Harry Sidebottom - The Caspian Gates

Gently, the young slave was led to the middle. His garland of flowers had slipped a little, but he was not struggling. He looked at the body of the ox, at the blood soaking into the lush green turf, with what appeared to be mild curiosity. The crowd was hushed, expectant. Unlike the young woman, they did not notice the two horsemen ride out of the trees.

The crone again raised her hands to the heavens, and began to call on the moon goddess in all her many names and sonorous titles.

The young woman watched one of the horsemen pass his reins to his companion and dismount. Despite the warmth of the spring afternoon, he was wearing a voluminous fur cloak. He walked, with a strange lack of urgency, to behind where her three brothers stood.

The old priestess finished. A man stood forward. The point of the sacred lance was still crimson. Now the victim seemed to become aware of his position. He raised his hands in a confused, placating gesture. It had no effect. The spear point took him in the stomach. He doubled up around it. His hands clawed at the shaft. He fell, screaming. The crowd leant forward, engrossed. In every dying twitch and gasp the will of the goddess was being revealed.

The late arrival stood for a moment behind the three brothers. Only the young woman paid him any attention. He pushed back his cloak. The naked steel was in his hand. He steadied himself. Three short, quick steps. He rammed the wicked sword into the unprotected back. Another voice screaming in agony.

The stabbed man fell to his knees. The tip of the blade protruded from his stomach. The murderer, hands empty, stepped back. Distracted by the writhing agony of another, those around were slow to understand. Only the youngest brother reacted. He spun around, drawing his sword. The killer took a step back, as if surprised. The youngest brother brought his blade up. The killer turned and started to run. He made just three or four steps before retribution found him. A wild, swinging blow. It caught him on the side of the head, half severing his jaw. Blood and teeth sprayed. He went down. The youngest brother was on him, blade chopping.

‘There!’ The young woman pointed. ‘The accomplice, do not let him escape. Kill him!’

Her retinue of armed men booted their horses. The accomplice sawed his reins, dragged his horse’s head around. All too late. The others were all about him. He toppled to the ground in a red mist, already hacked beyond salvation.

The young woman looked over at her youngest brother. He was standing over the assassin. Sword dripping, covered in gore; he was panting. No longer the least of four boys sat at a teacher’s feet, she thought. Now her youngest brother was a man. He had come a long way in the last two years – they both had. Sealed and countersealed in blood, she said to herself. The oracle drifted back into her mind. The ox is wreathed; the end is near, the sacrificer to hand.

The Kindly Sea

(Ephesus to Phasis, Spring-Summer AD262)

The problem of leave-taking, for a man with an imagination like Ballista’s, was that each instance might turn out to be final. Standing on the quayside at Ephesus, he was waiting to say farewell. Offhand, he could not number the times he had endured such scenes. Rome, less than two years after he had married Julia, ordered north to summon Valerian, the journey that had ended at the battle of Spoletium and with a new dynasty on the throne. Rome again, Isangrim just three, when Ballista was sent east to defend Arete. One after another, the recollections jostled. The gaol in Emesa, when, leaving Julia terrified, Isangrim and Dernhelm crying, he had been hauled off to the malignant Quietus in the temple of Elagabalus. The memories went back to childhood; back beyond the awful day the imperium had reached out, in the form of the garlic-reeking centurion, and taken him from his native people, from the hall of his father and the embrace of his mother.

To dispel the clouds of unhappy memories, to take his mind from what was to come, Ballista thought about his trip to the commercial agora a couple of days earlier.

In almost every town through which he passed in the imperium, once he had enough money, Ballista visited the slave market. They were all much the same: the dejected human flotsam, the tools with voices watched over by cold-eyed men with cunning, brutal faces.

The slave market at Ephesus was situated in the north-east corner of the Tetragonos agora. Beyond the wooden livestock pens were the stone cells of the human goods. Ballista had been there before, four or five years earlier, when he had been in Ephesus as a deputy to the governor of Asia, tasked with the revolting duty of persecuting the misguided Christians. On that occasion, there had been no one that interested him. This time it had been different.

