allowed Acilius Glabrio to give her his hand as she took her place, smiling a smaller smile at Ballista to her side.
The main course was, again, almost aggressive in its simplicity: wild boar, lamb meatballs, cabbage dressed with oil, marrow with a pepper sauce and local flat bread. Two musicians, one with a lyre, the other a flute, began to play softly. Both looked vaguely familiar to Demetrius.
For a time, Bathshiba's arrival made the conversation falter slightly. Her generous cleavage and olive skin obviously attracted both Ballista and Acilius Glabrio, yet the northerner seemed to be finding it hard to think of much to say. After only a short while, he resumed his conversation with Iarhai about the relative endurance levels of the camel and the horse. Acilius Glabrio, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying himself. Attentive, light- hearted and witty, he clearly thought himself any girl's ideal dinner companion. Although the conversation was in Greek, he could not resist the occasional sally into Latin verse: Wine rouses the heart, inclines to passion: Heavy drinking dilutes and banishes care In a sea of laughter, gives the poor man self-confidence, Smoothes out wrinkles, puts paid To pain and sorrow. Then our age's rarest endowment, Simplicity, opens all hearts, as the god Dissipates guile. Men's minds have often been enchanted By girls at such times: ah, Venus in the wine Is fire within fire!
The final course showed the same almost flamboyant restraint that had marked the previous two: dried fruits, Damascene prunes, local figs and dates, pistachios and almonds, a smoked cheese, and some poached pears and fresh apples. The wine was changed to a sweet dark Lesbian.
Demetrius did not like the way things looked. If anything, Ballista and Iarhai were drinking even faster now. There was an awkward glint in the eye of his kyrios and a mulish set to his shoulders. Clearly he was annoyed by Acilius Glabrio's ease with Bathshiba. The young patrician was liable at any moment to bring out the worst in the northerner. In all honesty, the gathering frequency of the tribune's recitation of Latin poetry was beginning to irritate Demetrius too. After each display the young patrician sat back with a smile which suggested that he was enjoying a private joke. He carefully avoided naming the poet. His audience was either too polite or too reluctant to show its ignorance to ask. Like the majority of educated Greeks, Demetrius claimed ignorance of Latin literature in public while privately knowing a great deal about it. He knew the poetry, but for the moment could not quite place it.
An exaggerated run on the lyre ended a tune and drew Demetrius's attention to the musicians. He suddenly realized who they were: they were not slave musicians at all, they were two of Iarhai's mercenaries. He had heard them play at the campfire. With mounting apprehension, the young Greek looked round the room. Iarhai's four slaves were all older, capable-looking men. And they weren't slaves – they were mercenaries too. Although he could notbe sure, the two umbrae relaxing at the table could well be two officers of the mercenary troop. Gods, he could kill us all in a moment. A scene in Plutarch came to mind: Mark Antony and Octavian are dining on Sextus Pompey's flagship, and the pirate Menas whispers in the admiral's ear, 'Shall I cut the cables and make you master of the whole world?'
'Demetrius!' Ballista was waving his empty cup impatiently and the Greek boy snapped back to the present. Iarhai and Ballista were happily drinking together. Why would the protector of caravans want the northerner dead? Even Sextus Pompey had rejected the offer: 'Menas, would that you had acted, not spoken about it beforehand.'
… don't waste precious time – Have fun while you can, in your salad days; the years glide Past like a moving stream, And the water that's gone can never be recovered, The lost hour never returns.
Acilius Glabrio leant back, a half-smile playing on his lips, his hand fleetingly brushing Bathshiba's arm.
Ovid. Demetrius had it. And the poem was 'The Art of Love'. The pretentious swine. Acilius Glabrio had been reading it only yesterday – so much for his scholarship. So much for his smug little smiles. Demetrius remembered how the passage continued: You who today lock out your lovers will lie Old and cold and alone in bed, your door never broken Open at brawling midnight, never at dawn Scattered roses bright on your threshold! Too soon – ah, horror! – Flesh goes slack and wrinkled, the clear Complexion is lost, those white streaks you swear date back to Your schooldays suddenly spread, You're grey-haired.
The passages Acilius Glabrio had recited had been a series of snide jokes at the expense of the other diners, whom he undoubtedly thought far too ill-educated to detect him.
