Ballista. But somehow he felt he still had work to do as accensus to the northerner, and the role suited his predilections.
Even the journey to the Bosphorus had been painful. It had not been the two squalls. The first had hit them almost as soon as they left Ephesus. They had had to run north to a bay under Mount Korakion. The second had come on them in the Propontis, when they were rounding the peninsula of Arctonnesos. They had had to ride that one out in the open water, a thing for which no galley cared.
Hippothous had been no more scared of shipwreck than was to be expected in a man who had experienced that horror. What had troubled him much more was cruising past Lesbos on a calm spring morning. Virtually all the time the island had been in sight, he had remained in the prow. He had ceaselessly scanned the water, searching for the place where his original ship, all those years before, had foundered, for where Hyperanthes’s life had slipped away in the churning black waters, for the spot where he himself eventually had crawled ashore, as close to death as life, and for the headland where he had buried his beloved boy under a simple stone with a makeshift epigram. A tomb unworthy of the death of a sacred citizen, The famous flower some evil daemon once plucked from the land to the deep, On the sea it plucked him as a great storm wind blew.
Standing there, Hippothous recognized none of it. Admittedly, it had been dark then, and in the teeth of a gale, but it was as if it had happened to someone else. This had profoundly shaken Hippothous, in a way he could not explain.
Immediately Ballista had announced that they were bound for Byzantium, Hippothous had begun to alter his appearance. There had not been time to grow a full beard, but he had achieved a commendable short one of sandy stubble. He had had his head shaved. Old Calgacus had done it. By the time they reached Byzantium, the nicks had mostly healed.
Hippothous had wondered if he should affect a limp or a stoop. He had decided against it, as it was liable actually to draw attention to him. It was a long time since he had left. For twenty-four years he had lived among the latrones. That length of time, roaming from Cappadocia to Aethiopia with groups of bandits, must have altered his walk and manners.
At least there was no need to change his name. He had done that – it seemed a lifetime ago – when he had first come to Cilicia and taken up banditry as a profession.
One thing beyond his control was that Ballista, Maximus and Calgacus knew his true story. He had told it to them the year before, for really nothing more than to pass the time as they had waited offshore on a trireme, for events to unfold at the town of Corycus. They had promised not to reveal his true identity while in Byzantium, but it was a worry.
The liburnian, like most shipping going north, had pursued a course against the sun as it negotiated the Propontis. This left a tricky pull from east to west across the mouth of the Bosphorus, across the current, to finally make port in Byzantium. As the rowers toiled, Hippothous had studied the city. The acropolis on its bluff, sticking like a dagger into swirling waters; the low sea walls and the high land ones; the roofs of the temples. It all might have brought back strong emotions, if Hippothous had let it.
Even though time and his own ingenuity had inscribed a new form on his body and movements, Hippothous had kept to the centre of Ballista’s small familia, eyes down, as they walked from the northern military docks through the bustling commercial harbour – livestock, slaves, grain, saltfish from the north, olive oil and wine from the south – up into the city.
They were staying in one of the houses of a leading member of the Boule called Cleodamus. The house was a new acquisition. Until recently, it had been the home of one of the councillors executed by Gallienus. Cleodamus did not reside there himself. That was good: Hippothous knew Cleodamus had been a young junior magistrate when Aristomachus the rhetorician had been killed. Despite Cleodamus’s absence, Hippothous had feigned illness and remained shut up in his room until today.
This morning’s meeting could not be avoided. All the four men who constituted the mission to the Caucasus were arrived in Byzantium. The imperial eunuchs sent by Gallienus to act as interpreters and advisors were to brief them. The room was quite bare. Presumably, the condemned councillor’s household possessions had been sold separately from the building, and Cleodamus had yet to instruct his servants to complete the furnishing of his new property.
