Up to Daphne. It seemed strange to Maximus the bodyguard. He had noticed it when they were here the previous year. No matter where the locals set out from when they travelled to the suburb, they always said that they were going up to Daphne. But sure it was a pleasant enough trip. As soon as you cleared the south gate of the city there was the river, the great Orontes, rolling along to the right, and off to the left began the varied gardens, the springs, houses and shrines hidden among the groves. As you went on and the road edged away from the river, on both sides were shady vineyards and rose gardens. And all along, at no great interval, were the things that gave pleasure to a man like Maximus, the baths and the inns, and the lively looking girls around them.
At first they had ridden close together, the three adults on their horses and the boy on the pony. Ballista talked to the son, but Isangrim did not answer. The boy seemed withdrawn, even sullen. You could not expect to vanish from a child's life for over a year and straightaway be welcomed back. Yet it was embarrassing. Maximus and the Greek secretary Demetrius let their horses drop back. They looked around in the autumn sunshine.
Around midday a pleasant breeze began to blow from the southwest up the valley of the Orontes. The sleeves of the riders' tunics rustled in the wind. The boy started to talk. Then he wanted to ride with his father. Things were all right. Isangrim transferred to his father's horse. Ballista threw Maximus the lead reins of the pony. Ballista trotted on. The boy, clinging tightly to his father's back, was laughing.
It had a sly, nasty nature did the pony. Now they were stopped, it tried to sidle up to bite Maximus' horse. The Hibernian put his boot into its shoulder. The pony eyed the man's leg and showed its yellow teeth before deciding better of it and moving away. Maximus leant forward and played with his mount's ears.
'Hey, Graeculus, little Greek, come out of there. They will soon be out of sight.' Maximus knew that Demetrius, like all his race, liked to be called a Hellene not a Graecus, let alone a Graeculus, but he was in a mood to tease the boy.
'They will be out of sight, I tell you.' In truth, Ballista and his son were a couple of hundred paces ahead.
Demetrius emerged from the small wayside shrine. He looked absurdly young to Maximus. And he looked happy. That was good. He seldom looked happy. Even using a mounting block, the Greek youth struggled to get into his saddle. He was no horseman.
'The people of Antioch must be some of the most god-fearing in the world,' said Demetrius.
Maximus looked dubious. It was not their common reputation, and he could only think of one reason that the two girls outside the last tavern they had passed might get on their knees.
'Wherever you look are appeals to the gods.' Demetrius smiled. 'You remember the other day, when we rode into the Beroea Gate, I pointed out to you the talisman set up long ago by the holy man Apollonius of Tyana as a protection against the north wind?'
Maximus made an affirmative noise.
'And then, near the palace, the talisman set up by the sage Debborius against earthquakes?'
'You mean the statue of Poseidon that had been hit by lightning?'
'That is the one.' The Greek youth was smiling. 'And then the one in the omphalos, the one set up by Ablakkon to guard against flooding?'
'Mmm,' said Maximus.
'Well, now I have found another set up by the holy Apollonius. This one guards against scorpions.' Demetrius was pleased.
'Sure, might not someone with an uncharitable mind see all this as the most terrible superstition?' The Hibernian's question was accompanied by a quizzical look.
The Greek youth laughed. 'Oh yes, it is always important to distinguish true religion from base superstition.'
You should know, boy, thought Maximus.
'And indeed the plebs here, like the unwashed hoi polloi everywhere, are prey to the most ignorant of superstitions. For example, in the theatre, there is a wonderful statue of the Muse Calliope as the Tyche of Antioch. You will never believe what the plebs think the statue represents…'
Demetrius chattered on as they trotted to catch up with Ballista and his son. Maximus let his thoughts wander. It was good that the Greek youth was happy. He had suffered badly in their flight from the fall of Arete: the hunger, the fatigue; above all, the fear. The Greek secretary was not naturally suited to an adventurous life. Actually, he seemed fairly unsuited to any life except that of scholarly leisure. Certainly he was unsuited to life as a slave. He frequently seemed unhappy, which struck Maximus as odd. If you were born into slavery, as Demetrius had said he was, surely you would get used to it, as certainly you had nothing to compare it with.
'So you see, the basest superstitions infect the plebs like a disease.' Demetrius was in full flow. 'I will give you another example…'
Truth be told, if anyone should find the pains of slavery especially sharp, it should be Maximus himself. He was already a warrior when he was captured in a tribal raid in his native Hibernia. He had been sold off to the Romans to fight in the Arena, first as a boxer then a gladiator. It had not been a good time. But then, Ballista had bought him as a bodyguard and things had become better. In some ways, things were better now than they would have been if he had not been captured. Either way, he would have had to fight – which was good: it was his skill and it was his pleasure. And here in the imperium the rewards were better: a greater variety to the alcohol and women.
Maximus looked down as they passed a traveller inspecting the hoof of his lame donkey. Demetrius was still talking.
Anyway, Maximus thought, there is the debt. Years ago, in Africa, Ballista had saved Maximus' life. There was no question of Maximus seeking his freedom until he had paid back the debt. Ballista kept offering to free Maximus, but the Hibernian could not accept. Maximus knew that he must return the favour, must clearly and unambiguously save Ballista's life, before he could think about freedom.
They caught up with Ballista and Isangrim. There was a grey-green humpback peak straight ahead. They crested a slight rise and there, opening off to their right, was a lush, wooded valley. This looked like good hunting country. They were coming into Daphne.
Demetrius clapped his hands with pleasure and said they were all blessed. The sides of the road were lined with inns and stalls, mainly selling food or souvenirs. It was not quite meridiatio, time for the siesta. The weather was warm despite the breeze. The tables outside the inns were full of men finishing their lunch or playing dice.
They walked their horses past the public baths and the Olympic stadium before they came to the tall, tall grove of cypress trees that was the sacred heart of Daphne. Dismounting, they paid a couple of street urchins to look after their horses. Rather more coins secured the services of a local guide.
They were led down shady paths. The air was full of birdsong and the sounds of the cypresses moving in the breeze. There were pleasant smells, smells sweeter than spices.
The guide stopped first at one particularly tall cypress tree, which stood apart from the others. He told them the story of the Assyrian youth Cyparissus who accidentally shot and killed his pet stag. So great was his grief that the gods took pity and changed him into this very cypress tree.
Even Demetrius looked unimpressed by this. Sensing that his audience was not with him, the guide moved swiftly on.
Next he brought them to a gnarled laurel tree. He told them of the god Apollo's lust for the mountain nymph Daphne, his relentless pursuit, her headlong flight, the moment of capture, her despairing plea to Mother Earth, and her miraculous transformation into the laurel tree in front of them.
While this was generally considered a far better story – indeed, Maximus found himself quite stirred up at the thought of the chase – it again seemed to fail to win total credence. Demetrius pointed out in a stage whisper that the story was usually set in mainland Greece, either in Thessaly or Arcadia.
At last the guide led them to the springs of Apollo. These won a far more positive response. Waterfalls cascaded down the rockface. The babbling waters were guided into semicircular basins and pools. Streams ran on either side of the Temple of Apollo.
All the party except Maximus went into the temple and admired the great statue of the god – hair and laurel crown gilded, eyes made of huge violet stones – that, three years earlier, after the Persians had sacked and burned Antioch, had made Shapur throw away his torch and leave Daphne untouched.
Maximus was standing outside. The Hibernian was not a man given to bothering the gods, but even he
