property untouched. But that did not answer. Ballista did not have a native province in the imperium, he already had a house in Sicily and, free to roam, he would be hard to monitor. No, it would have to be the more draconian form: deportation to a designated place – a small island where frumentarii could keep a close eye on him and his connections. Usually, deportation involved the confiscation of property. But Ballista was an old friend. Let him hold on to his worldly goods; let his family live with him. Ballista, like Gallienus, was known to love his family. Ballista had often said he hankered for a quiet, retiring life. Gallienus would choose a comfortable, out-of-the-way island for him to live out the time the fates granted him.
Hermianus, the ab Admissionibus, ushered into the garden Zeno and another man. The latter looked the part: staff and wallet, cloak and no tunic. Judging by his beard and hair, roughly chopped short, he was of the Stoic persuasion.
‘ Dominus, this is Nicomachus the Stoic.’
The philosopher bowed and blew a kiss from his fingertips, the more restrained form of adoration.
Gallienus turned the full light of the imperial gaze on the philosopher. Nicomachus neither flinched nor looked ostentatiously disrespectful; maybe he would do.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Gallienus asked in Greek.
‘Thank you, Kyrios, watered wine.’
Not one to parade asceticism, thought Gallienus. That was good, and the man appeared clean. Gallienus signed that Zeno and Hermianus could retire. The drink would arrive presently.
The emperor sat on a stone bench next to a portrait bust of Diogenes. He asked if the philosopher would like to sit.
‘No, thank you, Kyrios.’ Nicomachus leant on his staff, one leg crossed, like a figure from an antique vase. As they waited without talking, Gallienus wondered if the philosopher had been searched.
A slave of the imperial household emerged, served the drinks, and departed.
‘Tell me your views on exile,’ said the emperor.
Nicomachus remained silent for a time while he collected his thoughts. He was very still, and frowned a deep frown of philosophic concentration. A creditable performance so far, judged Gallienus. If the words matched the gestures, this could be enlightening.
‘The majority of mankind thinks of exile with nothing but horror and fear. You are torn from your home, family and friends. Everything you love, everything you know is taken away. You are thrust out to wander, dusty-footed in abject poverty, among uncaring or hostile strangers: misery and loneliness leading to an unmarked grave.
‘If it was only the ignorant hoi polloi who saw exile as an unmitigated evil, it need not detain us. Only demagogues and fools care what the masses think. But other men, the most revered of men, have expressed similar views. Did not the divine Homer portray the pain of Odysseus: clinging to the shattered raft; sitting alone, weeping by the shore? Ten years of unhappiness, of dashed hopes and unfulfilled dreams.
‘Think of the lines Euripides wrote on exile. Electra asks her brother, “Where does the wretched exile spend his wretched exile?” He replies, “In no one settled region does he waste away.” He might have bread, “but strengthless, exile’s fare.”
‘Yet others have seen it differently. Many philosophers, and those ones the most distinguished, have considered exile as neither bad nor good. It is nothing but an irrelevance. The good man is good no matter where he is, in no matter what circumstances he finds himself. Like wealth or poverty, like sickness or health, it cannot touch the inner man or his moral purpose.
‘Then again, some philosophers – highly thought of, if misguided – argue that exile is the inescapable lot of all men; cast out, as they say, from our own dear country, by which they mean from the divine. I will not trouble you, Basileus, with such recondite theories. These philosophers hold that a king must always be a philosopher. They are wrong. The philosopher is one thing, the king is another. It is enough that the ruler listens to philosophers. The basileus ever has weighty practical matters on hand; no time for arcane speculation.’
Gallienus allowed himself to smile. His fondness for the Platonist Plotinus was well known. Nicomachus had made a neat swipe at the followers of Plato, combined with an elegant, understated appeal for his own imperial favour. Zeno had done well to discover him; the Stoic Nicomachus would go far.
