barbarians burnt my Thalia, just for their pleasure. They took me with them. When they went ashore for fresh water at the mouth of the Parthenios, I escaped.’
The men who claimed to own him started to voice their disagreement. Felix silenced them with a look.
‘I had nothing but a tunic on my back. As I walked towards Amastris, I fell in with these men. At first, they spoke gently to me. When they had lulled me, they had four of their followers grab me. They bound me, beat me. With cruel humour, they renamed me Felix. They were laughing, joking it was a lucky name for a lucky slave.’
His captors ill-omened naming decided the case there and then. But Felix went through the formalities. The man’s supposed owners were allowed a chance to state their case. Fully aware of how the wind was set, they made a very poor job of it. Witnesses appeared on both sides. Those for Melissus made far the better impression.
Felix made a show of consulting his assessors. Ballista, Rutilus, Castricius and two young, well-born friends of Felix gave their unanimous opinion. Then the consular delivered his judgement.
‘Melissus, son of Charillus, of the village of Erythrinoi, is to be restored to freedom. The men who have so inhumanely preyed on a fellow citizen in misfortune are to be stripped and beaten. Their property is confiscated: half to the fiscus of our dominus Gallienus Augustus, half to Melissus, son of Charillus. Let the sentence be carried out now.’
Straightaway, eight burly soldiers from the stationarii based in Amastris seized the men, dragged them out into the agora.
Even before the first whip fell, the condemned were screaming.
‘Cowardly Graeculi,’ said Felix.
The words, even the screams, were cut across by a new voice, loud in its desperation: ‘ Kyrios, hear my petition. I too have been wronged.’
Wearily, Felix said, ‘Who spoke? Bring him forth.’
And so it started: an endless series of complaints, all different, but all having one thing in common. When the barbarians came, I hid in the hills, returning I found my neighbour had taken my goat, field, wife… When the barbarians came, in the chaos, my fellow citizen attacked my boat, home, daughter… When the barbarians came, my fellow townsman joined them, pointing out roads and houses, sharing in their depredations. When the barbarians departed, they left behind my silver bowl, my statue of Athena… My friend recovered it, but now will not return it to me.
All through the long day, Ballista listened to the stories of woe. He thought of the famous description by Thucydides of the breakdown of society during the civil war in Corcyra. He thought the coming of the barbarians might be worse; to domestic bad faith and betrayal was added the horror of the unknown.
A very small part of him felt an atavistic pride – this is what we northerners can do to you feeble men of the south. He suppressed the thought as unworthy. He concentrated on his dominant emotion, a genuine pity for peaceful men and women whose innocence had been no shield. Yet he did not suspend his critical faculties, trying hard to discern the victims from the liars and opportunists. A false accusation, if successful, brought the same rewards as a genuine one.
To give him his due, Felix worked hard. But, by the evening, the old senator was very tired. He had had more than enough. There were eight complaints still unheard. Felix announced that he must sail the following day; his duty to the Res Publica demanded it. The remaining cases must be taken to the governor of the province of Bithynia et Pontus, Vellius Macrinus, currently thought to be holding assizes in the city of Prusa. That many of those involved were poor men, poorer still after their disaster, and Prusa probably was over two hundred miles away, did not seem to occur to him.
The following morning, bright and early, the Armata pulled out of Amastris. At first there was a north- westerly breeze, but it was fitful; several times it disappeared and the oars had to be run out; as many times again, it returned and the oars were drawn inboard. Leaning on the starboard rail, Ballista commented to Bruteddius on the forbidding-looking coast. Big, wooded mountains; the trees ran down to the rocks, and the rocks jutted out into the sea. Stark precipices reared up from the water. There were coves, but most were rock bound, open to the weather; each more of a trap than a haven.
‘Not good,’ Bruteddius agreed. ‘I wanted to get to Sinope today. The noble senator, however, seems to have rediscovered his pleasure in religion. He demands we spend the night at Ionopolis. I am told by the locals the mooring there is not secure. If another storm gets up…’
‘I will talk to him,’ Ballista said.
