of nearby Sardis, consul of distant Rome, it was also his final resting place. His son, Aquila, had had it designed so that Celsus could be buried somewhere beneath it.
Ballista had never really studied it before. Now, between yesterday's unsettling task and the one he would soon have to undertake, he paused and studied the library-tomb. On either side of the steps were statues of Celsus on horseback. In one he was dressed as a Greek, in the other as a Roman. There were four standing statues on each level of the two-storey facade. Ballista moved closer and read the inscriptions on the lower ones. Sophia, Arete, Ennoia and Episteme – female personifications of wisdom, virtue, good sense and knowledge – all most suitable qualities for a member of the Greek elite. Craning his head back, Ballista looked at the upper storey. Up there were three more versions of Celsus, clad as a Roman general, a Roman magistrate and a Greek civic dignitary. The final statue was the dutiful son Aquila, also in the guise of a senior Roman military commander.
It was odd, thought Ballista, how these rich Greeks who prospered under Roman rule clung to their Greekness. Even those such as Celsus, who entered into the heart of the imperium, commanding Roman armies, holding the highest Roman offices, being counted a friend of emperors, wished to be remembered as much as a Greek as a Roman. Read in a certain way, the facade almost seemed to say that all the Roman worldly success of Celsus was underpinned by his possession of distinctively Greek attributes. Ballista smiled as he thought how all of them, Greeks and Romans alike, would have him forget his own northern roots – except, of course, when they wished to despise him for them.
At a right angle to the library was the southern gate of the agora, its stones light pink in the sunshine. Again, Ballista read the prominent inscriptions. They proudly boasted that the agora had been built by two freedmen of the imperial family of the first Roman emperor Augustus. They had been called Mazeus and Mithridates. Ballista wondered how the local Greek worthies would have reacted to its construction. Here was the new order in stone. Right in the heart of an ancient Greek city was a monument dedicated to the glory of the house of the Roman autocrat, paid for by two ex-slaves, whose very names revealed their eastern origins. Being Greek under Rome seemed always to involve many, necessary compromises.
A thought struck Ballista. He turned round. There, on the other side of the square, was a grandiose monument to a Roman victory over Parthia, the eastern power that had preceded the Sassanid Persians. The Parthians were sculpted to look suitably barbaric, the Roman warriors rather like Greeks. Perhaps if you were Greek, there were always ways to make yourself feel better about reality.
Ballista walked through the gate. They followed the course of the sun round the agora, walking in the cool of the shady porticos. Everything you could imagine appeared to be available for hard currency. Apart from the usual foods, oil and wine, both essential and luxurious, the Ephesian agora seemed to specialize in colourful clothing transported from Hierapolis and Laodikeia and locally produced perfumes and silverware.
As they passed a line of shops, each with a silversmith on a stool outside industriously tapping out souvenirs of Great Artemis of the Ephesians, Ballista thought he recognized another shopper. The man – his clothes proclaimed him a local notable – took one look at Ballista and hurried off diagonally across the agora. In moments he was lost from view behind the equestrian statue of the emperor Claudius which stood in the middle of the open space.
It was odd behaviour. Why had the man scurried away? It was most unlikely the man was a Christian. The zeal of the scribe to the Demos, Flavius Damianus, would not have left a prominent citizen who belonged to the cult free to stroll the agora. Flavius Damianus – there was a man with a fire for persecution. Then Ballista half- remembered something. What was it that Flavius Damianus had said in court? The emperors demanded the sternest measures; those around them urged the same. Those around them? Who could it mean except Macrianus, the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae? Macrianus must have communicated with Flavius Damianus. Why? Ballista had publicly insulted Macrianus. He had hit one of his sons. Then the sons had three times tried to kill him. Macrianus was a powerful man who, on any count, should be numbered an enemy. Why had he urged that Ballista be sent to Ephesus in the first place? And now it seemed that Macrianus was communicating with the most important magistrate in Ephesus. What deep and sinister game was Macrianus the Lame playing? Again, Ballista felt like an ordinarius in a game of latrunculi – picked up and dropped by an unseen hand.
