King of Kings Read online

  Antioch was a big and confusing city. If you turned off the main street by the Pantheon into the street known as the Jawbone, the one where so many Christians were to be seen, and followed it down through, first, the potters’ quarter then that of the tanners, eventually you would reach the Orontes. If you then turned left at the waterfront and, keeping the jetties and godowns on your right, walked south down Mariners’ Street, after about a quarter of an hour you would come to the public baths named after a local woman called Livia. Just beyond the baths was the bar with the improbable name of Circe’s Island.

  The reputation of the bar for food and drink was not that good, but for girls it was excellent. It was a favourite haunt of Maximus. On the evening of 1 November, the kalends, he was sitting with another man out on the rickety terrace which overhung the water. The other man was older and strikingly ugly: he had a great dome of a skull and a weak chin with, between them, a thin, sour, shrewish mouth. The man’s shoulders were shaking, and he was making an unpleasant grating sound. Calgacus, the body servant, or valet, of Ballista, was laughing. He asked, ‘And are you being watched now?’

  There was a pause. Maximus clearly mastered an urge to look round at the other few customers on the terrace before muttering, no, he probably wasn’t.

  ‘I have seen it before with men such as you,’ the old Caledonian continued remorselessly. ‘Cock of the walk for years, scared of nothing. Then one day it all goes. Scared of their shadows for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘I wish I had never mentioned it,’ said Maximus. ‘The gods alone know how Ballista has put up with a miserable old Caledonian bastard like you for all these years.’

  ‘Wiped his arse when he was the age his son is now, paid off the fathers of the girls he fucked back in Germania and fed and clothed the little bastard ever since we came into the imperium. Always made myself useful – unlike a bodyguard who thinks he is being stalked. It always follows the same course when it strikes men like you: first, they think about it now and then; after a time, it comes to dominate their thoughts, preys on their mind without cease, gives them no rest – and that is when it begins to affect everything, strips all their pleasures away. It is hard to get it up when you are always thinking that someone is creeping up behind you with a bloody great sword.’ The nasty grating sound issued again from Calgacus as he poured himself more wine.

  ‘I hope that Demetrius gets here all right. You know how easily he gets lost, and it is late,’ said Maximus.

  ‘Of course he’ll get here all right. This is Antioch, the city that never sleeps – its streets are safer and better lit at night than at day. There is a civic police force armed with bloody great clubs, and the key job of its eighteen elected officers, the ones they call the Epimeletai ton Phylon, the Superintendants of the Tribes, is to knock up any shopkeeper who dares to let the lights outside his shop go out.’

  ‘I thought the main job of the epimeletai was investigating unexplained corpses?’

  ‘Well, that too. But, as I was saying, you are doomed to a life of misery. After a time, the irrational fear never stops preying on your mind. A hot little tart is spread on the bed in front of you, but what can you do? Nothing. Your sword sleeps in your hand. All the time, you are looking over your shoulder.’

  Maximus was spared any more by the arrival of Demetrius. As he walked across the terrace, the secretary called to a serving girl to bring them more wine. The Greek youth was growing up, thought Maximus. Possibly the suffering and fear of the siege and flight from Arete had begun to make a man of him.

  Demetrius pulled a brazier nearer to the table. A chill wind was getting up; it carried the smell of the first winter rains. ‘Good news and bad news,’ he said as he sat down. ‘The good first: we all have tomorrow off. The dominus is going hunting in the mountains towards Daphne with Aurelian. He says that, if he took his secretary, it would look as if he were not devoting himself to the pleasures on offer; if he took his manservant, that he did not trust his host’s cook; and his bodyguard, that he did not trust his host himself.’

  ‘Which Aurelian?’ Calgacus croaked.

  ‘The Danubian one,’ Demetrius continued. ‘The Aurelian to whom a strange thing just happened as everyone left the palace. In his haste he mounted the wrong horse. Not his own, but the emperor’s. He dismounted quickly enough when it was pointed out to him, but a few people noticed.’

  ‘Something he should keep very quiet about, and something that others should not discuss in public,’ Calgacus interrupted. ‘So what is the bad news?’