The philosopher’s face lightened. ‘Finally, we should examine how exile may actually work to a man’s advantage, may be a positive good, if not an absolute blessing. Musonius, himself exiled by Nero, rightly saw that, all too often, men of position are addicted to high living. An exile is in straitened circumstances. He must live more simply. Musonius pointed to Spartiacus the Lacedaemonian. He suffered from a weak chest. In exile, he had to renounce luxury, and he ceased to be ill. Exile cleanses, toughens the body.
‘And exile can be morally good, an education in virtue. Condemned by Domitian, Dio Chrysostom wondered if exile was good or bad. He sought the advice of the Delphic Oracle. Apollo told him to carry on doing what he was doing. At first, Dio did not understand that his relegatio had forced him to think about the most important question of all: how should a man live? Clad in humble attire, Dio wandered and, as he tells us, some men mistook him for a philosopher. They came up to him and asked him to tell them about good and evil. To answer, Dio had to think deeply about these profoundest of things, and in doing so he actually became a philosopher.
‘Let us end by returning to Odysseus. We have seen his wandering, but what were its effects? He had fought at Troy – he was no weakling – but there he was more known for his cunning than his skill at arms. Ten years of suffering refined and toughened him in body and soul. When the gods granted him to return to Ithaka, he was a different man. Virtually alone, Odysseus had both the physical and moral strength to slaughter the many enemies who had invaded his home.’
Nicomachus finished. He leant on his staff, imperturbable.
Gallienus asked the philosopher no questions. There was little point in an emperor attempting Socratic dialogue. On one side, the autocrat whose will was law; on the other, one of his subjects, whose life hung by a thread. Neither free speech nor the truth was likely to be attained. The words of the eunuch philosopher Favorinus still rang true: ‘You give me bad advice, my friends, when you do not allow me to think the man who commands thirty legions to be right about anything he chooses.’ Gallienus would mull it all over by himself.
The emperor graciously thanked the philosopher. Was there any benefit he could grant?
‘Just that you think on my words and, if possible, the further pleasure of your company.’ It was well said; for a philosopher to ask for material benefits undermined his very claim to philosophic status.
From wherever, out of sight, he had been listening, Hermianus emerged. The philosopher accepted the honour of kissing the imperial seal on the proffered ring. Relinquishing Gallienus’s hand, he blew the kiss of proskynesis. Hermianus escorted him out.
Alone in the garden, Gallienus sat and thought. Exile might not break a man; it could change him. Odysseus had returned and killed without mercy those who had done him wrong. More recent history furnished examples of men returning in arms to take revenge on those who had exiled them: Dio of Syracuse driving out the tyrant Dionysius; Marius bathing the streets of Rome in blood. Ballista had never shown either the ruthless ambition of the latter, or the driving principles of the former. But he was an excellent general, a fine leader of men. Three times he had defeated the Persians; once, the King of Kings in person. Ballista had killed the tyrant Quietus. He had been hailed emperor: Marcus Clodius Ballista Augustus. Embittered by exile, he would appeal to the disaffected, would make an excellent figurehead for a revolution: once capax imperii, always capax imperii. Rome had always welcomed men of violence who fought her cause and espoused her values. Already Gallienus could hear the insidious sophistries of the courtiers of the new regime: Ballista, the new Aeneas, come from abroad, sword in hand, to sweep away the soft and the decadent from the seven hills, come to return Rome to her antique, martial virtue.
Exile alone would not contain Ballista. The Romanized barbarian would remain a threat to Gallienus himself. Mutilation might be the solution. No man who was deformed could sit on the throne of the Caesars. Cut off his ears and nose. But Ballista had been a friend. Just the nose then.
Gallienus shook his head, took a drink. What was he thinking? He remembered the story of an eastern prince in Tacitus. The young man had been raised as a hostage in Rome. Politics had dictated that the time had come for him to be sent back to his native land, to rule as a client king in Parthia. His subjects had not cared for his foreign, western ways. But they had not killed him; instead they had cut off his ears and nose. Such, Tacitus had written, was Parthian clementia. Gallienus knew himself an autocrat, but he still appreciated irony.
Mutilation was not the answer. Such behaviour was the ‘clemency’ of a cruel oriental despot, not the emperor of the Romans, a basileus of the Greeks. Death – that was the answer.
