To the vast majority of the inhabitants of the imperium, it was wealth beyond the dreams of Croesus. To the daughter of an old senatorial house such as Julia, it was a pittance. Although it was seldom mentioned, much of their lifestyle was funded by his wife.
Ballista unbuckled and took off his sword belt. He reasoned it was just her concern for Isangrim, and even for himself, that was making her so waspish.
'What are you smiling at?' she said testily
'Nothing, nothing at all.' He sat down wearily. 'Who do you think hired him?'
Julia shook her head, as if freshly amazed by her husband's obtuseness. 'Gaius Acilius Glabrio, of course. He hates you for leaving his brother to die in Arete. He has publicly sworn to avenge him. Patricians of Rome keep their oaths.'
'He is not the only enemy I have in Antioch,' Ballista said. 'Valerian has kept Videric at the imperial court as a hostage for the good behaviour of the Borani. There is bloodfeud between us.'
Julia actually snorted with derision. 'Your drunken oaf of a friend said that the attacker told you he had been hired by a eupatrid.'
'Yes,' said Ballista. 'He shouted 'The young eupatrid sends you this.' Videric's father, Fritigern, is king of the Borani.'
'No one in the imperium would consider the son of some hairy barbarian king well born, a nobleman.' As Julia spoke, Ballista wondered if she realized the implication of her words.
'The sons of Macrianus do not care for me.'
Julia sighed. 'Oh, Quietus and Macrianus the Younger are vicious and repulsive. They both loathe you since the fight at the palace, and they are certainly underhand enough to hire an assassin. They are rich, but they are hardly eupatrids. Their equally repulsive father started out as a mule driver.'
'Acilius Glabrio it is then,' said Ballista. In truth, he was far from convinced. He very much doubted that a hired knifeman from one of the slums of Antioch would be quite as aware as his wife of the subtle distinctions of class among the very rich. The irritation was draining out of him. Even Julia was looking less angry.
The maid stuck her head around the door, announced the bath was ready and ducked out again. Ballista got up and went over to Julia. He put his hand on her shoulder.
'Gods below, you stink.' She wrinkled her nose. 'Sweat and horse. Go and get in the bath.' He turned to go. 'Are you really all right?'
He stopped. 'I am all right.'
She smiled. 'I will come through in a while.' It was Saturnalia, the greatest festival of the Romans and one the hedonistic Antiochenes had taken to heart. Seven days of pleasure, of eating and drinking. Seven days of licence, of open gambling and illicit sex. The normal rules of society were loosened, if not completely inverted. Slaves roamed at will. In some households, they were served by their masters. Everyone relaxed their dignitas and let their guard down at the festival of Saturn.
Ballista raised his eyes from reading when Demetrius came into the room. The Greek youth looked worried. He had looked that way since the attack on his kyrios in the charcoal burner's clearing. Forty-seven days of apprehension were taking their toll. This evening he appeared at the end of his tether.
'It is Lucius Domitius Aurelian.' The words tumbled out of Demetrius. 'He is hurt. Badly hurt. A fall from his horse. On his way back from hunting. In the Kerateion district. Near the Daphne Gate. He wants to see you. There is a boy outside to lead us.'
By an act of will, Ballista forced down his rising panic. He put the papyrus roll down on the table next to his couch, carefully placing paperweights to keep it open at the passage he had reached in Lucian's little treatise The Dance.
Ballista followed Demetrius from the room. To avoid thinking about his friend, he forced his thoughts to run over his reading. It was 18 December, the second day of the Saturnalia, so he had decided to read Lucian's work on the festival. He had enjoyed it. But then he had started reading The Dance. He was not enjoying that as much. It was always the way with Lucian. You read one satire and it was splendid. You went straight on to another and it seemed less good. You read three in a row and you were sick of them.
In the lodge were the porter and Cupido, one of the ex-gladiators that Julia had hired. Most of the servants, including Maximus, Calgacus and the other two ex-gladiators, were on leave. It was the Saturnalia, after all. Ballista did not much care for Cupido. He was a large, brutish man, his muscles turned to fat. He was lazy, and he drank. He smelled like the taste of a copper coin carried in the mouth.
When Ballista had put on his boots, buckled up his sword belt and slung a heavy cloak over his shoulders, he saw that Cupido had done the same.
'Demetrius, you stay here. Tell the kyria where I have gone.' At Ballista's words Demetrius started to wrestle his boots off again, hopping on one foot. Ballista smiled at him. 'Keep an eye on the house until I return. Oh, and if you can find a slave that is sober, send him to tell Maximus and Calgacus what has happened. They are in Circe's Island.'
Outside, it was starting to snow, the first tiny flakes fluttering down. The boy that was to guide them was standing in the street, shifting from foot to foot in his anxiety to be off. The door slammed behind them and they heard the bolts shut fast. They started walking, the boy leading the way, the two men following.
It was dark. The lamps had been lit in most porches. Although it was starting to snow harder, there were quite a few gangs of revellers on the streets as they crossed the Epiphania district. The boy called something over his shoulder to Cupido. The ex-gladiator quickened his pace to catch up and snapped harshly at the him. They spoke in Syriac. Ballista, behind, could not understand them.
The snow was falling fast now, big, fat flakes that were starting to settle. Wrapped up in his worry for his friend, Ballista hardly noticed the snow drifting into his face, landing in his hair. Julia was right: Aurelian drank too much. Allfather, let the fool be all right.
They reached the Kerateion district, and the boy started to lead them across it by one narrow alley after another. There was next to no one about now. Of course, the Jews did not celebrate the Saturnalia. If anything, they would double-bolt their doors and sit tight at home, hoping the drunken revelry of their pagan neighbours did not turn to violence.
The boy dropped back next to Ballista. 'Not far now, Kyrios,' he said in Greek. Cupido was marching purposefully a couple of steps ahead. The ex-gladiator was puffing, his breath visible in the cold air.
At the end of the alley stood two figures in dark cloaks, their shoulders powdered white with snow. They were standing so close together that the high hoods that hid their faces were almost touching, although they did not seem to be talking.
Cupido turned off into a side alley. A moment after, Ballista realized his mistake. As he pushed back his cloak and drew his sword, the boy at his side turned and ran. The blade shone in the light of a lamp. Cupido spun round. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Behind him, Ballista heard the patter of the boy's feet and the crunch of heavy boots in the snow. He swung the blade. Cupido tried to step back. He was too slow. The keen edge of the sword bit deep into his left arm. He screamed. Clutching the wound, he doubled up and crumpled to the ground.
Careful not to slip, Ballista turned – and froze. The two figures were running at him through the snow, swords in hand, dark cloaks billowing out behind. They looked not of this world. Their hoods had slipped back and they had the faces of impossibly beautiful girls. Their long, plaited hair streamed behind them and their faces had an inhuman stillness.
Ballista stood leaden-footed. His heart shrinking inside him, he stared at the apparitions. They had the faces of statues of goddesses, or the masks of heroines from the stage. Masks! He was a fool – they were wearing masks, dancers' masks from the pantomime.
Having recovered from the shock, Ballista hurled himself forward into the path of the man to his right. He swung hard at the man's head. The mask jerked back as the man raised his sword. Dropping on to one knee, Ballista altered the angle of his blow down into the man's thigh. There was a spray of red blood against the white of the snow, a muffled scream from behind the mouthless mask. The man fell.
Ballista quickly got to his feet. His remaining assailant was blocking the way he had come. He looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, there were two more masked men moving up the alley behind him. There were several doors, a couple of them with small porches, but not a single window opening on to the alley. The screams had not encouraged any door to open. A good spot for an ambush.