  ‘Aurelian has been appointed a deputy to the Dux Ripae.’

  ‘Nothing much wrong with that,’ said Maximus. ‘Sure young manu-ad-ferrum, hand-to-steel, has a quick temper, likes a drink and is a savage one for the discipline. The troops fear him more than love him, but he is a good fighter. They say he killed forty-eight Sarmatians with his own blade in a single day.’ Maximus began to sing a marching song:

  Thousand, thousand, thousand we’ve beheaded now.

  One man, a thousand we’ve beheaded now.

  A thousand drinks, a thousand killed.

  So much wine no one has as the blood that he has spilt.

  Maximus had been drinking for some time, but the staff and clientele at Circe’s Island were used to boisterous behaviour.

  A boat loomed out of the darkness and bumped up against the ramshackle tenement next door. Seemingly from nowhere, dozens of women and children appeared and, with much calling back and forth, set about unloading its cargo of fish.

  ‘The Dux has been given two deputies. The other one is the bad news.’ Demetrius paused. ‘It is Gaius Acilius Glabrio.’

  ‘The brother of that smug little shit at Arete? The one who has publicly sworn revenge on Ballista for his brother’s death? That’s insane. What is that old fool of an emperor playing at?’ Maximus’ flow of words was cut off by Calgacus placing his hand on his arm.

  ‘It is not for us to debate the ways of our masters,’ the old Caledonian said sanctimoniously. ‘Now, Demetrius, I was just discussing Maximus’ little problem. It seems he has been having trouble getting it up.’

  ‘That is it!’ Maximus rose to his feet. ‘You, over here.’ He took the wine jug from the serving girl and put it on the table. ‘Do you want to come and watch?’

  ‘Gods below, not in this life,’ exclaimed Calgacus. ‘I can think of nothing worse than watching your hairy arse going up and down like a harpist’s elbow.’

  The assassin watched Maximus steer the girl to the stairs. It had been a bad moment when the Hibernian said he thought he was being watched. But he was only a barbarian – earlier, he had looked right at the assassin with no glimmer of recognition. Now the assassin knew for certain a time when the bodyguard would be away from the target. Now, he could strike.

  The assassin signalled for a girl to come over, paid his bill and walked across the terrace, an unassuming man who drew no attention to himself. At the door, he looked back for a moment at the two still at the table. The ugly old man and the handsome youth sat in a companionable silence, all unsuspecting as they listened to the shrill shouts of the women and children unloading the boat and the heavy slop-slop-slop sounds of the wheels of the watermills on the far bank.

  As he stepped outside, it started to rain. The assassin pulled up his hood and set off north up Mariners’ Street.

  ‘Magnificent.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Ballista.

  Julia laughed. ‘Actually, I was referring to the political cunning of Cledonius.’

  ‘That is rather deflating.’ Naked, Ballista walked down the steps into the sunken bath and sat in the warm water. As the water stilled, he heard the storm outside, rain drummed on the roof and, somewhere in the house, the wind slammed a shutter or door. ‘I thought you had told Isangrim’s nurse to take him to visit the children of one of your endless cousins and had given the rest of the slaves the evening off so that we would be completely alone, so that you would have complete pr
ivacy to take care of your husband’s needs.’

  Julia was on the other side of the room, pouring drinks, putting some food on a plate. She smiled over her shoulder. ‘I might force myself to do that later, but first I want to use this rare moment of privacy to make sure that my barbarian dominus understands the intrigues that surround his latest command.’ She turned, the drinks and food temporarily forgotten.

  ‘As ab Admissionibus, Cledonius cannot be away from the emperor. As he could not take this command on the Euphrates himself, he was determined that no other leading politician should hold it. Acilius Glabrio’s candidate, Pomponius Bassus, may be a self-satisfied fool, but he is a great nobilis. Things were going badly for Cledonius when Macrianus spoke in favour of Pomponius Bassus, and all the creatures of the lame one fell over themselves to agree.’

  Ballista watched as she paused, thinking. She was wearing a thin white cotton robe, held together with a sash. The lamps on the table behind her shone through the material. He could see the outline of her body. She was naked beneath the robe.

