King of Kings Read online

  ‘Safely on a ship bound for Ostia, a big purse of our money at his belt, dreaming happy dreams of a new life in the eternal city. Sure, no one will ever find him in Rome. It is a city of strangers.’

  The Tyche was nearing the harbour mouth. Ballista looked to his right. Mimicking the stars above, there were lights from thousands of houses climbing the lower slopes of the mountain higher up, the dark outcrops of limestone loomed.

  ‘Still, it’s all a horrible risk, even worse than organizing a riot,’ said Maximus.

  ‘Yes, but what can you do?’

  ‘Maybe not feel you have to play the hero all the time.’

  ‘Only partly the hero. It is only the gaol by the civic agora.’

  ‘Gods below, don’t you start brooding about the others.’

  The sailors shipped the huge sweeps that had propelled the Tyche out of the harbour. The sails were sheeted home, and the great roundship heeled as they filled. Soon the water was singing down her side and a phosphorescent wake stretching behind.

  Ballista took a last look at Ephesus and turned to Maximus. ‘You might as well tell them they can come back on deck. Remind them: if they talk to the crew they are pilgrims going to worship at the famous shrine of Helios on Rhodes.’

  ‘You always had a bad sense of humour. The equestrian one was saying he wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Ballista.

  Aulus Valerius Festus, member of the Boule of Ephesus, knight of Rome and condemned Christian, was not a natural sailor. Gripping one hand hold after another, he stumbled precariously across the sloping deck to Ballista.

  ‘On behalf of my brothers and sisters in Christ, I wish to thank you.’

  ‘ “I am a Christian, and I want to die,” ’ said Ballista. ‘You do not seem to share that view.’

  ‘It is written in the Gospels that our Lord Jesus Christ said, ‘When they persecute you in one town, flee you into another.” ’

  ‘The ones who volunteered for martyrdom must have missed that passage.’ Ballista gave no time for a reply. ‘We will drop you in Rhodes. It is a busy port. You and the others can take passage from there where you will.’

  ‘One of our priests, a most learned and holy man called Origen – he joined Christ in paradise not long ago, during the persecution of the late emperor Decius – wrote that those pagans in authority who help Christians might not be irrevocably damned to hell. He considered the prayers of the faithful might rescue them. I will pray for you.’

  Ballista rounded on him, eyes flashing. ‘I do not need your prayers. I did not do it for you. I did not do it for your Christians from that gaol.’

  Involuntarily, Aulus took a step back, and grabbed a rope to recover his balance. ‘Then… why?’

  ‘I do not know; something compelled me. Maybe it was hubris, that vice of the Greeks, a pride that expresses itself in humbling others. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that I am a better man than you and your Christians, or the emperor and his courtiers.’

  Aulus looked doubly shocked.

  Ballista laughed at his discomfort. He looked up at the expanse of pale canvas and the stars above. ‘Maybe philanthropia, love of mankind. My wife gave birth to my second son at the end of last year. I have not seen him yet. I hope there is enough love in my heart to love him as I love his brother. When I see him, I am sure I will.’

  ‘I am sure you will.’

  Ballista looked at Aulus as if surprised to find him still there. ‘And how do you know my soul?’

  ‘I can tell you are a good man.’

  Ballista reached out to touch the backstay of the ship. It was taut. The Egyptian sailing master of the Tyche knew what he was about. ‘If I became a Christian, and a man such as I was until today, a man with imperium, arrested me, tortured me, confiscated my property, and burned me, what would become of my sons?’

  ‘God’s love would provide for them. And I am sure the local Christian community would help. We are commanded to give to the needy.’ Aulus’ words were charged with an unlikely hope.

  ‘You think it would be right for me to put my love of your unnamed and unknowable god above my natural love for my sons, my wife, family and friends?’

  ‘The love of God must be above all. If you cared, I could instruct you in the ways of the Lord. I could help you on the path to conversion.’

