Fire in the East (18 page)

There was just one
sigma
couch, a semicircle with settings for seven, with one table in the middle. Four men stood drinking
conditum,
warm, spiced wine. One was the host, two Demetrius did not recognize, and one was Acilius Glabrio.

‘Welcome to my house, Ballista and Mamurra.’ Iarhai held out his hand.

‘Thank you for inviting us.’ They smiled and shook his hand.

Ballista turned to Acilius Glabrio.
‘Tribunus Laticlavius.’

‘Dux.’
Neither smiled.

Iarhai offered the new arrivals a drink, which both accepted, and introduced the other two men. Demetrius marked them down as
umbrae,
shadows, clients of the host. ‘My daughter said that we were not to wait for her, that she would join us soon.’

Both Ballista and Acilius Glabrio brightened visibly. Demetrius’s spirits sank.

‘Tell me,
Dux,
how do you find our weather?’ Iarhai smiled.

‘Wonderful. I am surprised that the
eupatrid
senators of Rome do not all abandon the Bay of Naples and begin to build their shamefully extravagant holiday villas here.’ As he said the words Ballista regretted them. Acilius Glabrio would not take kindly to a barbarian laughing at the patrician classes. He turned what he hoped was an inoffensive, open smile on the tribune. He was met by a face like a blank wall. It seemed that every time they met they disliked each other more. Would Acilius Glabrio’s attitude extend to disobeying orders? Surely he wouldn’t desert or turn traitor like Scribonius Mucianus?

‘Salted almonds?’ Iarhai stepped between the two men. ‘Some fool once told me that if you eat enough almonds before drinking you never get drunk.’

Mamurra joined in. ‘I once heard that if you wear a certain gem you also never get drunk - an amethyst possibly?’ The uncomfortable moment passed.

‘Let us go to the table.’ Iarhai took the highest place on the far left and indicated where the others should recline, Ballista next to him, an empty place reserved for Bathshiba, Acilius Glabrio then Mamurra. The two
umbrae
occupied the places of least honour.

The first course was brought in. By the standards of the rich of the
imperium,
and there could be no doubt that the host was one of their number, the food was unostentatious. Salted anchovies hid under slices of hard-boiled eggs, there were snails cooked in white wine, garlic and parsley, and a salad oflettuce and rocket- nicely balanced: rocket was thought to be lubricious, lettuce antaphrodisiac.

The diners ate. Demetrius noted that, while the others were being quite abstemious, Ballista and Iarhai were drinking hard.

As he recited the fragment of Latin poetry, Acilius Glabrio rose gracefully to his feet.

Bathshiba stood, backlit in the doorway. Even Demetrius had to admit that she was stunning. She was wearing a thin robe of white silk which clung to and emphasized her full breasts and hips. Demetrius knew she would be almost irresistible to Ballista. The other men scrambled to their feet, none with the grace of Acilius Glabrio.

Bathshiba gave the young patrician a dazzling smile, her teeth very white against the dark olive of her skin. As she walked to the couch her breasts swayed, heavy yet firm, obviously unfettered under the robe. She graciously allowed Acilius Glabrio to give her his hand as she took her place, smiling a smaller smile at Ballista to her side.

The main course was, again, almost aggressive in its simplicity: wild boar, lamb meatballs, cabbage dressed with oil, marrow with a pepper sauce and local flat bread. Two musicians, one with a lyre, the other a flute, began to play softly. Both looked vaguely familiar to Demetrius.

For a time, Bathshiba’s arrival made the conversation falter slightly. Her generous cleavage and olive skin obviously attracted both Ballista and Acilius Glabrio, yet the northerner seemed to be finding it hard to think of much to say. After only a short while, he resumed his conversation with Iarhai about the relative endurance levels of the camel and the horse. Acilius Glabrio, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying himself. Attentive, light-hearted and witty, he clearly thought himself any girl’s ideal dinner companion. Although the conversation was in Greek, he could not resist the occasional sally into Latin verse:

The final course showed the same almost flamboyant restraint that had marked the previous two: dried fruits, Damascene prunes, local figs and dates, pistachios and almonds, a smoked cheese, and some poached pears and fresh apples. The wine was changed to a sweet dark Lesbian.

Demetrius did not like the way things looked. If anything, Ballista and Iarhai were drinking even faster now. There was an awkward glint in the eye of his
kyrios
and a mulish set to his shoulders. Clearly he was annoyed by Acilius Glabrio’s ease with Bathshiba. The young patrician was liable at any moment to bring out the worst in the northerner. In all honesty, the gathering frequency of the tribune’s recitation of Latin poetry was beginning to irritate Demetrius too. After each display the young patrician sat back with a smile which suggested that he was enjoying a private joke. He carefully avoided naming the poet. His audience was either too polite or too reluctant to show its ignorance to ask. Like the majority of educated Greeks, Demetrius claimed ignorance of Latin literature in public while privately knowing a great deal about it. He knew the poetry, but for the moment could not quite place it.

An exaggerated run on the lyre ended a tune and drew Demetrius’s attention to the musicians. He suddenly realized who they were: they were not slave musicians at all, they were two of Iarhai’s mercenaries. He had heard them play at the campfire. With mounting apprehension, the young Greek looked round the room. Iarhai’s four slaves were all older, capable-looking men. And they weren’t slaves - they were mercenaries too. Although he could notbe sure, the two
umbrae
relaxing at the table could well be two officers of the mercenary troop.
Gods, he could kill us all in a moment.
A scene in Plutarch came to mind: Mark Antony and Octavian are dining on Sextus Pompey’s flagship, and the pirate Menas whispers in the admiral’s ear, ‘Shall I cut the cables and make you master of the whole world?’

