The other two nodded at the North African's words, even though they did not believe them.
The door opened, and in walked three more customers. As any member of the staff should, the frumentarii got to their feet to greet the praefectus fabrum, Mamurra. They also spoke to the bodyguard, Maximus, and the valet, Calgacus. The new arrivals returned the greetings and went and sat at another table. The frumentarii flicked each other glances, revelling in their perspicacity. They had chosen the right bar.
The two brothers who owned the bar eyed their latest customers with some trepidation. The ugly old slave with the misshapen head who had been greeted as Calgacus would not cause any trouble – although you could never tell. The praefectus, Mamurra, like all soldiers, could be a problem. He wore camp dress – white tunic embroidered with swastikas, dark trousers and boots. He had a cingulum, an elaborate military belt, around his waist, to which was buckled an equally ornate baldric, which went over his right shoulder. The cingulum had an extravagant swag tucked in to form a loop to the right of the buckle. It hung down and ended in the usual jingling metal ornaments. Both belts proclaimed his length of service and status. They were covered in awards for valour, amulets and mementoes of various units and campaigns. On his left hip lay a spatha, a long sword, and on his right a pugio, a military dagger. In the good old days, he would have only worn the dagger, but unsettled times changed things. His large square head, like a block of marble, was grizzled; beard, hair and moustache were cut very short. A mouth like a rat trap and serious, almost unblinking, eyes added to the suggestion that he was far from a stranger to violence.
The third man, the talkative one whom the attendants had greeted as Maximus, was worse. He was dressed in similar fashion to the officer, but he was no soldier. He wore an old-fashioned gladius, a Spanish short sword, an ornate dagger and a mass of cheap gilt ornaments. His black hair was longer than the other man's and he had a short but full beard. The scar where the tip of his nose had been showed white against the deep tan of his bird- like face. The barmen thought it looked like a cat's arse. They had no intention of telling the man. His whole appearance pointed to his time in the arena and his current employment as a hired tough. But what was really worrying were his eyes. Light blue, wide open and slightly blank, they were the eyes of a man who could turn to extreme violence at a moment's notice.
'This one is on me.' Mamurra raised his slab-sided face to catch the eye of one of the owners. The barman nodded and gestured to a girl to take drinks to the three men.
'Jupiter, that barman is one ugly bastard,' said Calgacus in an atrocious northern accent.
'You see, my dear Praefectus,' Maximus spoke to Mamurra, 'Calgacus here is something of an expert on beauty. It all comes from his youth. You may find it hard to credit, but when he was young his beauty shone like the sun. Men and boys – even women and girls – they all wanted him. When he was enslaved, kings, princes and satraps showered him with gold hoping for his favours. They say that, in Athens, he caused a riot. You know what dedicated pederasts the Athenians are.'
It was not so much hard to credit as completely impossible to believe. Mamurra regarded Calgacus closely; he had a weak chin, not concealed by a growth of stubble, a sour, thin mouth, a wrinkled forehead, short-cropped receding hair and, the most distinctive feature, a great dome of a skull rising up and out above the ears. It had taken Mamurra a moment or two to realize that Maximus had been joking. Neptune's bollocks, this is going to be hard work, he thought. He was not a man who had an affinity with light, playful irony.
A girl with small breasts and a bony behind arrived with their wine. As she set down the large mixing bowl Maximus ran his hand up her leg under her short tunic and over her arse. She simpered. Both were doing what they thought was expected of them.
In the normal run of things, the praefectus fabrum, Mamurra, would not have been drinking with a couple of barbarian slaves, let alone paying for the drinks. But everyone dances when Dionysius demands. In the imperium power came from proximity to greater power. The DuxRipae had power because he had a commission direct from the emperors. These two slaves had power because they were close to the Dux Ripae. They had been with Ballista for years. It was fourteen years since the DuxRipae had purchased Maximus, and Calgacus had come to the imperium with him. If Mamurra's own commission were to be a success, it was vital to find out everything he could about the new Dux. Anyway, he accepted that, given his own status, it would be hypocritical to stand on ceremony. It was not even as if Mamurra was the name he had been given at birth.