  Ballista laughed, a short, mocking laugh. ‘You do not understand. Any religion that demands its followers love a distant, probably imaginary god more than those they should love – their family, friends; above all, their children – is cruel and inhuman. So, you see, I do not think I am the sort to convert to your crucified god. As far as I can tell, the ideal adherent of your cult is an ill-educated, half-starved virgin, not much given to independent thought but especially keen on self-harm.’

  ‘I will pray for you.’

  ‘If, as you say, your god is all-knowing, why would he need guidance from you? But do as you want. I suppose it cannot do any harm. Now, if you would not mind leaving me. There is a long journey ahead, but I want to think about my return home.’

  XXIII

  The baby was lying on the threshold of the house. Ballista was not surprised. There had been a message waiting for him when he landed at Seleuceia. In it, Julia had told him what she intended. The small figure lying there did not surprise him, but he still felt deeply shocked. It looked so much as if the child had been abandoned, left to die. Ballista had never got used to the custom of the Romans, and the Greeks, too, of exposing unwanted children. Wherever you went in the imperium, all too often you saw them – on the steps of temples, at crossroads, even on dung heaps, the pathetic little bundles of humanity wailing for a mother and father who would not return. It was not the way of Ballista’s people. In Germania, all children were raised. And they have the audacity to call us barbarians, thought the northerner.

  As Ballista walked across, the baby kicked its feet in the air before thumping its tiny heels down on the mat. Good. Julia had at least respected his instructions that the child was not to be swaddled. Ballista remembered the epic struggle when he had said that Isangrim was not to be swaddled. Julia had been horrified. All Roman infants were tightly wrapped. It was the way to ensure they grew straight and true. But Ballista had been adamant. In Germania, children were not constricted. Nobleman or slave, they started naked and free on the same floor. How else did his people develop the strength of limb and tall stature which even the Romans admired? No son of his would be swaddled. Eventually, Julia had given way on this. But on feeding at the breast she was immovable. A wet nurse had been hired for Isangrim as now one had been for the new child. It was the custom of the Roman elite, and it was her body. Ballista had found no answer to her double argument.

  The big northerner went down on one knee and looked into the face of his new son. Huge, dark-blue eyes looked back. Long, black eyelashes. The first, light-blond curls. The tiny boy gurgled quietly. Ballista found himself softly cooing back. He felt a strange hollowness in his chest. He went to pick up his new son, then stopped. It was ridiculous. Isangrim was only seven, but Ballista was struggling to remember how to hold a baby. You had to support the head. Gently, very gently, he slid his large, scarred right hand beneath the boy, spreading his fingers to hold the head and shoulders. His left hand under the boy’s bottom, Ballista rose to his feet and raised the innocent child in his man-killing hands. The baby wriggled, not unhappily. Ballista kissed the top of his head, smelling that distinctive, clean-baby smell.

  Ballista looked up. He took in the laurel wreathes on the door, the benches in the street laden with food, the crowd of onlookers.

  ‘This is my son, Lucius Clodius Dernhelm.’

  There was applause. Then three men emerged from the crowd and walked to the house. The door was shut. The first man carried an axe. He lifted it above his head. He struck the door. Wood splintered. He freed the axe and stepped back. The second man carried a pestle. He, too, struck the door. There was a dull thud. The third ma
n had a broom. Ceremoniously, he swept the threshold.

  After Isangrim’s birth, Ballista had asked the meaning of this ritual. He had received various answers. It was the stages of first life: cutting the umbilical, checking for soundness, cleansing. It was to scare away evil daemons. Ballista suspected the Romans had no real notion. It was just something they did.

  Demetrius was next to Ballista. He handed over a golden pendant containing a protective amulet. Ballista slipped the cord around Dernhelm’s neck. Fat little fists closed on the bulla. Ballista smiled as the boy tried to cram the thing into his mouth and eat it.

  As was only right, the friends of the new father approached in order of status to pay their respects. Solemnly, the General Tacitus intoned a prayer of thanks to the goddesses of childbirth, Juno Lucina and Diana Lucifera, for bringing the boy safely into the light. The close-cropped head of Aurelian bent over the infant. He prayed for Sol Invictus to hold his hands over the child. Straightening up a little unsteadily; he announced that the boy looked tough; he would make his father proud when he came to take his place in the battle line. Turpio asked to take the boy. For once, his smile was not sardonic. His ostentatious Persian bracelet flashing, Turpio held the boy up and began to recite in Greek.

