoiding the eyes of Maximus and Calgacus. On cue, their breakfast arrived. The Jewish slave woman Rebecca put out bread, cheese, soft-boiled eggs, as well as honey, yoghurt and fruit. A substantial ientaculum for a Roman or Greek, nothing too taxing for the three northerners.

  ‘Tell me, darling girl,’ said Maximus, ‘are you frightened of big snakes?’ He spoke to Rebecca but was looking at Calgacus. She blushed and shook her head. Calgacus ignored him. ‘Sure, you must be getting used to them,’ the Hibernian continued, all wide, blue-eyed innocence. ‘Living here, I mean. I heard tell there was one hereabouts built on such a heroic scale it won applause when its owner took it to the baths. Ugly-looking thing, though, it was.’ Rebecca left as quickly as possible.

  ‘Bastard,’ said Calgacus.

  ‘Poor girl,’ said Maximus, ‘ending up with you on top of her.’

  Hippothous came in to join them. The snake was gone. They all started eating. The magpie was hopping about in its cage, squawking annoyingly.

  ‘I hate caged birds,’ said Ballista.

  ‘You have always been a sensitive soul.’ Maximus nodded. ‘There is a terrible sadness in their singing.’

  ‘No, it is the smell – bird-droppings, moulting feathers: puts you off your food. I would wring that fucking thing’s neck, if it were not for my wife.’

  Breakfast finished, Constans and three other slaves helped the men into their togas. The draping, winding and folding took a long time. The Roman toga was not something you could put on without help and, once arranged, the heavy thing curtailed any sudden, unconsidered movement. No other people wore such a garment. Ballista knew those were three of the reasons the Romans set such store in it.

  Eventually, the four citizens were appropriately accoutred: gleaming white wool, deep-green laurel garlands, the flash of gold from Ballista’s mural crown. There was no sign of the women and the children. The magpie had not let up.

  ‘Tell the domina we will wait for her outside, down on the Sacred Way.’

  Outside, a cold pre-dawn, no wind; the stars paling, but the Grapegatherers still shining faintly. There was a hard frost over everything as they walked down the steep steps. Dogs barked in the distance.

  The Elephant was no more expensive than the other bars along the Embolos. Nothing was going to be cheap along the Sacred Way. The heavy wooden shutters were open. Hippothous and Calgacus went inside.

  The sky was high, pale blue, silvered in the east, streaked by a lone long stretch of cloud, like a straight line carefully drawn. The swallows were high, wheeling and cutting intricate patterns.

  ‘One day, do you think the sky will fall?’ Maximus asked.

  ‘I do not know. Maybe.’ Ballista carried on watching the swallows. ‘Not in the way you Celts think it will. Maybe at Raknarok, when everything falls. Not on its own.’

  ‘Your cousins the Borani and the other Goths, they think it will fall.’

  ‘Not my cousins. Nothing but ignorant refugees.’

  ‘And they speak highly of you,’ smiled Maximus.

  The others came out with the drinks: four cups of conditum. The ceramic cups were hot to hold. The steam smelt of wine, honey and spices.

  ‘Calgacus, do you think the sky will fall?’ Maximus asked.

  ‘Aye, of course. Any day now.’

  As a Hellene, Hippothous, unsurprisingly, looked superior.

  Ballista regarded his friends. Calgacus, with his great domed skull and thin, peevish mouth. Maximus, the scar where the end of his nose should have been pale against the dark tan of his face. And then there was Hippothous. Things were not the same with him as they had been with Demetrius. Of course, Hippothous was older – most likely about Ballista’s own age. Yet possibly it was more a question of origins. While Demetrius had come to Ballista as a slave, Hippothous had been born a free man – according to his own account, a rich young man that misfortune had turned to banditry or something close to it. It could be the latter was just too new an addition to the familia yet to be a friend. But there was something about Hippothous, something about his eyes. Ballista was far from sure about his new secretary.

  The chariot of the sun hauled over the shoulder of the mountain. Up above, the swallows flashed gold and black. Along the Embolos, many of the early risers turned to the east and blew a kiss. A few went further, prostrating themselves in the street in full proskynesis . None in Ballista’s party moved. Each to his own gods, some to none.

  ‘ Dominus.’

  Ballista turned, and there was his wife. Julia looked good. Tall, straight, what the Greeks called deep-bosomed. Her hair and eyes were very black against the white of her matron’s stola.