Felix, seated in comfort, was listening to one of his staff, a winsome youth, reading the Argonautica of Apollonius. Ballista waited for him to finish the passage. Then, choosing his words with care, he spoke in Greek. ‘ Kyrios, this early in the sailing season the weather is unsettled. Ionopolis is just a grandiose name given to the obscure Paphlagonian town of Abonouteichos. We would have to ride at anchor. There is nothing to see except the temple built by the charlatan Alexander of Abonouteichos. Long ago, Lucian exposed the god Glycon as a fraud: a tame snake with a moulded human head, deceitful voices whispered through the windpipes of cranes, sham oracles created by greedy men. The consul Rutilianus became a laughing stock when he was taken in by it.’
Felix turned a cold, baleful face on Ballista. ‘Publius Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus was my kinsman. In matters of religion, allow me to believe a Roman of high rank and unblemished character over a malicious scribbler like Lucian of Samosata.’ He pronounced the latter with extreme distaste. ‘Lucian, part Graeculus, part Syrian, all malevolent.’
Ballista nodded. ‘Of course, Kyrios.’ There was nothing else to say.
Despite the desolate coast, Ionopolis was reached without mishap. The elderly consular and his entourage went ashore. Ballista and the others stayed with the ship. Bruteddius allowed the crew no shore leave; two thirds camped on the beach, the rest remained aboard. Thankfully, the night was placid.
At first light, Felix climbed the boarding ladder, smiling, gracious, obviously buoyed up by an auspicious response from the oracle. Bruteddius assured the consular that everything was ready. Felix made the libations, asked for the favour of the gods. Ballista was irritated, but unsurprised to hear Glycon among the deities. What has the snake god promised you, old man? he thought. A century ago your kinsman believed, so now you do; to you that passes for piety.
There was no wind. The sea was dead calm, leaden. Even the eastward current seemed to have deserted them. The sun was a pale disc behind the haze. Intermittent patches of vapour curled on the surface of the water. The oarsmen would have a hard day of it.
Ballista sensed the unease of Bruteddius; something deeper than just scratching at his beard. The veteran trierarch had ordered that one of the three levels of rowers should rest at all times. He had taken the Armata well out into the deserted sea. A glance at the coastline showed why. Iron-bound promontory after iron-bound promontory; between each, open, rock-strewn coves.
Bruteddius had taken on another local pilot. There was but one safe anchorage in the sixty or seventy miles between Abonouteichos and Lepte Point. As it was pointed out, Bruteddius relaxed a little. As the Armata left it astern, he went back to worrying at his beard.
Across a grey sea, under an increasingly grey sky, the trireme laboured on, the men singing doleful songs to keep time. At the foot of the cliffs, jagged black-green rocks, frosted white on top with bird droppings. Above the precipices, rugged foothills, jagging up to wild mountains just visible through the mist. Only the occasional column of smoke, rising straight in the still air, showed the country was not deserted.
In the heavy fullness of time, the shoreline turned north. The Armata turned to follow. The high cliffs dropped away. Through the gathering mist, gentle meadows could be seen rolling down to the sea, on them tiny white dots, most likely sheep grazing, seemingly unattended. Ballista thought it might put some men in mind of pastoral poetry or Greek novels. He had never really cared for either. Demetrius would have enjoyed the view; probably Hippothous did.
‘Lepte Point.’ Bruteddius pointed. The headland ended in a low jumble of grey rocks. The water pushed and sucked sluggishly at them. Bruteddius kept the Armata well out. When he thought it completely safe, he brought her head around.
‘Ship in sight,’ the bow officer called out. Ballista, Maximus in tow, walked forward with Bruteddius. The three peered through the shifting obscurity. The bow officer pointed. ‘A warship, a liburnian by the size of her. Must be from Trapezus, one of the Classis Pontica.’
It was hard to judge distance in the mist. Maybe a mile away to the south-east was a dark shape. The