In the north-east corner of the agora, beyond the temporary wooden livestock pens, were permanent stone cells for the instruments with voices. Ballista's enjoyment of the colour and bustle of markets was always tainted by this area, but something always forced him to go there, always forced him to do what he was about to do.
Men with broad faces and brutal eyes lounged about. They watched Ballista and his companions approach. One of the men stepped forward.
'Good day, Kyrios,' he said, in heavily accented Greek. 'What are you looking for – a girl, a boy?'
Ballista looked at him, the disgust rising in his throat. Behind him, he sensed Demetrius' fear and Maximus' hostility.
Realizing he was on the wrong tack, the slave dealer flashed an oily smile. 'A maid for your wife maybe? Very clean, very trustworthy? Or another well-educated Greek boy to keep your books? Another pair of strong arms to guard your treasures?'
'I will know what I want if I see it,' said Ballista.
'Of course, of course.' The slave dealer grinned ingratiatingly. 'It is always an honour to serve a kyrios of discrimination, a man who knows his own mind. Please feel free to inspect the goods.'
Ballista stepped past him and regarded the huddled, downtrodden humanity there. Then, in a voice pitched to carry, he called out in his native tongue. 'Are there any Angles here?'
Faces pinched with misery looked at him with blank incomprehension. Ballista felt a wave of relief and turned to go. Corvus was striding purposefully towards him. The eirenarch of Ephesus was followed by a couple of burly Men of the Watch carrying clubs. Between them was a skinny old man in rags. Not another fucking Christian, thought Ballista. They brought it on themselves, but he had not realised until yesterday just how distasteful it was to act as a persecutor.
'Vicarius, we need a word with you in private.' Corvus led them to the centre of the agora. The few people promenading there gave the Watch a wide berth. Corvus stopped under the equestrian statue of Claudius. Cast in bronze, the emperor looked nothing like the slobbering, twitching simpleton described by Suetonius.
'This is Aratos.' Corvus indicated the man in rags. 'He is a fisherman from out of town. Has his hut on Pigeon Island. It is in a bay not far south of here.' The eirenarch turned to the fisherman. 'Tell the vicarius what you saw.'
Ballista realized that the fisherman was on the verge of tears. 'I was out in the boat last night – a good catch, plenty of…' Corvus gestured without impatience for him to get to the point. 'Sorry, Kyrios. I was bringing the boat in at first light. I knew something was wrong. My wife…' He paused, fighting down the tears. 'My wife is always down by the water waiting. She worries. We live on our own on the island. She was not there. I saw them in time. Took the boat out again. Barbarians. Lots of fucking northern barbarians. My wife, my children…' Now he cried.
Ballista gently put his hand on the man's shoulder. 'How many boats?'
The fisherman mastered himself. 'Just one – a big longboat, about fifty rowing benches.'
'Does anyone else know they are there?'
The man wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic. 'Their boat was almost out of sight up under the trees. We keep to ourselves. I should not think so.' The fisherman dropped to his knees and clasped Ballista's legs, the classic pose of a suppliant. 'Kyrios, my wife, my children…'
'We will help.' Disengaging himself, Ballista indicated for Corvus to step out of earshot with him. 'Is he reliable?' Corvus shrugged. 'You are the local man,' Ballista continued. 'What do you think?'
'I have not spoken to him before. I think he is telling the truth.'
Ballista considered this for a moment. 'Are there any warships in harbour?'
'No.'
'How many troops are there in Ephesus?'
'Just a detatchment of about a hundred auxiliary spearmen and fifty bowmen.'
'How many Men of the Watch do you have under your command?'
'Fifty.'
'It will have to be tonight. If they are still there. We do not have much time. We need a plan.' The lantern at the top of the mast swung gently against the night sky. Ballista watched it from where he lay, next to Maximus, in