He studied his two companions. Calgacus was drinking slowly, steadily, determinedly. Like an Archimedes screw pumping out the hold of a ship, he lowered the level of his cup. Maximus was also getting through his share, but he took sips or gulps as and when the waving, chopping hand gestures which illustrated his never-ending chatter allowed. Mamurra awaited his moment.
'Strange that the Greek boy Demetrius turned down a drink. Do you think he is put out that Ballista bought that pretty Persian boy today? One bum boy fearing another bum boy in the house? Nothing is lower in a household than yesterday's favourite.' Mamurra watched Maximus's normally mobile features still, his face become closed.
'The tastes of the dominus do not run in that direction. In his tribe such people are killed; just like… in the Roman army.' Maximus turned to look Mamurra full in the face.
The praefectus fabrum held the bodyguard's gaze for a moment or two then looked away. 'I am sure that is the way it is.' Mamurra noted the barman exchanging a significant look with the man ugly enough to be his brother who was in charge of the door.
Mamurra decided to try another tack. His wine cup was decorated with a scene of a vigorous orgy. It was a crude copy of the ancient style of painted vases which now were so often collected by the rich as antiques, as conversation pieces. Like the whole decoration of the room, including the two ludicrously oversized fake Doric columns which flanked the door to the stairs, the drinking cups were intended to give the poor patrons of the bar an illusory sense of an elite lifestyle. Mamurra knew, because he had often been in the houses of the rich, sometimes even legitimately.
'I think I could do with a fuck,' he said. 'If either of you want a girl, be my guest.'
'That is awful kind of you, my dear Praefectus.We have been at sea a long time and, as I am sure an educated man like yourself knows, there is no sex to be had at sea. The sailors say that it brings the worst sort of luck. I wonder if that includes sex with yourself. If so, it's a wonder we made port at all, what with Calgacus here strumming like Priapus in the women's quarters.' Maximus looked around the room. 'There! Over there! A vision! A vision of beauty!'
'What, the fat girl?' Calgacus asked, following the direction of his gaze.
'Warmth in the winter, shade in the summer.' Maximus beamed and went off to strike a deal.
Now let's see if we can get anything out of this miserable old Caledonian bastard, thought Mamurra.
'How do you put up with it?' he asked.
'It's just his way.'
'I have noticed sometimes he even talks that way to the Dux. How does he get away with that?'
There was a lengthy pause as Calgacus further lowered the level of his drink. 'On account of saving his life,' he said finally.
'When did Maximus save his life?'
Another long pause. 'No, the dominus saved Maximus's life. Creates a bond.'
Beginning to despair, Mamurra refilled Calgacus's cup. 'Why is the Dux named after a siege engine?'
'Maybe he got the name Ballista because he has always had an interest in siege engines.'
This is sodding hopeless, thought Mamurra. 'He must be a good dominus to serve.'
The old slave drank and seemed to mull this over. 'Maybe.'
'Well, he seems an easy master. No special demands.' Mamurra was nothing if not persistent.
'Boiled eggs,' said Calgacus.
'Sorry?'
'Soft-boiled eggs. Very fussy about them. Have to be just so.'
Ballista sat on some stone steps which ran down to the water from the dock. For the first time since Brundisium he felt happy. He had just written a letter to Julia and included a short note for her to read to their son. He had sent a crapulous-looking Calgacus off to the other imperial trireme to ask if the procurator would be kind enough to deliver it. Even if they had already left Rome for the villa in Sicily, which was not likely, it should soon reach them. The autumn sunshine was warm on his face, and it sparkled on the vivid blue sea.
He picked up his copy of How to Defend a City under Siege by Aeneas Tacticus and scrolled through the
