The Coming of the King

Chapter Eleven

From a distance, the theatre at Caesarea was a swarm of dancing fireflies, caught in the blue bowl of dusk.

Closer, the gyrating sparks resolved to torches, held by taut, wary watchmen, always in pairs, never more than a short spear’s throw from the next nearest pair; between them was a festering soup of Syrians and Hebrews, of men, women and boys just old enough to carry clubs and stones and perhaps put them to good use.

Pantera reckoned their numbers in the thousands: the theatre was said to have seats for five thousand while the entire adult population of Caesarea was in excess of thirty thousand, and it seemed likely that most of them were trying to gain access. The arithmetic of that alone was explosive.

‘We should enter separately,’ Menachem said, when they were still on the outer fringes of the crowd. ‘Once inside, it would be useful if you sat next to me, but for both our sakes you should appear not to know me: a dozen different men have agents in there, and it will serve neither of us if we are thought to be in collusion.’

He was gone, ghosting through the crowds, with his head down and his shoulders hunched, as if that way he might hide the shining raven’s wing of his hair, or the zealot’s light in his eyes.

Pantera watched him until he was truly impossible to see any more. Nobody seemed to be following him through the throng.

‘Do you trust him?’ Mergus asked.

Pantera slid both hands into his sleeves and straightened the lie of his knives, slid each one out of its sheath and back in again. They moved smoothly, stayed pleasingly secure.

He said, ‘No. But I don’t mistrust him enough yet to be sure he’s lying. Can you stay outside, near the doors? I wouldn’t put it past Saulos to try to burn this place: he has an unhealthy fondness for fire.’

‘How will I warn you?’

‘Do you remember the bark of the hunting vixen that the legions used in Britain to warn of a possible ambush? And can you do it? Good.’

He clasped Mergus’ shoulder, and knew that it didn’t touch the depth of his care, that there should be more if he could think how to frame it. I care more deeply than you know, but not as deeply as you would wish. Don’t die for me. Please. He didn’t say it. He smiled, and saw Mergus smile back, worry still sharp in his eyes.

‘If you can’t get hold of me, call the Watch and get Jucundus; he cares for the welfare of his city.’ Pantera lifted his hand and watched Mergus turn back, away from the entrance. ‘Stay safe,’ he said.

‘I think not.’

Pantera caught the thin wrist that slid under his cloak, and twisted until he heard the elbow joint creak on the edge of breaking. The youth who had brushed against him gave a strangled grunt, but had the sense not to call aloud.

They were in the theatre, in the humid crush of men and women caught between the doors and the tiered seating, patiently waiting to take their places. Men on either side eyed them and decided not to intervene; they had been seen, though, and both knew it.

Pantera smiled amiably. ‘You will leave now. I will return to the gentleman in the woollen coat the coins he has unaccountably mislaid. Do you understand?’

The youth nodded, green-faced. His breathing rasped in short, harsh cycles. His eyes flitted in widening orbits, never looking Pantera in the face. In Caesarea, men or boys — the council made no distinction in terms of age — had their right hands removed if they were caught thieving in a public place. ‘I am not the Watch,’ Pantera said. ‘But I’ll call them if I see you here again. Go now.’

He let go. The youth — too old to be a boy, not yet old enough to be a man — had the presence of mind to ease slowly into the oncoming crush, rather than bolting like a flushed deer, which would surely have brought the Watch on his heels. The crowd parted and came together again like the maw of some giant sea-monster and the boy was gone.

‘You dropped these.’ Pantera tapped on a nearby shoulder. The man’s head turned, slowly. Raven hair shone with a new lustre in the lamplight. Dark, deep-set eyes stared flatly at Pantera, and Pantera gazed as flatly back.

‘I dropped them?’ said Menachem, leader of the War Party. He looked down, puzzled. On Pantera’s palm lay five brass sestertii and a silver denarius bearing the image of Caligula, a year’s wages for a boy gutting fish, or an apprentice weaver.

‘If you didn’t, then your pockets have just been picked.’ Pantera flicked his eyes towards the door, where the youth was leaving, not looking back. ‘I would think on a night with tensions such as this one, perhaps you dropped them?’

‘Thank you.’ Menachem bowed a little, from the waist. His gaze took in Pantera as if anew; his build, his height, his serviceable tunic, perhaps the two knives under his sleeves: they were not so hidden that a trained man might not see them. ‘Our people are not wealthy, however much gold they might choose to throw away tonight. I owe you thanks. Would you care to join me?’

