King of Kings

XIV

Lucius Calpurnius Piso Censorinus, Princeps Peregrinorum, commander of the frumentarii and hence one of the most feared men in the imperium, sighed and put down the children's book. He ran a hand over his face. He was tired, and it was not going well. He rose and went over to the window. Outside, the late-afternoon sun was slanting down through the fruit trees. A patrician Censorinus had been close to had once said to him that the true test of a man's humanitas was his appreciation of a garden. Censorinus made a positive effort to appreciate the patterns of light and shade as the zephyr moved through the orchard between the imperial palace and the hippodrome. He had a retentive memory. He had filed away that opinion and been grateful. Of course, it had not stopped him informing against the patrician.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Unhurriedly, Censorinus checked that the concealed door that led down to the cellars of the palace was shut. Then he returned to his desk, put some papers over the book he had been reading, and said, 'Enter.' The frumentarius who came in was wearing dark civilian clothes. He was an unexceptional-looking man — all the best frumentarii were.

'Marcus Clodius Ballista has chosen you to accompany him to Ephesus as a scribe.'

'Yesh, Dominus.'

'This will be the third time that you have served with him.'

'Yesh, Dominus.'

'I have looked at your reports.' Censorinus vaguely indicated the wall of overflowing pigeonholes behind his desk. 'Your reports from Arete were most uncomplimentary. But those from the Circesium campaign contained much praise.'

The frumentarius, who had been slouching in a commendably unmilitary fashion, drew himself up a little straighter. 'I report things as I shee them.' Censorinus noted that the frumentarius had still not been able to completely lose his North African accent, the occasional 's' still being pronounced as 'sh'.

'What more could one ask?' Censorinus ventured a brief smile. 'In the imperial consilium earlier today Ballista said he knew no more of Christians that what one finds in Tacitus and the younger Pliny.' The Princeps Peregrinorum spoke as if he were often in the habit of reading their works. 'A report indicates that he may have been somewhat economical with the truth. Last year, here in Antioch, he was seen listening to a Christian preacher in the street known as the Jawbone. We expect extra vigilance from you, Hannibal.'

'Yesh, Dominus.'

After the man had gone, Censorinus remained at his desk. His eyes unfocused, he let his thoughts probe at the appointment of the new Vicarius to the Proconsul of Asia. Although the young patrician Gaius Acilius Glabrio had taken almost all the credit, Ballista had done well at Circesium. The northerner was not without backers at court: the generals Tacitus and Aurelian were close friends of his; the ab Admissionibus Cledonius seemed well disposed; so, too, the praetorian prefect Successianus. But Ballista had been out of the emperor's favour for over a year. He had never before served in a purely civilian post. It had been a big surprise when Macrianus had strongly championed his appointment. Since the fracas in the courtyard on Ballista's return from Arete, the Comes Largitionum had consistently exerted his considerable influence to the detriment of the northerner. It was quite probable that Macrianus' sons, Quietus and Macrianus the Younger, had been behind the three attempts to assassinate Ballista. So why should Macrianus now want Ballista to persecute Christians in Ephesus?

Censorinus felt a small stab of pleasure as his thoughts scouted the mystery. Ferreting out secrets was something he was good at. It was a talent that had taken him a long way. He allowed himself a few moments of self-satisfaction. He had travelled a long path indeed from the dye works in Bononia where he had been brought up. He had escaped from the great stinking vats of stale urine to enlist as a legionary in Legio II Italica in Noricum, up on the Danube. Promotion had followed swiftly. He had quickly been made a speculator. Only four years in the scouts, and he had been commissioned a centurion in the frumentarii. Five years, and a well-timed act of betrayal had brought him command of the imperial secret service. He had no intention of stopping there. Had not the great Marcus Oclatinius Adventus, Princeps Peregrinorum under the divine Septimius Severus, been offered the throne after the murder of Caracalla? Of course, the fool had turned it down.

Yet, as with everything, Censorinus' meteoric rise had had its price. The glow of self-satisfaction died as he moved the papers and reached for the book he had been reading. In the exalted circles that he now inhabited, it was necessary to grasp any allusion to the poetry of Homer. Reluctantly opening the commentary on the Iliad for children, the Princeps Peregrinorum again began to painfully unpack the nearly 16,000 lines of arcane dactylic hexameter verse. The early morning on-shore breeze had almost blown the smell of corruption from the port; almost, but not quite. It was getting on for three years since Ballista had been in Seleuceia in Pieria. He had passed though there on his way to Arete. Some things had changed since then. The collapsed jetty had been rebuilt. The naval ship sheds had been given a lick of paint. There were far more vessels, both warships and merchantmen. It was no longer a backwater. It had a bustle to it. Yet the presence of the imperial court just up the road at Antioch had not changed everything. The wide polygonal harbour was still full of decomposing rubbish. It bobbed and floated up against the docks, entangled the buoys. There was one dead dog there, and any number of deceased rats. Presumably, Ballista thought, the long, dog-legged canal that connected the manmade harbour to the Mediterranean prevented the sea getting in to cleanse it.