‘Demetrius!’ Ballista was waving his empty cup impatiently and the Greek boy snapped back to the present. Iarhai and Ballista were happily drinking together. Why would the protector of caravans want the northerner dead? Even Sextus Pompey had rejected the offer: ‘Menas, would that you had acted, not spoken about it beforehand.’

Acilius Glabrio leant back, a half-smile playing on his lips, his hand fleetingly brushing Bathshiba’s arm.

Ovid. Demetrius had it. And the poem was ‘The Art of Love’. The pretentious swine. Acilius Glabrio had been reading it only yesterday - so much for his scholarship. So much for his smug little smiles. Demetrius remembered how the passage continued:

The passages Acilius Glabrio had recited had been a series of snide jokes at the expense of the other diners, whom he undoubtedly thought far too ill-educated to detect him.

How did that passage about arriving late go on?

Demetrius could not say anything to anyone at the moment. Indeed, if he did tell a drunk Ballista the results might well be catastrophic. But at least he had unravelled the smug Roman patrician’s sly little secret.

Iarhai made a signal, and wreathes of fresh roses and bowls of perfume appeared, symbols that the time for eating was over and the time for serious drinking and toasting about to start. Demetrius placed a wreath on Ballista’s head and put his bowl of perfume by his right hand. After anointing himself, Ballista gestured the young Greek to stand closer. The northerner took the spare wreath which Iarhai had provided for just this reason and placed it on Demetrius’s head. He then anointed the boy.

‘Long life, Demetrius.’

‘Long life,
Kyrios.’

‘A toast’ - Acilius Glabrio had not thought enough of his slave to anoint or wreath him - ‘a toast to our host the
synodiarch,
the caravan protector, the
strategos,
the general. The warrior whose sword never sleeps. To the man who waded ankle-deep in Persian blood to free this city. To Iarhai!’

Before the company could drink, Iarhai turned and glared at the young Roman. The
synodiarch’s
battered face was twisted with barely suppressed anger. A muscle twitched in the broken right cheekbone.

‘No! No one shall drink to that in my house.’ Iarhai looked at Ballista. ‘Yes, I helped end the Sassanid occupation of this city.’ His lip curled in disgust. ‘You are probably still too young to understand,’ he said to the northerner, ‘that one probably never will understand’ - he jerked his head at Acilius Glabrio and paused. His eyes were on Ballista but he had withdrawn into himself. ‘Many of the Persian garrison had their family with them. Yes, I waded ankle-deep through blood - the blood of women, children, babes in arms. Our brave fellow citizens rose up and massacred them, raped, tortured, then killed them - all of them. They boasted they were “cleansing” the city of the “reptiles”.’

Iarhai’s gaze came back into focus. He looked at Bathshiba then at Ballista. ‘All my life I have killed. It is what a
synodiarch
does. You protect the caravans. You talk to the nomads, the tent-dwellers. You lie, cheat, bribe, compromise. And when they all fail, you kill.

‘I have dreams. Bad dreams.’ A facial muscle twitched. ‘Such dreams I would not wish even on Anamu and Ogelos ... Do you believe in an afterlife, a punishment in an afterlife?’ Again his gaze became unfocussed. ‘Sometimes I dream that I have died. I stand in the grove of black poplars by the ocean stream. I pay the ferryman. I cross the hateful river. Rhadamanthys judges me. I have to take the road to the punishment fields of Tartarus. And they are waiting for me, the “kindly ones”, the demons of retribution and, behind them, the others: all those I have killed, their wounds still fresh. There is no need to hurry. We have eternity.’ Iarhai sighed a great sigh then smiled a self-deprecating smile. ‘But perhaps I have no monopoly on inner daemons ...’

The patrician drawl of Acilius Glabrio broke the silence. ‘Discussing the immortality of the soul. This is a true symposium, a veritable Socratic dialogue. Not that I ever suspected for a moment that after-dinner conversation in this esteemed house would resemble that at the dinner of Trimalchio in Petronius’s
Satyricon.’
Everything about his manner suggested that was just what he thought. ‘You know, all those dreadful jumped-up, ill-educated freedmen talking nonsense about werewolves and the like.’

Ballista swung round heavily. His face was flushed, his eyes unnaturally bright. ‘My father’s name is Isangrim. It means “Grey-Mask”. When Woden calls, Isangrim lays down his spear, offers the Allfather his sword. He dances and howls before the shield wall. He wears the wolfskin coat.’

There was a stunned silence. Demetrius could hear the oil hissing in one of the lamps.

‘Gods below, are you saying that your father is a werewolf?’ Acilius Glabrio exclaimed.

Before the northerner could answer, Bathshiba began to recite in Greek:

No one in the
imperium
couldfail to recognize the poetry ofHomer.

Bathshiba smiled. ‘You see, the father of the
Dux Ripae
could not be in better company when he prepares to fight like a wolf. He is in the company of Achilleus and his Myrmidons.’

She glanced at her father. He took the hint and gently indicated that it was time for his guests to depart.