Pantera inclined his head. He sat. Menachem sat. Below the hum of the crowd, he murmured, ‘Nicely done, but whose coins are they?’

‘If you look three rows down, you’ll see a Greek with a broken nose. He will find his purse has been cut. Not by me. The boy was almost good enough.’

And thus did Pantera take the place he had marked as he came in, the only seat left at the end of a row, which might afford a quick exit if one became necessary and yet still give him a clear view of the stage.

The stage… which was lit by a profusion of flame so startlingly bright that those coming in covered their eyes, and had to look away.

Looking at it now, Pantera counted no more than a dozen lit braziers on the platform, but behind them a bank of beaten copper took up the whole back wall of the theatre, curved to catch the pinpoints of torchlight and stir into them a thunder of scarlet and sun-fire and high-toned ambers, then multiply them a hundredfold before hurling them out across the auditorium.

Pantera sat, saturated in colour, until, presently, a priest from the Temple of Augustus emerged from behind the black-curtained wings and walked with meditative slowness across the stage, swinging a bowl of sandalwood to sweeten the sweaty air.

He was barefoot, and walked with a dancer’s grace, and yet it sounded as if he stamped past in the nailed sandals of the legions, so cleanly was the sound picked up and sent out to the listening thousands. It was, Pantera thought, a product of the copper wall and the vellum roof and a particular resonance of the raised stage. Such things were known in Corinth and Athens, but Pantera had not expected it here.

From his right, softly, Menachem said, ‘The stage upsets you? The light is, I agree, particularly penetrating this time.’

‘I was in Rome during the fire,’ Pantera said. ‘To see flame this intense touches memories I would rather leave behind.’

‘And the camel train? I understand there were aspects of your journey you might also like to leave behind you?’

‘Nothing we didn’t expect. Ibrahim had the worst of it, with the governor taking all his good camels in tax as soon as we arrived. Yusaf ben Matthias paid for the whole shipment in advance. Was he happy with the results? I have a silver coin resting on the answer.’

‘A silver coin is your pay for the entire journey,’ Menachem said. ‘You would rest it on a gamble?’

‘Not a gamble. I only bet on certainties.’

Menachem turned to look fully at Pantera. His face was perfectly bland. ‘Will you name for me those certainties and the nature of the wager?’

‘Ibrahim brought five barren camels on a month’s journey, knowing from the start they were not in calf. All through the month, they were the ones that we protected first, from jackals or bandits, from thirst or hunger. We considered what might be inserted into the womb of a camel to be retrieved later and decided it might be something that was worth more than its own weight in gold. Gemstones, therefore, or balsam. I bet that it was balsam. Mergus thought diamonds. Perhaps you could settle that for us?’

Menachem considered a moment. ‘You win,’ he said. ‘The camels brought balsam, equal in value to three talents of gold. Yusaf paid half a talent to the camel drover for the journey, and he will send him back with the same and horses this time, of Berber breeding, which will fetch almost as much in the markets of the desert.’ He looked up. Something close to a smile played on his lips. ‘Does Ibrahim know of your wager?’

‘Would we be alive if he did?’

‘Probably not.’ Menachem did smile then, and it lit his face, shedding years. ‘Watch now,’ he said. ‘It’s starting.’

A cymbal clashed at the stage-side. At its command, the entire theatre fell silent. To the high notes of a reed pipe, five well-muscled slaves drew on to the stage a set of thrones and benches, enough to seat a dozen, and set them so that the central thrones, adrape with silks, entwined with carvings of vines and olives, faced the very apex of the auditorium.

As promptly as the slaves departed, so did the royal retinue enter. King Agrippa led, clothed in tissue of gold, long-striding across the stage to stand in front of his throne. Berenice, his queen, if not his wife, followed a pace behind, then eleven men and women followed, draped in silks of alternating colours; the queen in blue, her women in green and the men in varying shades of amber, citrus and pale copper-gold.

Hypatia was among the women. Pantera saw her first as he would in any room she entered, as any man would, who had eyes to see. They had robed her in a shade of dark emerald green that brought out the faint tint in her eyes, and pinned up her blue-black hair so that her neck was exposed, smooth as alabaster, slim as a swan’s, thin enough to wrap his one hand round, almost.