  As your first little gifts, child, nature herself

  Will give trailing ivy, berries,

  Lilies of the Nile mixed with bright acanthus.

  At milking time the goats will troop home on their own,

  The herds will not fear the majesty of the lion;

  Your cradle itself will grow flowers to gentle you.

  There were fewer well-wishers than there might have been. It was common knowledge that Ballista’s mission to Ephesus had not worked out well. Not everyone around the imperial court wished to be too closely associated with a man who might be out of favour with the emperor. This part of the proceedings was soon over.

  Julia came forward and, as a Roman matrona should, formally welcomed the return of her husband. By her side was Isangrim. His face was reserved. As he clearly had been schooled to do, he equally formally greeted his dominus. Ballista felt a stab of irritation. He had never liked the way senatorial families such as his wife’s wanted sons to refer to their fathers as Dominus.

  Ballista handed his new son to Julia. He knelt down and opened his arms for Isangrim to embrace him. With a quick glance at his mother and only the slightest hesitation, the boy stepped forward and let his father hug him. Ballista buried his face in the boy’s blond curls, breathing in the smell he loved so much.

  After a time, Ballista leaned back. Isangrim regarded him steadily. Ballista took a purse from his belt. He opened it and showed the contents to the boy. It contained the dried, crumbled remains of a leaf. Isangrim made no reaction. Ballista reached behind himself, and Demetrius placed a package in his hand. Ballista gave it to his son. Isangrim unwrapped it, and his face split into an enormous smile. He lunged forward and hugged his father close. Laughing with unalloyed pleasure, he thanked his papa for the best present ever. He disengaged himself and drew the miniature sword. He swung it this way and that through the air, only pausing to admire the sunlight playing on the colours in the steel.

  Ballista took Dernhelm back from Julia and nestled him on his shoulder. Standing on the threshold, he gave his permission for the feast to begin. There was a cheer. The majority of the crowd surged forward to the benches. Soon, stable boys jostled with gardeners and all types of tradesmen rubbed elbows with porters in a good-natured crush to get their hands on the rare treat of cooked meats and honey cakes, to drink the health of the new child in free wine.

  Ballista led the invited into the house. In the atrium, a couch was set for the gods of infants, Picumnus and Pilumnus, choice foods on a table close at hand. Near the lectisternium, a small fire burned on a portable altar. It was all well done, yet Ballista thought it was eccentric of Julia not only to have combined the ceremonies of the raising of the infant and the naming but to have postponed both until his return. She had not even registered Dernhelm’s birth and, strictly speaking, in legal terms that should have been done within thirty days of the birth. Still, it was typical of her. She had always been strong-willed, with a streak of unconventionality. He thought they were probably useful attributes for a senator’s daughter married off to a man of his barbarian origins.

  The human guests were distributed around the two dining rooms opening on to the atrium. With Julia and his two sons, Ballista toured the tables, passing a few polite words with the man on each couch. That done, they took their places, and the food and drink were produced.

  Julia sat on an upright chair next to Ballista’s couch. She looked the very model of old-fashioned, wifely decorum: polite and attentive, but distant. Barely a drop of wine passed her lips. Ballista made much of his sons. He talked to the chief guests. As ever, Tacitus ate little, nibbling at morsels of bread sprinkled with salt or the odd lettuce leaf. He drank even less. Aurelian made up for him. A whole pheasant was washed down with heroic quantities of red wine. Turpio also ate well, but with more refinement. For a man risen from the ranks, he had exquisite manners. He enlivened his conversation with apt quotations from the more recent poets. Unconsciously, he toyed with the golden ornament on his wrist.

  The feast ran on. Looking over at Julia, so very close yet so very far away, Ballista wished it was over. In the end, it was.

  Together, the husband and wife said goodbye to their guests. Julia sent the children off with their nurses and dismissed the servants. Then she took Ballista’s hand and led him to their bedroom. They made love as they had when they first met.

