Iron and Rust

CHAPTER 33

The East

Ephesus, Province of Asia,

the Nones of October, AD237

The view from the governor’s palace at Ephesus was magnificent. To the left, the saw-toothed mountains cut down towards the sea. Grey limestone showed through the vegetation on their upper slopes; the lower were a jumble of red tiled roofs. At their foot stood the delicate columns of the famous library of Celsus, up against the great square of the commercial agora, and along from that, almost directly below the palace, was the broad, monumental street which ran west, straight to the harbour. To the right, blue with distance, more mountains curled around, with a gentler profile. Below them, the Caystros river curved in wide sweeps through the broad plain which stretched to the city. Inside the walls were the grand Olympieion and the monumental complex of the harbour baths, gymnasium and colonnaded park, all of which drew the eye back to the statue-lined street leading to the harbour. Timesitheus did not want to go to the harbour. He did not want to leave Ephesus.

It was the nones of October, growing late in the sailing season. The poet Hesiod had advised not to go to sea after August. Admittedly, Hesiod had been a farmer in the hills of Boeotia, and presumably vessels had become more seaworthy since his day. All the authorities that Timesitheus had ever consulted had considered that three days before the ides of November marked the onset of winter, after which only fools and the desperate would leaveport. If the winds were adverse, Timesitheus and his party might struggle to make harbour in Brundisium before the sea lanes closed. Although his family had owned merchantmen, Timesitheus had never enjoyed sailing. Once, a ship on which he had been a passenger had been caught in a storm off Massilia. Even though he did not believe in the gods, when the crew started praying, he had joined them. Still, if they rounded Cape Malea safely, this voyage should not hold many terrors. There was no point worrying. An imperial order to proceed by sea to Rome could not be ignored.

Timesitheus was alone on the terrace. The formal speeches bidding farewell to him as acting governor had been made by the leading citizens in the Council House that morning. The slaves and porters had already taken the baggage down to the ship. Now Timesitheus was waiting for Tranquillina and their daughter. He leant on the parapet and let his eyes rest on the theatre below.

Long ago, when Ephesus had been ravaged with plague, the holy man Apollonius of Tyana had led the citizens into the theatre. An old blind beggar had sat there with his staff and a scrap of bread. He was clad in rags and very squalid in appearance, blinking in the sunlight. Apollonius had ranged the Ephesians around him and told them to pick up as many stones as they could and hurl them at the enemy of the gods. The citizens had been reluctant to murder the miserable stranger. The aged man had wept, pleaded for mercy, but Apollonius was insistent. Once their blood was up, no one in the crowd held back. So many stones were thrown, they heaped a cairn over the body. When the stones were removed, the corpse lay pounded to a pulp, vomiting foam. No longer an old man, the daemon had the form of a Molossian dog, equal in size to the largest lion.

When Timesitheus had read this story in Philostratus, he had wondered what the governor was doing while his authority was being usurped. Perhaps he had been leaning on this parapet, looking down from his palace. Sometimes politics demanded that one stood aside, let events take their course. When the stones were scraped away, what if the body revealed had been that of a broken old man? Without divine inspiration, if you were not Apollonius, it was hard to tell the innocent from the guilty.

What level of guilt had stained the soul of Valerius Apollinaris, the previous governor of Asia? Last winter, when they had first met, just the two of them at dinner, with plenty of wine, the servants sent away, Timesitheus had expressed his condolences. No one could deny that life under the Caesars had been cruel to Valerius Apollinaris: his father had been murdered by Caracalla, his son by Maximinus. Timesitheus was not alone in fearing for the safety of Apollinaris and his surviving son. As things stood, Timesitheus, like all men of rank, feared for his own safety. The old governor would not be drawn. No complaints had escaped his lips. It was his duty to govern Asia, as it was that of his remaining son to oversee the banks of the Tiber and the sewers of Rome. Nothing treasonous for the witnesses Timesitheus had hidden to record.

Tranquillina had been furious. Timesitheus had said they should proceed no further. His wife had rounded on him. What had happened to the man she had married? Like the cat, he would eat fish but not get his paws wet. Would he live as a coward in his own esteem?

She had done things differently at the next meal. Late in the night, fixing Valerius Apollinaris with her dark eyes, she had said she did not believe that old-fashioned Roman honour was dead. The young could still be led back to ancestral virtue. They needed men of age and experience to follow. Then she had told Valerius Apollinaris of the meeting the previous year at Samosata.

Appalled by the risk she was running, Timesitheus had arranged his face. Behind its mask, he heard the scrabbling claws of his fear.

Timesitheus and Priscus loved Rome, but they were equestrians; no one would rally to them. The Senators Otacilius Severianus, Junius Balbus and Licinius Serenianus were men of probity, but on that day they had lacked resolve. If they had shown more courage, Junius Balbus would still be alive, and so would Claudius Apellinus, Sollemnius and a host of others. Modestly dressed, but her eyes shining with vehemence, Tranquillina could have been Lucretia or any stern example of a virtuous matron from a bygone age as she called on Valerius Apollinaris to free the Res Publica.

Then it had come out: the old governor’s long-stored bitterness and ambition, both cloaked in noble sentiments of duty and the public good. More than enough this time for the covert listeners.

