Ballista hugged him, whispered in his ear. They both had to be strong, for each other, for Isangrim’s mother and his brother.
‘I wish I was old enough to come with you and Maximus and Calgacus,’ said Isangrim.
‘Next time you will be.’
Ballista turned to Maximus, who handed him a package. Ballista passed it to Isangrim. The boy unwrapped the coverings. It was a gladius: a man’s sword, but short enough for Isangrim.
The boy thanked his father with an odd formality. Then he thought for a moment, before unbuckling the miniature sword on his hip. He held it out to his father. ‘You can use it as a dagger.’
It had been the boy’s treasured possession since Ballista had given it to him – was it four years before? – on his return to Antioch after his first trip to Ephesus.
Ballista thanked him, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. The boy would do well. If things had been different, if they had lived in Germania, he would have soon grown into a fine northern leader of men. Ballista could see his eldest son seated on the chief’s throne in the hall, taking the golden rings from his arm, awarding them to the leading warriors of his comitatus.
It was time to go. A last kiss for each of his sons, and Ballista walked up the boarding ladder. Hippothous passed him a cup of wine. Ballista intoned a prayer to Artemis of the Ephesians; to Zeus, Protector of Strangers; to Poseidon, Lord of the Seas; to Apollo, God of Embarkation. He tipped the libation into the water. Nothing untoward happened: no one sneezed, no other things of ill omen. He gave the cup back to Hippothous, and gave the order to get under way.
The boarding ladder was pulled up, the mooring ropes slipped. At the rowing master’s word, the oarsmen readied themselves. The blades dipped as one, bit the surface, and the liburnian eased away from the dock.
Slowly, the little, two-banked galley made its course out of the long harbour of Ephesus. Ballista stood in the stern and waved. Slowly, the mountain slid past to the right, the plain to the left. Slowly, the figures on the dock diminished: the tall, black-haired woman and the two blond boys.
When they were at sea, the dock itself was no more than a smudge below the white bowl of the theatre, no figures to be seen. Ballista turned his back. He looked north-west for Mount Korakion, the first landmark.
He was concerned for the safety of Julia and the boys. Any sea journey had its dangers. But he was not too worried. The Goths were long gone back to the Black Sea. They were reported to have passed through the Bosphorus some twenty days earlier. The squadron of Venerianus had arrived in the Aegean. It was resting close by on Chios, preparing to sweep north in the wake of the Goths. As for the danger of ordinary opportunistic piracy, Ballista had hired four veterans as bodyguards for his familia. These tough, grizzled men, added to the able-bodied of the crew, should give any fishermen or traders with an eye to kidnap and ransom serious pause for thought. There was nothing that could be done about storms, but it was eight days before the kalends of May, well within the outer limits of the sailing season, and the ship on which Julia and the boys would travel was sound, its captain vouched for.
Ballista was not excessively worried, but he would rest easier once he had news that they had made it back to Sicily. The island was far from either barbarian menace or likely Roman civil war. Surely there could be nowhere safer than the villa at Tauromenium, surrounded by their own slaves, freedmen and tenants. He wished he could have shipped Pale Horse with them. The gelding deserved a quiet retirement on the sunlit pastures of Sicily, but he would be well cared for on the estate of Corvus outside Ephesus. Ballista hoped to collect him on the way back.
Even after such a parting, even given the nature of the mission, Ballista felt the small spark of anticipation that came with the start of a journey. He had Maximus and Calgacus with him, as well as Hippothous. The two Greek slaves he had bought in Priene, Agathon and Polybius would act as body servants, along with the two northern boys, Bauto the Frisian and Wulfstan the Angle, when the latter was more recovered. Hippothous had bought his own slave in Ephesus.
The liburnian would run up to Chios, past Lesbos; plough against the current of the Hellespont, cross the Propontis and come to the Bosphorus and Byzantium. There, they would meet Rutilus, Castricius and the aged noble Felix. There, four eunuch slaves of the emperor would join them to act as interpreters. And there, a trireme would be waiting to carry all of them to the far end of the Black Sea. A line of iambic poetry came into Ballista’s thoughts. To Phasis, where for ships is the furthermost run.
It was not hard to see why these four men were commanded to the edge of the inhabited world. For once, Ballista had not needed Julia to explain the underlying politics. He had been briefly a pretender to the throne. Two of the others were his close associates in that short-lived usurpation. The fourth was the most prominent and vocal champion of senatorial independence and tradition, the self-styled embodiment of mos maiorum. All four had something of a military reputation. All four were an irritation, possibly even a potential source of unrest. Rather than execute them, they were being got out of the way. In legal terms, they were office holders. They might even do some good. But in real terms, they were heading for exile.
Many years before, as a hostage at the imperial court, Ballista had been instructed to study philosophy. Several of the treatises had been on the theme of exile. One had stuck in his mind. It was a speech by a man called Favorinus of Arelate. Like all philosophical tracts on the subject, it had argued that exile was not bad at all. The heart of the text was an extended image from the gymnasium. The exile was an athlete, alone on the dry sand, stripped naked to his very soul. His opponents were four: love of fatherland, of family and friends, of wealth and honour, and of liberty. They did not keep to the rules; all jumped forward and wrestled the exile at once.
Ballista could remember only a little of the arguments with which Favorinus considered he had vanquished these opponents. Love of possessions and repute seemed the least troubling to Ballista. Yes, it was good when people made way for you, stood up when you arrived, called you Kyrios. He had twice known imperial disfavour when living in Antioch. They had been unpleasant months. But Ballista had always claimed, and he hoped with some truth, that worldly success meant little to him. As long as he had enough to live comfortably, he believed he would be happy to be left alone to farm some land in quiet obscurity. He had not asked to be trained as a killer, had not sought the acclaim that came with being skilled at it.
The threat of losing your fatherland meant next to nothing to a man who had lost it many years before. More than half a lifetime, and Ballista, for all his imperial sponsored education, knew he had not become a Greek or Roman. Here, he remembered, he differed from Favorinus, who had boasted that culture had transformed him from a Gaul to a true Hellene. Ballista’s time in the imperium had made him neither one thing nor the other. He suspected he would no longer feel totally at home if the emperor, for some reason of State, decreed he should return to Germania.
As for liberty, it all depended what was meant. If it was freedom to go where you wanted, do what you wished, Ballista could not see that he had had it either as the son of a war leader of the Angles or as a hostage and officer of Rome. Although, if liberty was free speech, he had had more of it as a youth in the north.
Loss of family and friends was the killer. Ballista recalled that Favorinus had concentrated on friends. An accident of nature had made that easy for him. In his speech, Favorinus had admitted that his mother and sister were dead. Born a eunuch, Favorinus was given no opportunity to make another family. Ballista had his two closest friends with him, but being away from his family, being away from his boys, that was the hardest thing.
Maximus touched his arm, and pointed ahead. A squall was blowing in from the north-west, from Chios, a line of dark clouds trailing tendrils of rain, flicking up white caps in front. The oarsmen would earn their money pulling through that to a safe haven. But it would be as nothing to the storms in the Black Sea, the Kindly Sea, as, strangely, it was often called, before Ballista reached Phasis. To Phasis, where for ships is the furthermost run.
Ballista could still not remember from which tragedy the line came.
XV
Byzantium was the last place in the world that Hippothous wanted to find himself. Even his home town of Perinthus would not have been as bad. It had been many years before, but some Byzantines would remember the murder of their fellow citizen Aristomachus the rhetorician, and they would not have forgotten his killer.
When the imperial mandata had reached Ephesus, Hippothous had seriously considered leaving the familia of