  Afterwards, Julia got up and poured them another drink. Naked in the lamplight, she brought the cups to their bed. A demure Roman wife would have extinguished the lamps. Yes: there was much to be said for her unconventionality.

  Propped on one elbow, Ballista told her what had happened to him in Ephesus and what he had done. He told it without elaboration: how he had come to hate the persecution; how he had organized the riot which provided him with the excuse of public order to suspend the executions; how he had arranged the escape of the Christians from the prison by the state agora. As exactly as he could remember them, he told her the treasonous words of Quietus. He told her how he intended to go to Valerian and tell him of the plot of Macrianus.

  She listened without interrupting. She remained silent when he had finished. For a moment he thought it would be all right.

  ‘You fool!’ Her face was tight with anger. ‘You stupid, barbarian fool!’

  Ballista said nothing.

  ‘What are these Christians to you? Ignorant, superstitious atheists! You would endanger my sons to help undeserving filth like that? If you were found guilty of treason, your family would suffer. At best, the familia of a man convicted of maiestas is reduced to poverty, and at worst…’ She let the words hang, then again snapped, ‘Barbarian fool!’

  Ballista felt his anger rising. These fucking Romans. Always ready with the ‘barbarian’ insult. Even Julia. Well, the emperor Pupienus had given Ballista Roman citizenship for killing a tyrant while, all those three hundred or so years ago, Julius Caesar had given Julia’s distant ancestor Gaius Julius Volcatius Gallicanus the same for helping enslave his fellow Gauls. Volcatius Gallicanus – the man from the Volcae Arecomici tribe of Gaul. The founder of Julia’s noble house had been a long-haired barbarian from the north. The thought calmed Ballista.

  ‘What should I do about Macrianus’ plot to elevate his sons to the purple?’ Ballista hoped the change of subject would divert her anger. It did not.

  ‘What plot? It is just the stupid words of a stupid, pampered youth. There is no plot.’

  ‘I think it is real. I must warn Valerian.’

  Julia snorted with derision. ‘And do you think you will just walk up to the palace, see Valerian on his own, and convince him his most trusted friend, his Comes Sacrarum Largitionum, is plotting to overthrow him? After all these years, how can even a nort
hern barbarian be so naive? No one gets to see the emperor without Macrianus’ permission.’

  ‘I think it is real. I must do something.’

  Julia swept her hand dismissively. The cup, forgotten in her grip, slopped wine on to the coverlet. ‘You can do nothing. If you were out of Valerian’s favour after Circesium, now you will be in deep disgrace for your complete failure in Ephesus – even if no one comes forward to inform against you.’ She stood up, put down the cup and pulled a robe round herself. She walked to the door. She turned. ‘I will go to the palace tomorrow and register the birth of our son. If I were you, I would keep well out of the way of the emperor and his court. And well out of mine.’ She left.

  Ballista did not move. What was it that old Republican senator had said? Given the nature of women, the married state is almost intolerable, but being a bachelor is worse – something on those lines. If it was not for the boys… But Ballista’s anger was not deep, little more than a reaction to Julia’s. It was slipping away already.

  Clearly, no one was going to believe that Macrianus was plotting for his sons to take the throne. Equally, just going uninvited to Valerian and telling him his most trusted friend was going to betray him was not a good idea. Ballista took a drink. He looked at the crumpled bed. He wondered how long Julia’s anger would last.

  Comes Augusti

  (Spring AD260)

  ‘Who is this with the white crest that leads the army’s van?’

  – Julian, De Caesaribus 313B; quoting Euripides, Phoenissae 120

  XXIV

  As everyone was ignoring him, Ballista studied the swan. It had been caught down by the river a couple of months earlier, just after the long-awaited announcement of the Persian expedition. The swan had been brought up to the temple of Zeus in the main agora of Antioch. Although its wings had not been clipped, it had not flown away. Instead, it passed its days strutting around the sacred precinct. Zeus had changed into a swan to seduce Leda. That a bird so associated with the king of the gods should make its home in his temple was generally taken as a good omen for the forthcoming war.