At one end was a portable altar, its fire lit. Arranged in a row along one side were four chairs. On the one nearest to the altar sat the elderly senator Felix. Next to him was Ballista. Then, in descending order of rank, came the other equestrians, Rutilus and Castricius. During Ballista’s few days wearing the purple, Rutilus had served as his Praetorian Prefect, Castricius as his Prefect of Cavalry . Before that, together with Ballista, they had served the pretender Quietus. Hippothous knew the equestrians from that time. Behind each seated man stood his secretary. As his accensus, Hippothous was behind Ballista.
Opposite stood the four eunuchs. The two sides of the room presented a strong contrast. Each of the four seated men, including the ex-consul Felix, was dressed as a soldier: white tunic, dark trousers and cloak, practical boots, elaborate sword belts, with long spatha on left hip, short pugio on right. Their accensi had followed their sartorial lead. Felix, Hippothous and one of the other secretaries sported a beard. All except Ballista had cropped hair.
The court eunuchs were more exotic figures. Their snow-white tunics were unbelted. They had slippers on their feet, and from their shoulders red cloaks fringed with gold fell to the floor. Their unnaturally smooth faces were framed by the ringlets of their artfully curled long hair.
Felix got up and went to the altar. He pulled a fold of his cloak over his head. Throwing a pinch of incense into the flames, he delivered a prayer for the gods and the genius of the Augustus to guide their deliberations. Moving lightly for his age and stature, he walked back to the chair and sat down again.
Hippothous detected no obvious insincerity in the old nobleman’s words. Indeed, a couple of times, Felix had tapped his boot on the floor to emphasize his seriousness. Hippothous decided to practise physiognomy. Felix had a full head of silver hair and a beard, both groomed but not too elaborate. His nose was large, and deep lines ran down from it to below his mouth. His gaze was dry, with the eyes quite close set. Although he moved easily, his breathing was heavy.
Hippothous observed Felix closely out of the corner of his eye. The consular rubbed one of his palms on the other. That was the sign which, to a skilled physiognomist, brought the others into focus, gave significance to the whole. Felix had the soul of a hypocrite.
For a time, the conclusion, arrived at so scientifically as to be inescapable, puzzled Hippothous. Nothing he knew of the life of the elderly nobleman particularly suggested hypocrisy. Felix had had a successful career. He had been consul many years before. An intimate of the emperor Valerian, he had set himself up as the embodiment of senatorial dignitas and tradition. Under Gallienus, he had commanded with distinction the infantry in the centre of the line at the battle of Mediolanum. Before this meeting, he had talked at some length of this and of his pleasure at being back in Byzantium, the city he had successfully saved from the Goths some five years before.
Hippothous turned it all over in his mind. The moment of revelation was exquisite. At Mediolanum, the infantry had really taken orders not from Felix but from the Praetorian Prefect Volusianus. Felix’s actions in the defence of Byzantium might not have been everything he claimed. Felix was a liar. And what was a hypocrite, if not a liar? The highest knowledge physiognomy brought was not just revelations of what would happen in the future but what falsehoods were told of the past.
Eusebius, the chief eunuch, the one who would accompany Felix, took the floor. In a high but melodious voice he began to speak.
‘The Caspian Gates is the name given to the passes which run north-south through the Caucasus mountains. To the north live the Alani and the other savage nomads they rule. There are many of them; all very warlike. The passes must be held to keep them at bay.’
Eusebius’s eyes were wide, hard and bright like marble.
‘There are two great passes. To the east is a plain between the Caucasus and the Caspian Sea. This pass sometimes is called the Caspian Gates, sometimes the Gates of the Alani. Herodotus tells us it was the route taken by the Scythians when they defeated the Medes and brought destruction and misery to the whole of Asia. It is in the country of Cosis, king of the Albanians.’
The head eunuch bowed in the direction of Castricius. ‘It is to Albania that the Vir Perfectissimus Gaius Aurelius Castricius will travel with my colleague Amantius.’
Eusebius now turned his unsettling eyes on Ballista. ‘The other famous pass, to the west, high in the heart of
