He had done the best he could for the Christian woman. Her property, of course, had been confiscated, so Ballista had arranged for she and her son to live on a small, out-of-the-way estate owned by her estranged husband on the island of Samos. Her pagan husband had not been keen on the arrangement – he had wanted his son removed from the atheist influence of the mother – but Ballista had persuaded him: a very young boy needed his mother, and the enmity of a man such as Ballista was not to be entered into lightly.
And the bigger vow – he had kept that too. Maximus and Calgacus had organized the riot to perfection. There were no loose ends. The toughs that Maximus had hired to play the entourage to his Saturnalian king were long gone back to Isauria. The head of the theatre factio had no idea that the ugly old man who had paid him so much money was in the familia of Ballista. The riot and the threat to public order had provided the excuse needed to suspend the execution of Christians. Corvus had not been part of the plot, but he had needed no persuasion that his Men of the Watch would be better employed guarding against the increasing threat of northern pirates such as the Borani.
Ballista had kept his vows, but it had come at a price. For nearly four months, Ballista had felt like a prisoner himself. Every time he stepped out of the palace he had been assailed by demands from the pagan populace to bring out the Christians – 'Throw them to the lion!', 'Nail the atheists up!', 'Burn them!' Ballista could have ignored that but, on one of his first trips out after posting up the edict suspending the executions, something else had happened. The northerner had been walking down to the Harbour Gymnasium when three more wild-eyed young men had rushed at him. As one, they had yelled, 'I am a Christian and I want to die.' He had had no choice but to arrest them. Now they were languishing in the most unsalubrious gaol near the stadium. Since then, apart from the occasional unavoidable official duty, he had only ventured out of the palace to go hunting up-country with Corvus or, heavily disguised, to go drinking in waterfront bars with Maximus.
Ballista had kept his vows, had put himself and his friends at terrible risk, but for what? What good would it do in the long run? It did not change anything. If anything, his successor would be all the keener to press the persecution with the utmost cruelty. Still, a man has to have a code to live by. And Ballista was not quite finished in Ephesus yet.
He was standing in the shade on the terrace of the palace of the proconsul. The view which usually made his soul sing – the mountains, the sea, the river and the plain, and the mountains again – was completely ignored. Far, far below him was a ship. It looked smaller than one of Isangrim's toys. It was blue. The distance was much too great to make out the figurehead, but he knew it was the imperial trireme the Providentia. For five days, since the message had been delivered overland by the cursus publicus, he had been waiting for it and the man it carried. At sunrise, he had watched the morning sea breeze waft it into the port of Ephesus.
At moments like this, Ballista thought that his whole life, all thirty-seven winters of it, could be measured by moments waiting to meet someone he did not want to meet: time running too fast in the hall of his father, waiting for the Roman centurion who would escort him as a hostage into the imperium; time dragging, Ballista desperate for it to be over, in the camp before Aquileia, before the fatal interview with the emperor Maximinus Thrax; the hurried moments that preceded him being dragged before the man who would have been High King of Hibernia…
'A creaking bow, a yawning wolf, a croaking raven' – the words of Calgacus broke into Ballista's recollections – 'the tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake, a bride's pillow talk.'
'My thoughts entirely,' Ballista said dryly.
The old Caledonian gave him a sharp glance. 'You know what I mean. Do not be a fool.'
'I know what you mean.' Ballista smiled. 'A sword with a hairline, a playful bear, the sons of kings – I have not forgotten the words of the Allfather, the things that should not be trusted. Woden knows, as a child I had to listen to you recite them often enough.'
Calgacus leaned on the balustrade next to him. 'More fucking use than that Latin your father had you learn.'
'Maybe.'
'Are you sure you want to do this last thing?'
Ballista nodded.
'It makes the riot look like child's play. If we are caught, it is a maiestas trial for us. The family and friends of a convicted traitor suffer too.'
'When I was a child, you taught me a man must have a code to live by,' said Ballista.
'You have heart, boy, I will always give you that.'
'Then you taught me well.'
'Oh aye. You are as stubborn as your father. Anyway, Demetrius has paid off your official staff.' Calgacus smiled. 'He seemed upset to be parted from that North African, Hannibal, the one he is always talking to about the gods. Anyway, all the staff stay here in the palace. They do not know a thing. If it all works out, the others will meet us tonight at the fountain opposite the entrance to the Harbour Baths.'
'Good,' said Ballista. 'Is the man here yet?'
'Aye. Now, remember: say nothing, or as little as you can. 'Three angry words are three too many if spoken to a bad man.' ' Calgacus continued quietly, 'Whatever he says, keep your temper – no matter what he says. Do that and it will be fine.'
'Where is he?'
'I left him to wait a little outside.' Calgacus straightened up. 'Ready?'
'Ready.'
'As I said, Keep your temper and it will be fine.' Calgacus left.
The easy, confident step of Quietus paradoxically reminded Ballista of the lameness of the young man's father, Macrianus the elder: the sinister click of the walking stick, the drag of the withered leg, the firm step of the sound one, click, drag, step. Quietus halted about five paces from Ballista. Belatedly, Quietus' entourage scurried out and took up station behind him. In the front rank, Flavius Damianus did not try to hide his delight. The faces of both the eirenarch Corvus and Gaius Valerius Festus, the brother of the Christian prisoner Aulus, were inscrutable.
Quietus half turned to assure himself that his audience was in place. Then he turned back to Ballista.
'A sword with a hairline, a playful bear, the sons of kings' – things not to trust, thought Ballista.
'Marcus Clodius Ballista, it is with the utmost sadness that I have to inform you that your term as Vicarius to the Proconsul of Asia is over.' From a fold in his elegant toga, Quietus produced a purple, sealed document. 'I have here your orders to return without delay to the imperial palace at Antioch. His sacred majesty Valerian wishes to speak to you.' There was a significant pause. 'No doubt he wishes personally to see that you receive your just recompense for the way you carried out his instructions to purge Ephesus of the atheists.'
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.' Ballista intoned the ritual words without emphasis.
Quietus smiled and produced another document. He flourished it above his head. The ivory and gold case caught in a shaft of spring sunshine. 'Our sacred emperors Valerian and Gallienus and the noble Caesar Saloninus have seen fit to honour me with the post of Vicarius. It is with humility and some trepidation that now I take the burden from your shoulders.' Everything about Quietus belied his words.
'We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,' Ballista repeated.
Again turning to his entourage, Quietus spoke with what he imagined was patrician amiability. 'My friends, it is fitting that Marcus Clodius Ballista and I speak alone, if you allow.' There was an almost unseemly rush to clear the terrace. In moments, only Calgacus remained, standing by the door. A minute nod from Ballista, and the Caledonian followed the others.
Quietus stepped over to Ballista, next to the balustrade. He looked down the steep slope to the theatre, savouring the moment. Then he swung round, bringing his face very close to Ballista's. He spoke fast and angrily. 'You arrogant barbarian piece of shit. Did you really think something like you could attack me, insult my father, in the courtyard of the imperial palace? Demean the dignitas of our family in front of a hundred witnesses? Did you think we might forget or forgive? To a true Roman, dignitas is more than life itself. We always attain ultio, revenge. It is our birthright.'
When Ballista said nothing, Quietus turned, this time letting his gaze roam over the city of Ephesus spread out below them, the city over which he now had power of life and death. Ballista watched him. With one finger, Quietus smoothed his hair. A ring bearing an image of Alexander the Great flashed.
Not deigning to look at the northerner, Quietus continued in a calmer voice. 'My father was annoyed when he