Suitably edited — the initiative reversed and all mention of Samosata gone — the reports had travelled the cursus publicus to the court. Frumentarii had come back — with a closed carriage for Valerius Apollinaris and an ivory-bound imperial mandate for Timesitheus to take charge of the province of Asia.

That first night in the governor’s palace, here on this terrace, Tranquillina had pleasured him with her mouth. When he was near thinking he could take no more, she had lifted her skirts and bent over the parapet. Gripping her hips, he had thrust into her, revelling in his power, uncertain what in her cries was pleasure or pain. Afterwards she had told him what he needed to hear. Blood will out. Valerius Apollinaris’ father had been a traitor, his son had been a traitor, his other son would prove one too. Treachery ran through them like a seam of ore in a rock. Like miners, all she and Timesitheus had done was work it and bring it into the daylight.

Timesitheus turned as Tranquillina walked out of the palace. She smiled, and he realized she knew at once what he had been thinking about. She called over her shoulder and Sabinia came out to join them. Hand in hand, without attendants, they walked away down the steep path.

Reaching the Sacred Way, they turned right. The street was lined with crowds cheering the departing governor and his beautiful wife and daughter. Some threw flowers; others called out praises of his probity, his modesty and approachability. See how they did without guards or pomp.

Fools, Timesitheus thought. The ignorant had loved the Emperor Titus, because his reign was too short for him to do much wrong. The governorship of Asia could set a family up for generations. Timesitheus had been diligent in helping the imperial agent charged with confiscating the estate of Valerius Apollinaris; after all, one quarter was to come to himself as accuser. A key discovery had been that the old Senator, for all his talk of duty and virtue, had been filling his own treasure chests with both hands. Timesitheus had set about doing the same, but with more restraint and far greater subtlety. The only shame was he had not had long enough.

They turned right again, smiling and waving all the time, then left into the street to the harbour. Still the crowds cheered. Beyond the opportunities left behind in Asia, there were many reasons Timesitheus had no desire to return to Rome. Although Catius Celer and Alcimus Felicianus were in the city, their friendship would be matched by the enmity of others. One was Valerius Priscillianus, the surviving son of Valerius Apollinaris. The duty of revenge would be strong in him. Another — less virulent but better placed — was Vitalianus. Poor Macedo had been right about him; the deputy Praetorian Prefect would know that Timesitheus had argued against his previous appointment in Mauretania Caesariensis. Vitalianus had never struck him as a man likely to forgive or forget.

More mundane issues contributed to Timesitheus’ reluctance. He had been appointed Praefectus Annonae. His instructions were to end unrest among the urban plebs by distributing more grain, while at the same time spending less money. Unless the previous incumbent had been egregious either in maladministration or corruption, it would prove difficult to accomplish the conflicting tasks. Then there was the question of a private will. The great patron of Timesitheus’ early career, Pollienus Auspex Minor, had died. Auspex’s natural son had predeceased him. Shortly before his death, Auspex had adopted Armenius Peregrinus. Now Armenius was disputing the large bequest Auspex had left to Timesitheus. There were only two acceptable ways to make a great deal of money in the imperium. One was government service, the other inheritance. Timesitheus had done well out of the former, but little had accrued from the latter. He would be in Hades before he allowed a legacy hunter like Armenius to cheat him.

How he had been landed with the currently unenviable post of Praefectus Annonae was uncertain. For all their well-turned orotundity, imperial orders contained no obligation to explain their motives. A hasty correspondence with his cousin Modestus, unsurprisingly, had shed little light. Modestus had written of the great honour bestowed on Timesitheus and their family. Maximinus himself had proposed his appointment. No one in the consilium had expressed any doubts about its wisdom.

Could even his cousin be so dull-witted as to envisage anyone would? How did he think the objector might phrase it? Emperor, most sacred regent of the gods on earth, while your will is law, and you are a man of notorious savage temper and violence, a man who once tried to blind his son, may I say that with this ill-judged proposal you stand revealed as a half-barbarian simpleton.

Modestus had written that even Domitius had approved. In fact, the Prefect of the Camp now seemed amiably disposed. They often dined together, and Domitius had become something of a friend. Thank the gods, Timesitheus had never confided to his imbecilic cousin anything more sensitive than the cold of winter or the darkness of night. It was all too easy to imagine Modestus, well fuelled with wine at one of their intimate meals, turning his moon face to Domitius and laughing. You know it isabsurd, but Timesitheus has often said his life will not be complete until he has had you thrown to the animals, or stripped naked and, to the jeers of the mob, slowly flogged to death. Many times he has expressed the hope that the earth would lie light on you. It will make it easier for the dogs to dig up your corpse.

The street to the port was long, and the crowds had thinned. They were passing the entrance to the harbour gymnasium. Somewhere in there, Apollonius of Tyana had once given a lecture. Its subject was not recorded; most likely a diatribe on virtue or vegetarianism. Halfway through, words had failed him. Far from being overcome by the platitudinous nature of his thinking, Apollonius had been granted a vision. At that moment, hundreds of miles away, the tyrant Domitian was being struck down. Timesitheus could not see Maximinus lasting much longer. Samosata might not have brought it about, but someone would soon encompass his fall. The old Pythagorean Apollonius had not been such a fool. When an Emperor was killed, it was better to be walking shaded paths a long way away than in the streets of Rome.