  ‘Piso is a bankrupt; Macrianus owns him. There are many rumours, most of them disgusting, but no one knows for sure just what hold Macrianus has on Maeonius Astyanax.’ She shook her head to dismiss such distasteful speculations. Ballista admired the way her breasts moved, full and heavy but firm.

  Perhaps I really am the thick northern barbarian so many Romans take me for, an irrational slave to my appetites, thought Ballista. Julia was trying to explain something very serious, something which could affect the success of his mission, maybe his life itself, and all he was thinking about was her body. Ballista smiled. No, he may have spent half his life in the imperium, but he was not completely irrational. He could give his mind to two things at once, and she did look good.

  ‘Then your Danubian friend Aurelian proposed Tacitus. That was no better in Cledonius’ eyes. So he started talking about important men entrusted with big armies, about taking troops from the imperial field army. There was no need to say the word – after the last twenty years, treachery is on everyone’s mind. So, when finally he proposes a less grand figure in the court – sorry, my love – with a smaller force, all the consilium rush to agree, and you, my Dominus, are back off to the wars.’

  She picked up a large silver plate and two crystal goblets of watered wine and brought them over to Ballista. As she crouched next to him, the robe fell open, exposing her legs. She reached forward to pass him a drink. The robe was tight over her breasts. Ballista looked at the dark circles of her nipples. She smiled and walked round to the steps.

  ‘Cledonius has got what he wants. No rival will lead this expedition. But he has alienated two groups of important men. So how does he win back their favour? At the next meeting of the consilium, he proposes that the two crucial men, Acilius Glabrio and Aurelian, are appointed legates. Magnificent, but now you are saddled with two ambitious young deputies who will be at loggerheads. And make no mistake: Gaius Acilius Glabrio hates you. He despises you for your origins, but he hates you for the death of his brother Marcus.’

  She was standing very still. Outside, the wind was battering fretfully at the house. The loose shutter or whatever it was banged again. Julia looked sharply at her husband. ‘Your friend Aurelian… he drinks too much, he has a savage temper… mark my words, he will not come to a good end.’ Ballista said nothing. Somewhere in the far reaches of the house the wind tugged at the unfastened shutter: rap-rap-rap.

  Julia laughed. ‘You realize this is why I had to come out east. It was not that I was worried the Persians would kill you in Arete but that you would have no idea what was happening in the consilium when you got back to Antioch.’

  She undid the sash and let her robe fall. ‘And now all that is said’ – as she raised her hands to untie her hair, her breasts lifted. Ballista gazed hungrily at her large, dark nipples, flat stomach, flared hips, her shaven delta – ‘I think it is time that you took care of your wife’s needs.’ She stepped down into the water, waded over to him and straddled his lap. Rap-rap-rap went the shutter. ‘I do not think you appreciate the risks that I run for you. Over a year without a man inside me – there is not a doctor in the imperium who would not agree that such abstinence is very bad for a woman’s health.’ She tipped her head back and laughed. ‘Although I am sure that many a doctor would be prepared to help a girl in such a predicament.’ She leant forward and kissed him, her tongue sliding into his mouth, her breasts flattening against his chest. Rap-rap-rap.

  ‘Wait a moment. I cannot concentrate with that row going on.’ Ballista slid out from under her, running his hand across her slick, wet breasts, the nipples hard against his palm.

  ‘Do not be too long.’ She smiled.

  He draped a towel round himself and picked up a small lamp. He left wet footprints on the marble floor.

  Outside the bath rooms, the house was in darkness. Ballista stood in the main living room listening. There was the sound – rap-rap-rap – it was coming from somewhere in the slave quarters. This was a part of the house that he did not know at all well. He had only set foot in it once, when he had first been given a tour of the whole property. It was a rabbit warren of short, windowless corridors and tiny cells. Once, as the sound receded, he had had to retrace his steps. Eventually, he found the open window, at the end of a corridor up under the eaves.

  The rain stung his face when he stretched far out to grab the wildly swinging shutter. Far below, the road ran like a river. The fitful wind blew great gusts of rain one after another down the road.