‘Are there any Angles here?’ Ballista always asked the question in his native language, always the same question. On half a dozen occasions over the years there had been a response. The first two of his people he had purchased Ballista had freed, given them money and sent them north. They had never got there. Either they had taken his funds and decided to start a new life somewhere else, or something had happened. Since then, Ballista had kept the Angles he discovered as freedmen on his wife’s estate in Sicily. There were fourteen of them now, men, women and children, living in and around Tauromenium.

‘Are there any Angles here?’ Ballista had repeated the question. Usually there was no answer; blank incomprehension on faces pinched with misery. Ballista started to turn to go. Then came a small voice. ‘Here, over here.’

The youth spoke the language of northern Germania, but the accent was wrong. Ballista looked down at him. He had reddish hair, freckles, a black eye. ‘You are not an Angle.’

‘No, I am from the Frisii, but my friend here is one of your people.’

Sitting silently, his knees drawn up to his chin, was a youth of extraordinary beauty: blond hair, blue eyes, fine cheekbones, on one of which was an open cut. His gaze was fixed over Ballista’s head. He betrayed no awareness of what was around him.

‘What is your name, boy?’ Ballista spoke gently. The boy shivered slightly, but did not respond.

‘He is called Wulfstan,’ said the Frisian. ‘He has… had a bad time.’

The slave dealer sidled up. ‘How much for the two,’ Ballista snapped. The dealer named a price. Ballista snorted and offered him half. The man spread his hands and started to whine about feeding his family. Not trusting himself to bargain, Ballista indicated for Hippothous to pay him what he asked.

The coins in his hands, the dealer had been joviality itself. ‘A fine choice, Kyrios, a fine choice. These two will…’ Given a sharp look from Ballista, the dealer did not name the obvious way the youths might serve a new master. ‘I am sure they will prove a good purchase,’ he ended lamely.

As the Frisian helped the other youth to his feet, Ballista turned and looked where Wulfstan had been gazing. There, high above the agora , was the mountain, great slabs of limestone thrusting through the greenery. It was nothing like the far northern homelands of the Angles. But it was wild and free.

Dwelling on one’s virtues, in this case philanthropia, had been an excellent diversion. Ballista was brought back to immediate circumstances by the arrival on the quayside of those who had come to see him off.

A dignified procession was emerging from the harbour gate; despite the earthquake, somehow its triple arches still stood. At the front, preceded by his lictors bearing the fasces, was Maximillianus, the governor of Asia. The lictors, their rods and axes symbolic of the proconsul’s right to dispense punishment, both corporal and capital, were stepping carefully across the shattered marble paving. Close behind Maximillianus came the scribe to the demos Publius Vedius Antoninus, the asiarch Gaius Valerius Festus, and Flavius Damianus. The political and social hierarchy in the city were here to see Ballista go. While he had not saved Ephesus from the Goths, he was the hero of the defence of Miletus and Didyma. Whatever his personal history or merits, he was a man with mandata signed by the emperor. Respect had to be shown to such men.

Maximillianus made a formal speech, redolent of gravity and hard duty, with much invoking of the gods. The three leading notables did likewise.

After Ballista had replied in similar measured terms, his friend Corvus stepped forward and embraced him. The eirenarch said little, just wished him a safe journey. Unsurprisingly, as an Epicurean, Corvus made no mention of the divine.

Julia led the boys to him. She was tall, stately in the stola of a Roman matron. Things had not been completely good between them for many months. He did not know why. But it was a marriage of more than a decade, better than many. At times, when forced to be apart, he realized the degree to which he relied on her.

She kissed him, on the lips but very chaste. She wished him a good journey and a safe return. Succinctly, she outlined the latest arrangements for her taking the boys and the majority of the familia back to Tauromenium: a letter of recommendation for the ship’s captain had arrived from one of her family friends; the vessel would coast up to Corfu and cross to southern Italy, rather than sail directly from Greece to Sicily. She told him she loved him. And that was that.