The two men were standing on the military dock next to the warship that would take them to Ephesus. She was called the Venus and, near her ram, boasted a well-rounded figurehead of the goddess, naked. The Venus was a trireme, a long, narrow galley rowed by nearly two hundred men seated on three levels. Crowded and uncomfortable, less than seaworthy in a storm, the Venus was designed with just one purpose in mind: to catch and sink other ships. She was ordered to cruise up the Aegean to Byzantium looking for pirates from the Black Sea — Goths, Borani, Heruli. On her way she was to deliver the new vicarius to the Governor of Asia to Ephesus. From the ship came intermittent barked orders and a steady undercurrent of swearing. Ballista watched the men swarming over her decks, stowing away spare oars, cordage and tackle, and generally getting her ready for sailing. Maximus ran his eye appraisingly over the figurehead.

A particularly florid burst of swearing, and a large, domed skull rose up the gangway. A moment later, Calgacus' thin, pinched face appeared. As usual, the Caledonian's muttering was perfectly audible. 'No, no… it's quite all right. You two just stand there and take it easy. No way I need a hand with all your kit and forty fucking attendants to get onboard.' Then, in a somewhat different tone but at exactly the same volume, 'One of the sea-chests is missing, but most of the attendants are in their quarters.'

'Well done,' said Ballista. 'You are not overdoing it, are you?'

Instead of answering, Calgacus gave Ballista a withering stare and turned to stump back on board. 'Ha, fucking ha,' floated behind him.

The Caledonian had been exaggerating wildly. Ballista had tried very hard to keep the numbers down. But Roman ideas of what was fitting had not let him get away with fewer attendants than he had possessed when he was Dux Ripae. So there were six viatores to run messages, four scribae, two praecones to announce him and two haruspices to read the omens in the pecking of chickens and the livers of slaughtered animals. Fourteen in all. Two of them, the North African scribe and a messenger from Gaul, had been with him since he first left Italy for the east. As was his custom, he had appointed Demetrius accensus, to run his staff. Presumably that was where the Greek boy was now.

'Here they come,' said Maximus.

Ballista turned but did not see them. His eyes were drawn upward by the zigzagging alleys and staircases flanked by jumbled houses which climbed towards the acropolis and the stark Doric temple which dominated the city of Seleuceia. Behind were the scarred, grey-white slopes of Mount Pieria.

'No, over there,' said Maximus.

They were much nearer than Ballista had expected. The blue litter was flanked by the two ex-gladiators still employed as household guards. It was carried by eight porters. Ballista felt a flick of irritation. Possibly Julia was reverting to type — the senator's daughter who could not even walk the few minutes down from the house where they had stayed to the dock.

The porters grounded the litter. A hand pulled back the curtain. Ballista stepped over to give his wife a hand. Julia stumbled slightly as she got out. Steadying her, Ballista was surprised by her weight. It did not trouble him. He had always liked his women rounded. He reached in and lifted out his son. He was not in the least surprised by his weight as he swung him through the air. He was well aware that Isangrim was big for six. Ballista kissed him on the forehead and, with a slight grunt of effort, set him on his feet. Allfather, how many more of these partings? Ballista had asked permission for his family to accompany him to Ephesus. Denying it, Valerian had stated that women and children might be upset witnessing the rigours of a determined persecution.

Ballista still had no more idea why he had been chosen than he had had in the consilium. Julia, well-versed in the ways of the court, had not been able to find out either. Even Cledonius professed himself unsure. No one could fathom the warmth with which Macrianus had urged the appointment. Ballista had begun to mistrust the intimacy between his wife and the ab Admissionibus slightly. As they walked along the dock, he put the thought aside. Julia and Cledonius had a shared background, he was married to one of her many second cousins, and they understood the inner circles of the imperium in a way the big northerner knew that he never would.

They reached the ship. It was time to go. Ballista crouched down by his son and hugged him, burying his face in the blond curls. He breathed in the smell of clean skin and hair, willing himself to remember it. He whispered in the native tongue he had been so insistent Isangrim should learn. 'Be brave. Look after your mother.'

As Ballista went to stand, Isangrim held out a hand. The boy unclenched his small fist. Inside, rather crumpled, were two leaves. 'We can put them in our wallets.' His solemn blue eyes looked up at his father. 'We can look at them to remember.' Not trusting himself to speak, Ballista looked down and busied himself putting his leaf away safe.

Ballista drew Julia to him. He kissed her gently on the lips. This time he spoke in Latin. 'Take care. I will be back as soon as I can.'

She leaned close. 'You take care.' Her lips were close to his ear. 'When you come back you will be a father again.'

Ballista felt the strange lurch that all men feel when told that. 'When?'

Julia smiled. 'Towards the end of the year.'

For a moment Ballista nearly said that he would kill the Christians quickly, but stifled the inappropriate and probably ill-omened words. He looked into her eyes. 'Good. Take care,' he said simply.

It was time to go. He turned and walked aboard the ship, his boots ringing hollowly on the gangplank.