soldiers marching – the scrape of metal-studded boots, the jingle of equipment and ornaments – echoed in the still of the night. The contubernium of ten auxiliaries emerged and were led away by the centurion.
The men rose to their feet and picked up the full wineskins. They looked at each other, waiting for someone to take the lead. The priests were all taken, or fled into hiding. Eventually, one man started towards the gate, and the others followed.
The killing circle smelled of woodsmoke and burnt humanity. In the dim light, it seemed enormous, the sand stretching away. In the centre, the pyres shimmered silver; the air around them shivered.
It took courage for the first man to step out on to the open, exposed sand. The rest hurried after. When they had come within a few paces, they could feel the heat on their faces. They slung the wineskins down from their shoulders, fumbling with nerves as they opened them.
At first, they all crowded round the central pyre, each trying to pour the liquid that would cool the ash that hid the remains of the blessed martyr Appian. Harsh, even unchristian, words were hissed. Three or four reluctantly moved to the other two pyres.
The hot ashes hissed, and steam rose up as the wine splashed down. Suddenly, a man leant forward and, ignoring the singeing hairs on his forearm, clasped the shrivelled left hand of Appian. Another man grabbed the martyr's right hand. Both men snapped at each other. Neither would let go. There was a tussle. Both men pulled. With a horrible wrenching sound, Appian's corpse came apart like an overcooked joint of meat. The men from the other pyres came running. Everyone wanted his own relic, and a vicious fight broke out.
XIX
It was snug and comfortable in the private study of the proconsul. The thick glass of the windows and a glowing brazier kept the autumnal air at bay. It was Ballista's favourite room in the palace. The windows looked south at the jagged crest of the mountain wall. There was a fine mosaic on the floor, orientated to be viewed from the window seat. In the lowest register, a couple of huntsmen set out with their dogs to hunt hares. Above them, a lion killed a deer and a panther leapt at a wild boar. In the middle, two well-equipped, mounted huntsmen were on the point of despatching a tiger. Towards the top, three men were outnumbered by four wild animals. Two of the beasts were wounded or dead, but one of the hunters had only a split second to shoot an arrow and save his companion from the ravening lion which was about to pounce on his back.
Ballista wondered if there was any sort of narrative or message here. Maybe, as one progressed through the mosaic, from near to far, things became ever more threatening. You set out on something that appears to be safe, but it turns out otherwise. It is a dangerous world out there. He turned back to the three letters spread on the desk.
Julia's had been delivered personally that morning by one of her endless cousins, who had been on his way back to Italy. Ballista read through it again. First, there was much news of Isangrim, his humour and strong will, above all the wonderful progress in his riding lessons. Then a little about her pregnancy: she was bigger than she had been the first time, moved like a beached whale. After the domestic, came the public news. To the east, the Sassanids had been active. A raiding force had appeared before Nisibis in north-east Mesopotamia. Their horsemen had ridden west to beneath the walls of Carrhae, before moving down the Chaboras to Circesium. They had enacted religious ceremonies there on the field of battle, before disappearing south. Out in the deep desert, other raiders had taken caravans bound for Palmyra. In Antioch, Julia had talked to Cledonius and his wife, her distant relative. Neither they nor anyone else could yet suggest a reason that Macrianus the Lame had wanted Ballista appointed to the persecution in Ephesus. But the influence the Comes Largitionum had over the emperor was ever growing. As always, Julia ended her letter with a simple sentence that she loved and missed him.
Ballista looked at his reply. First, the pregnancy: expressions of sympathy for her discomfort, prayers for a happy outcome. That was tactful, before moving on to fulsome praise of Isangrim and requests for ever more news. In response to her public information, he merely stated that he was carrying out his mandata in Ephesus and hoped he would be returned soon. He, too, ended with a simple statement that he loved and missed her.
Ballista knew that his wife understood Roman imperial politics better than he did. He had always relied on her insight. But there was a huge difference between accepting that a woman knew about politics and wanting her to become actively involved. When she was heavily pregnant, it was especially unthinkable. Ballista picked up the letter he had written to Cledonius.
After the usual expressions of politeness to the ab Admissionibus, Ballista launched straight into the persecution in Ephesus. Ballista was doing his duty. As his official reports to the emperor must have made clear, he was following his mandata. Although a Christian had betrayed him at Arete, it was a distasteful task, one for which he was unsuited – taking an Epicurean view, was it likely that the gods really cared what these humble, misguided atheists believed? He had heard that the Sassanids were raiding in Mesopotamia. A man of his background would be of far more use there. Would Cledonius petition the emperor for Ballista to be reassigned to a military post on the eastern frontier? And there was another thing that the ab Admissionibus should raise with Valerian. On the point of death, one of the Christians had denounced the malign and ever-increasing influence which Macrianus wielded over the emperor. Letters to Ballista from Antioch confirmed this. Neither Macrianus the Lame nor his sons were to be trusted. Cledonius should warn Valerian – or should Ballista write directly to the emperor himself? Whichever Cledonius thought best; Ballista would do nothing until he had his advice.
Ballista sealed the two letters. He called for Calgacus.
'Never a moment's peace, for fuck's sake.' The Caledonian actually did not look in the least put out. 'What now?'
'Are Demetrius or Maximus about?'
'No, the Greek boy is out and the Hibernian is' – a horrible leer crept over Calgacus' face – 'entertaining a friend.'
'Allfather, it would not do to interrupt that,' Ballista said, deadpan. 'Send a boy down to the docks with these. Tell him to find a ship heading for Seleuceia in Pieria and pay the captain to make sure they are delivered in Antioch.'
With only a minor string of muttered complaints, Calgacus left. Once he had gone, Ballista picked up one of the confiscated writings. And the beast was given a mouth, uttering haughty and blasphemous words, and it was allowed to exercise authority for forty-two months; it opened its mouth to utter blasphemies against God, blaspheming his name and his dwelling, that is, those who dwell in heaven. Also it was allowed to make war on the saints and to conquer them. Religion, thought Demetrius, is dangerous. Like strong drink, wild music, the juice of the poppy, it makes people do strange things. He knew what he was going to do. He knew he should not – apart from its sordid nature, it was illegal. It was very, very dangerous. Yet something irrational was making him do it.
Those with any claims to philosophy should not give way to irrational impulses. All the philosophical schools stressed that. Following an eclectic line, melding the doctrines of the various schools, as Demetrius himself did, was no excuse. But, still, he could not help himself.
Demetrius walked up through the city towards the Magnesian Gate. It was still raining hard, so he walked in the cover of the colonnade on the north side of the Sacred Way. Wrapped up in anticipation, he did not give the market stalls outside the East Gymnasium a glance. He stopped and looked around. The colonnade was busy, but there was no one he recognized. Everyone seemed preoccupied with keeping out of the downpour.
Demetrius waited for a gap in the line of slow-moving traffic, then crossed the rainswept road, nearly turning his ankle in one of the deep ruts cut into the stone by generations of heavy wagons. With a final furtive glance about him, he entered an alleyway. Although not blessed with a great sense of direction, he turned left and right, navigating easily through the potters' quarter. The alleys became narrower and dirtier. Mud soaked into his sandals.
He stopped at an inconspicuous door in a blank wall of peeling plaster. He knocked. As he waited, the rain ran down his neck. The door opened a crack.
'Ah, it is you again.'
The door creaked wide.
'Come in, come in.' The old man spoke in strangely accented Latin. There was no particular warmth in his