Seen like that, a man might have thought her fragile, which would have been a mistake. Pantera had learned not to think thus in Alexandria and then Rome, when they had seemed to be enemies. He had come to be grateful for it since.

And then Agrippa had stepped apart from the rest, and drew all eyes, for he was no longer a mere man, but had become the blistering sun; dressed from shoulder to heel and beyond in tissue of gold with a filet of gold in his dark hair and diamond-studded gold on his fingers.

To a rising trill of pipe music, he stepped up on to a wooden pedestal placed at his feet by a kneeling slave. His flaring, dancing sun-fire robes hung down to the floor so that it seemed as if a far taller man stood there. Somewhere, a steward clapped his hands, once. The reed notes tumbled to silence.

As if released, the theatre hummed to quiet life again. Menachem leaned to Pantera and murmured, ‘Agrippa’s father died here in this theatre. He makes a point of dressing in gold, as did the old king, to silence those who say his death was an act of God, to punish his hubris. His sister is next to him, Berenice of Cilicia, who was married to the son of the Alabarch of Alexandria. When he died after a year of her marital bed, she married her uncle, Herod of Chalcis. When he died four years later, she married King Polemon II of Pontus, Colchis and Cilicia.’

‘Lucky man,’ said Pantera, drily. ‘How long did he last?’

A smile split Menachem’s long, lean face. He spread his palms in mock distress. ‘Polemon graces the world yet with his presence, but he no longer has the pleasure of her company. Berenice left him to return here, to Caesarea. Men say she has… unnatural relations with her brother and that they could not bear to be parted.’

‘Men often say such things of the women who rule over them,’ Pantera observed. ‘What do you say?’

‘That she is the granddaughter of Herod the Great, whose name is for ever despised, and she will for ever bear the stain of his blood; that she worships false gods, that she is given to Rome above all else, but that even so she rules Caesarea far better than does her brother and, the riots of the last half-month notwithstanding, Caesarea is more peaceful, more prosperous and more godly with her here. It is said-’ On the stage, the king had raised his hand. Menachem lowered his voice still further. ‘It is said that Agrippa sent to his sister four times begging her to come back and rule at his side. She came only after the start of the corn riots of ten years ago. They ceased within a day of her return and the city has known very little violence since. What happens here tonight may keep it at bay for some time longer. Watch now.’ He leaned forward. ‘This is what you have come here to see.’

The king’s raised hand had summoned forth a string of five blue-robed men from the front row of seats. They walked at a measured pace along the ground at the front of the raised stage. From his place high in the auditorium, Pantera saw little more than their heads.

‘Hebrew or Syrian?’ he asked.

‘Hebrew. They come to petition the king for the safety of their central synagogue, which lies now beset by scaffolding. You will have seen the harm that has fallen on it. Queen Berenice, of course, will hear them. Her response will carry more weight, but it must be given in private, and appear to come from the king.’

‘Where’s Florus?’ Pantera asked. ‘If something of import is happening, should Rome’s governor not be here?’

Menachem gave an eloquent shrug. ‘Our overseer doesn’t choose to involve himself in disputes between Hebrews and Syrians. In his view, Rome stands above such things. But if you look closely now…’

Pantera looked closely; everyone did. Across the theatre, silence fell in a thick, breath-held blanket. In it, a silver pipe sang three notes. At their dying away, the foremost of the Hebrew men left his fellows and approached the stage alone.

Seen from the height of the seating, the most obvious feature of the man who mounted the set of small wooden steps was the shining length of his beard, grizzled here and there with silver, so that he seemed sombre even when, as now, he smiled.

Beyond that, what set him apart, even from the royalty on stage, was the splendour of his robes. He wore a long-coat of midnight silk so thick it took the frantic coppered fires of the theatre and soothed them to stillness. Its luxury enfolded him, screaming wealth and restraint together, a thing rarely done here, or in Rome, or even in Alexandria, which prided itself on the subtlety of its riches.

Reaching the stage, the newcomer turned to face the king. With perfect pride, and perfect humility, he knelt, pressing his face to the floor. His voice welled out across the auditorium, carried by the magnificent acoustics of the copper-backed stage.

‘Yusaf ben Matthias salutes his king and his queen, and offers the salutations of his people, who are their people.’