How did that passage about arriving late go on? Plain you may be, but at night you'll look fine to the tipsy: Soft Lights and shadows will mask your faults.
Demetrius could not say anything to anyone at the moment. Indeed, if he did tell a drunk Ballista the results might well be catastrophic. But at least he had unravelled the smug Roman patrician's sly little secret.
Iarhai made a signal, and wreathes of fresh roses and bowls of perfume appeared, symbols that the time for eating was over and the time for serious drinking and toasting about to start. Demetrius placed a wreath on Ballista's head and put his bowl of perfume by his right hand. After anointing himself, Ballista gestured the young Greek to stand closer. The northerner took the spare wreath which Iarhai had provided for just this reason and placed it on Demetrius's head. He then anointed the boy.
'Long life, Demetrius.'
'Long life, Kyrios.'
'A toast' – Acilius Glabrio had not thought enough of his slave to anoint or wreath him – 'a toast to our host the synodiarch, the caravan protector, the strategos, the general. The warrior whose sword never sleeps. To the man who waded ankle-deep in Persian blood to free this city. To Iarhai!'
Before the company could drink, Iarhai turned and glared at the young Roman. The synodiarch's battered face was twisted with barely suppressed anger. A muscle twitched in the broken right cheekbone.
'No! No one shall drink to that in my house.' Iarhai looked at Ballista. 'Yes, I helped end the Sassanid occupation of this city.' His lip curled in disgust. 'You are probably still too young to understand,' he said to the northerner, 'that one probably never will understand' – he jerked his head at Acilius Glabrio and paused. His eyes were on Ballista but he had withdrawn into himself. 'Many of the Persian garrison had their family with them. Yes, I waded ankle-deep through blood – the blood of women, children, babes in arms. Our brave fellow citizens rose up and massacred them, raped, tortured, then killed them – all of them. They boasted they were 'cleansing' the city of the 'reptiles'.'
Iarhai's gaze came back into focus. He looked at Bathshiba then at Ballista. 'All my life I have killed. It is what a synodiarch does. You protect the caravans. You talk to the nomads, the tent-dwellers. You lie, cheat, bribe, compromise. And when they all fail, you kill.
'I have dreams. Bad dreams.' A facial muscle twitched. 'Such dreams I would not wish even on Anamu and Ogelos… Do you believe in an afterlife, a punishment in an afterlife?' Again his gaze became unfocussed. 'Sometimes I dream that I have died. I stand in the grove of black poplars by the ocean stream. I pay the ferryman. I cross the hateful river. Rhadamanthys judges me. I have to take the road to the punishment fields of Tartarus. And they are waiting for me, the 'kindly ones', the demons of retribution and, behind them, the others: all those I have killed, their wounds still fresh. There is no need to hurry. We have eternity.' Iarhai sighed a great sigh then smiled a self-deprecating smile. 'But perhaps I have no monopoly on inner daemons…'
The patrician drawl of Acilius Glabrio broke the silence. 'Discussing the immortality of the soul. This is a true symposium, a veritable Socratic dialogue. Not that I ever suspected for a moment that after-dinner conversation in this esteemed house would resemble that at the dinner of Trimalchio in Petronius's Satyricon.' Everything about his manner suggested that was just what he thought. 'You know, all those dreadful jumped-up, ill-educated freedmen talking nonsense about werewolves and the like.'
Ballista swung round heavily. His face was flushed, his eyes unnaturally bright. 'My father's name is Isangrim. It means 'Grey-Mask'. When Woden calls, Isangrim lays down his spear, offers the Allfather his sword. He dances and howls before the shield wall. He wears the wolfskin coat.'
There was a stunned silence. Demetrius could hear the oil hissing in one of the lamps.
'Gods below, are you saying that your father is a werewolf?' Acilius Glabrio exclaimed.
Before the northerner could answer, Bathshiba began to recite in Greek: Hungry as wolves that rend and bolt raw flesh, Hearts filled with battle-frenzy that never dies – Off on the cliffs, ripping apart some big-antlered stag They gorge on the kill till their jaws drip red with blood
… But the fury, never shaken, Builds inside their chests.
No one in the imperium couldfail to recognize the poetry ofHomer.
Bathshiba smiled. 'You see, the father of the Dux Ripae could not be in better company when he prepares to