  When he fastened the window, for a moment everything seemed unnaturally quiet. Then other sounds emerged: small creaks and scratching sounds. Suddenly, he thought he heard a footstep. He smiled. It was just an old house cooling as the warmth of the day died out of it, moving gently in the face of the wind. In his small circle of lamplight, he started to head back.

  Before he reached the tepidarium, he nipped out the lamp. Quietly, he looked round the door. Julia was lying back, her shoulders and arms supporting her floating body. Her breasts broke the surface of the water. She looked superb. He watched for some time before he walked in, dropped his towel and stepped down into the bath.

  V

  Leaving Julia asleep, warm in their bed, Ballista dressed and walked to the stables. He saddled Pale Horse and led him out into the night. He rode alone through the empty streets. It was dark, at least three hours before dawn. The rain had eased off but the wind still ripped through the alleys of the potters’ quarter.

  Once, the northerner thought he heard something. A clink of steel on stone? He reined in, pushed back his hood and sat motionless, listening, hand on hilt, looking all around. Nothing. He could hear nothing but the wind itself buffeting his ears. He could see nothing except the empty, windswept alley. Ballista smiled to himself. Any more of this and he would become as nervous as Demetrius. Of course it was eerie to ride through deserted streets that usually teemed with men and animals. And he was tired. His smile broadened. Julia had seen to that. Allfather but she had tired him out. He could have chosen worse for a wife.

  A gentle pressure from his thighs set his mount in motion again. He left his hood down. Jumpy or not, it was worth cold ears to be able to hear properly.

  Always blessed with a good sense of direction, Ballista pulled up in a narrow alley. The walls here looked uncared for, damp, the plaster peeling. He got down from his mount and hammered on an inconspicuous door. The lantern hanging over it squealed as it swung in the wind, its light glinting off puddles and the rivulet that ran down the middle of the alley.

  The door opened, throwing a yellow rectangle of light. The head of Gillo, Aurelian’s manservant, peered out, squinting into the darkness.

  ‘Ave, Dominus. Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista.’ He smiled, snapped over his shoulder for a boy to take the dominus’ horse, and gestured for the northerner to step inside.

  Ballista handed his cloak to Gillo, who hung it on a peg in the shabby corridor. From peasant st
ock, the young general Aurelian had never tried to conceal his lack of money. Those who liked him said his continuing impecunious state pointed to his financial probity – no soldier ever became rich honestly on what the Res Publica paid him. For those who did not care for him, it was an ostentatious sham – for sure, no peasant could keep his nose out of the trough. There were dark stories of millions hidden away.

  A wave of warmth and noise washed over Ballista as the door to the main room was opened.

  ‘Ah-ha, here he is. Better late than never.’ The strong Danubian accent of Aurelian rang out. ‘Come in, come in. You know everyone? The esteemed ex-consul Tacitus? My young friends Mucapor and Sandario?’ The face visible between the close-cropped hair and beard was flushed. There was a dark-red spot on each of Aurelian’s prominent cheekbones. It was hot in the room, and everyone was dressed for hunting, but Ballista noticed the wine cup in his friend’s hand.

  ‘Indeed I do, and I am not late.’ Ballista stepped forward with his hand out. ‘Marcus Claudius Tacitus, it is good to see you again.’ The older man turned his heavily lined face to the newcomer, shook his hand, then embraced him. Close up, Tacitus looked all and more of his fifty-five years. The dour, big-nosed face itself was cleanshaven but luxuriant whiskers ran together into a beard underneath the chin.

  ‘It is good to see you, Ballista.’ The Danubian accent was less pronounced than Aurelian’s. The older man’s family had been landowners there, time out of mind. The two men in their twenties, both again from the lands around the Danube, greeted Ballista with wide smiles. Sandario’s made him look even more dashing. Unfortunately, Mucapor’s did not have the same effect; it made him look even more of a simpleton.

  ‘Drink!’ Aurelian bellowed. ‘Eros! Where in Hades has that little Greek bugger got to? Eros, bring drinks for our guests.’ Aurelian’s slave secretary kept his eyes down as he gave Ballista a cup of wine and topped up all the others, except Tacitus, who quietly put his hand over his cup.