  ‘ Domina.’ He greeted her formally. Her black eyes betrayed nothing. Things had not been comfortable between them for a year or so. He had not asked why. And he was not going to. It might be to do with a girl in Cilicia called Roxanne. The unease had appeared after that, after he had come back from Galilee, where he had been sent to kill Jews, when Julia had returned from the imperial palace in Antioch. Someone there might have told her about Ballista in Cilicia, about Roxanne. Things were not comfortable. But the daughter of a senator never made a scene in public, and she did look good. Then there were their sons.

  ‘ Dominus.’ Isangrim stepped forward respectfully. He was a tall boy, just turned ten. And he was quick. He knew his mother expected a certain formality between father and son, expected him to behave with the dignitas appropriate to the descendant of a long line of senators on her side. But he knew it irritated his father. Having held the dignified pose for a moment, Isangrim grinned. Father and son clasped forearms, as Isangrim had seen Ballista do with Maximus, Calgacus and the other men he had served with. They hugged.

  It was all too much for Dernhelm. The three-year-old escaped the hand of Anthia, one of the two maids with Julia. The boy launched himself at his father and brother. Ballista scooped both boys up. He heard a tut of annoyance from his wife. Ignoring it, he swung the boys high, burying his face in the neck of first one then the other, hair flying, all three laughing; deliberately defying her.

  As Ballista set his sons down, another small child barrelled into them. Wherever Dernhelm was, Simon, the Jewish boy Ballista had brought back from Galilee, was also likely to be found. They were much of an age; both full of living. Rebecca started forward to retrieve her charge. Ballista smiled and waved her away. He hugged Simon as well. He had been told often enough by his wife that it was a bad idea to treat a slave child as if it were free, to make a pet of it. He knew it was true. He would have to do something soon. Modify his behaviour or manumit the child. Then there was Rebecca herself. She had been purchased down in Galilee to look after Simon. With her, it depended on what Calgacus wanted. Soon Ballista would have to ask him.

  The Caledonian himself came forward. ‘Aye, that is it, why not mess up your toga.’ Calgacus often seemed to be under the misapprehension that, if he adopted a muttering inflection, his
voice, although pitched at a perfectly audible volume, would not be heard. ‘After all, it is not you that has to sort it out.’ Quite good-naturedly, he shooed the children away.

  ‘And it is not you either these days.’ Ballista gestured to Constans. The voluminous woollen drapes of the barbarian’s toga rearranged just so, Constans collected Rebecca and Simon and went back up the steps that ran between the blocks of housing that clung to the terraced hillside. Ballista, his wife and two of her maids, his sons, his two freedmen and his accensus set off up the Sacred Way.

  The Embolos ran away uphill in front of them, the smooth, white base of a vertiginous ravine of buildings climbing the slopes on either side. Now there was activity along its length. Precariously up ladders, men fixed swags of flowers from pillar to pillar, garlanded the many, many statues. Others were bringing out small, portable altars, readying the incense and wine, kindling the fires. The air already shimmered above some of them.

  All the Ephesians were taking pains over this festival, none more so than the members of the Boule. The four hundred and fifty or so rich men who served on the city council had paid for the flowers that festooned all the streets and porticos. They had paid for the frankincense and wine the ordinary citizens would offer as the procession passed, and the much greater quantities of wine they would drink when it was gone. It had cost a great deal – Ephesus was a large and populous city. Yet it might prove worth every obol. The city had been on the wrong side in the latest civil war. The year before, it had supported Macrianus and Quietus against Gallienus. Of course, it had had no real choice. But that had not always helped in similar circumstances when the winner was feeling vengeful, or simply short of funds. If imperial displeasure fell on the city, it would fall on the members of the Boule. Rich and prominent, serving for life, there was no way they could escape notice.

  No one had more reason to be generous than the current asiarch in charge of the day’s festival. As high priest of the imperial cult in Ephesus, the metropolis of the province of Asia, Gaius Valerius Festus could not be more prominent. He was one of the very richest men in the city. Recently, he had pledged a fortune to dredge the harbour. He had been one of those whose homes had been deemed palatial enough to entertain the pretender Macrianus and his father when they travelled through on their way to the west to meet their fate. To add to his sensitivity, his brother was a Christian. The deviant brother had disappeared from jail and had been in hiding abroad for more than two years. He had reappeared shortly after the fall of Quietus. The emperor Gallienus was known to be extraordinarily relaxed about such things, but the family reunion had caused no great pleasure in the soul of the asiarch. It was no wonder Gaius Valerius Festus had invested a huge sum in the festival: choirs, musicians, several leading sophists – and the gods knew they did not come cheap – and a whole herd of oxen to be sacrificed and provide a roast meal for everyone in the city.